"It's okay. I'm here," Cal murmurs while I convulse against him. He holds onto me for dear life like I'm going to fall through the wall and off the face of the earth.
I couldn't say how long it's been, how long I've been shaking and crying and wanting to breathe well enough to tell Cal what's wrong. The darkness keeps me safe from Cal stripping away my last layer of pride. Still, the lack of light heightens the rest of my senses, making me keenly aware of Cal's body, his scent that blocks out the wildflower freshener, and the sound of my own tears.
The right side of Cal's T-shirt is more or less soaked with saltwater.
"My—my—my—"
"Shh," he whispers.
I hyperventilate into Cal's shirt, focusing on its scent. He still smells of spices and sandalwood. The flannel that my face brushes against adds heat to the aroma.
His jaw perches perfectly atop my head, and his arms cage me in nicely, biceps resting against my shoulders. My own arms wrap around his body, feeling the outlines of his sculpted back and obliques beneath his layers. His chest breathes slowly and thoughtfully as I struggle to get air into my lungs.
My body fits perfectly against his.
"We have all the time you need," Cal says. "You don't need to try and relax. But when you do, we can go back to my dad's office. I'll order you something to eat, because I can tell that you're hungry again—your stomach's making weird noises. I'll turn on the fireplace, too."
My son-of-a-bitch headache has to be the reason why my stomach wants to curl in on itself, why the rest of my body still feels nauseously heavy. At least the chills are gone.
"My head hurts," I finally croak out, sobbing into his chest.
It feels like a stupidly obvious thing to say. The continual sobbing almost puts stars into my eyes.
"Hmm."
Cal shifts one of his obnoxiously large arms, drawing his hand up to the nape of my neck. His touch feels too familiar, too natural for me to flinch away as he pulls at my bun.
It takes him a few tries to find the hair tie that secures the knot, and Cal doesn't pull it loose the first time. When he finally does, it feels like he tugs the tension headache right out of my head.
I let out a sobbing sound of joy as Cal tosses the hair tie to the ground.
He purrs in satisfaction when he realizes that he's pleased me. Galvanized, he brings his hand back up to my hair. The pads of his fingers stroke my scalp, combing out my hair.
I bury my pathetic whimper into his chest, trying to push my face closer, wrap my arms tighter. Cal takes that as indication to keep massaging my scalp, firmly raking his fingers through my hair.
My grip around Cal's midriff might be vice-like, but my knees feel weaker than ever before.
"You always wear your hair so tight. It looks painful. Maybe if you didn't wear it so tight, you wouldn't be so mean all of the time."
Cal smiles softly at me from the leather chair.
My damp eyelashes batt together against my will. "You're probably right."
We sit together in Mister Calore's office. Illuminated is only the near vicinity of leather couches and fine end tables, dimmed lamps and a flickering brick fireplace, and dark wood and ornate rugs. Tibe's liquor cabinet and pool table linger in the shadows.
My contemporary teacher sighs, taking a sip of his water. "You never agree with me, Mare."
I look down at Cal's flannel, playing with the buttons. After I managed to get myself together, Cal asserted that I was cold and that I had to put it on. It fits me even more poorly than his hoodie, but the thick flannel lining is delightful against my tired body.
"Well, that's just because you're usually wrong," I say.
Another sip. "There she is."
Cal ordered us burritos with chicken, rice, beans, and a plethora of other things. He pulled out another Mets blanket from some closet and gave it to me. It seems that the Calores—or Cal and his dad, anyway—have multiple. To kill the silence as we ate, Cal put some music on the flatscreen bolted onto the wall above the fireplace. Now, the album cover of ABBA Gold: Greatest Hits bounces around the screen while "Take a Chance on Me" plays quietly.
Tonight is an odd repetition of last night. Yesterday, Cal caught me in lingerie. Today, he caught me in tears. Both nights, he gave me warmth and food.
I hardly know where to start. I desperately want to tell Cal everything. I even want to tell him how I bought a fake nose ring and pretend to be a student at NYU now.
That part's a little weird.
"So this morning, I stole a fifty-dollar tip from the hotel restaurant beneath your penthouse."
Cal gives me a look that's both uneasy and amused. "I thought you were over stealing."
I shrug. "I am." For the most part, save for the breakfast tip and Volo's wallet. "But I didn't have any money for a taxi." And going back up to the penthouse would've been awkward.
Maven's sweet note, his texts, his voicemails that I still haven't listened to echo around in my skull.
Thinking about my horrifying morning, it feels like too long and complicated of a story to make it something comprehensible. I sigh outwardly, gazing into the crackling fire across the seating arrangement.
"I got thrown out of my apartment by my dad," I say numbly. "Like, I'm not allowed to live there if I wanted to."
Pausing, I take a swig of water from Mister Calore's scotch glass. I swallow it like a shot.
I can hardly stand watching Cal's lips part. It doesn't help when he stays silent, brows scrunching and nostrils flaring. Silence drowns the room for a second too long.
"Because of Maven?"
I smile bitterly, pinching my lips together. The fire seems to flare up as new warm, silent tears drip out of my eyes.
"Mm-hmm. And your family in general. And ballet."
I've told Cal enough about Dad in the past. How he hasn't seen me dance in years, how he wanted me to find something more realistic, safer to do with my life.
"But yeah," I continue. "I got home too late. Gisa buzzed me in, I went up the stairs. Mom was trying to leave for work, and she and Dad were arguing in the doorway. I listened in the stairwell to what they think about my choices. Mom said that Dad could talk to me when I got home tonight—which had been the plan—but he said that I didn't need to come home at all."
Cal stays quiet, perhaps speechless. I steal a glance at him, watching as he slowly drinks another sip of water, his other hand gripping the leather chair arm a bit too hard.
He doesn't ask why my family would hate his so much. That part is easy enough to read between the lines, even if Cal doesn't know what happened to my dad. How he doesn't walk.
"You and Maven probably think he's a drunk," I whisper, pinching my eyes together.
It's not like I talk about Dad a lot. When I do, I just say that he's retired and collects Social Security. That he hates how I dance and never came to see my recitals. That our family of once-seven lives in a run-down apartment in East Harlem.
When Cal doesn't say anything again, shame runs down my spine. Yes. That's what they think.
"He's not," I murmur. In a way, it would be easier if Dad was. Then I could blame him, because it would be his fault. But I can't remember the last time Dad drank. Alcohol's never been in the budget.
More warm tears pool in my eyes.
"They all feel the same. They don't want anything to do with me as long as I'm selling myself out."
In Cal's world, in Evangeline's world, what I say sounds like absolute lunacy. Cal puts a defeated hand to his cheek, eyes wide with rage as he listens. I watch passively as his throat bobs.
"And it's fine," I say, my smile tilting into something that looks a little crazed. "I wasn't living with them anyway. I barely talked to them. I'll just stop sending money. That'll hurt them really bad."
I sound pathetic, so I seal my mouth, pressing my lips together until they turn white. But I can't stop spilling my emotions. There's just something about Cal's presence, his easy silence that gets to me.
"They think I'm going to hurt myself. Tear something in my knee or break my ankle."
I swallow, letting him register the fear in my eyes.
It feels too personal, but I'm too desperate to say it. I need Cal to know how miserably terrified I've become in the last twelve hours of injury. It's easy to say 'they.' 'They' think I'm going to hurt myself. 'They' said it first. But I've been thinking about it all day.
Cal leans forward. "You're afraid of getting injured," he states. I watch as the protective, primal part of him flares up, scanning my body. "Does something hurt?"
I shake my head.
"I always thought that ballet was all that I ever had," I say. "But however dysfunctional we were, I did have—have my family. I just have ballet now, and if I do one thing wrong—"
"You're not going to get injured, Mare," Cal says lowly.
"You don't know that," I quip back quickly. Too quickly. Embarrassed, I turn my attention back to the fire. "I just . . . that's what Dad said was going to happen, and now I can't stop thinking about it."
Maybe a stupider man would tell me that I shouldn't let one completely theoretical situation drive me to such fearful insanity. Cal knows better, pausing with the words hanging off his tongue.
Because that one completely theoretical situation ends with me out on the streets with nothing at all.
He just starts nodding along. Listening to me. Validating me.
Even Cal can't fix this for me. But it feels almost as good just to have him listen to me.
"Then my family would take care of you," Cal says with a bit of a growl. "There's no reason why we wouldn't support our best ballerina through a recovery."
Not believing him, I blink through new tears. I trust Maven and I trust Cal, but at the end of the day, the Calore Dance Company is Mister Calore's business. And the moment that I'm not profitable is the moment that I'm done.
"I'm not part of your family, Cal."
Again, he reads the silent words between my words.
I don't have money. I wasn't born into his world. I'm not Evangeline Samos.
Cal stares me down, and I don't let myself blink. Even through the tears.
"I would make sure that my family would take care of you," he says with the wide eyes of a madman, taking this completely theoretical situation one step further. "However long it would take. And if the doctors told me that you would never, ever heal whatever you broke, I would still make sure that you could have a nice . . . lifestyle."
I should slap him for sounding so old-fashioned. But my heart pounds too quickly for me to think clearly, and he gives me a look that tells me that I am never, ever going back to the streets again. I swallow as I consider how Cal implies that he would buy me an apartment, pay for whatever else I need. I try to convince myself that money means nothing to Cal.
Cal just raises his scotch glass to his lips, draining his water glass.
"Not that we should do it, but I did, um, procure the half marathon bibs."
"Of course you did."
Cal can't help the smug look that works its way onto his face.
"What? Do you think that I'm too emotionally damaged to race you?"
The elevator dings, and the golden doors glide open to my residential floor. Although there's plenty of room for us to exit together, Cal waits for me to pass the threshold first. Always the gentleman.
"No. I'm just worried that you'll use your sleep deprivation as an excuse when I win."
I should hit Cal again. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch how his hand moves, as if in anticipation of catching my wrist.
We move down the corridor slowly, quietly. It's late, almost midnight. The lights are dimmed to a low shade of orange, casting the old carpet in gold. Cal insists on walking me to my door.
"I don't know why you think you could win. You're not even that fast," I say with a bored tone. Inside, I feel giddy. "You lift too much at the gym to run long distance."
Cal scowls. I can't decide whether what I say to him is an insult.
It isn't an insult to me. I like how Cal lifts.
"But anyway, I suppose I'll run," I continue, remaining nonchalant.
The polished white door to my apartment comes too fast, and we find ourselves standing outside of it, not moving.
"Cool." Cal returns. "We can leave here at four-thirty in the morning on Saturday. Race starts at six. Do you mind if I invite my grandma and dad?"
He watches as I reach into my pants pocket for my spare key, fiddle with it to unlock the door.
"I don't see why not. You'll need emotional support at the finish line. If you make it."
Emotional support. I'm such a hypocrite.
The click of my door lock makes me sad. It means I'm inching closer to having to say goodnight to Cal, to leaving him outside of my door. He watches with a dirty look as I unbutton his flannel from my body. Cal doesn't enjoy having his masculinity challenged.
He does his best to move on.
"So, um, Blonos probably won't like the idea of us running a 13-mile race before technique class," Cal starts. He braces his palm against my door frame, and I force myself to look away from his outstretched biceps.
I nod along. If we finish the race by seven-forty, we'll have an hour and twenty minutes to get back to the Academy and ready for class. I can't miss another class, but my body's going to be dead on Saturday morning. Blonos would be very displeased to see me half-conscious at the barre, only to find out that I spent all of my energy on some silly race.
We stare at each other, communicating silently.
So we won't tell Blonos.
But we also won't tell anybody else, because something will slip and Blonos will find out anyway.
I won't even tell Maven.
Cal probably didn't even think about his brother.
But I think about Maven waking me up in bed this morning. I think about the flash of irritation, of jealousy he wore when he saw whose sweatshirt I was wearing. It was a silly thing to get frustrated over. It was only by happenstance that Cal was awake, and I didn't want to wake up Maven if I didn't have to.
Still, my boyfriend wouldn't like to hear that I was running a race with Cal.
It would just make him insecure about our relationship. And it's not like the race is a big deal, anyway. It's a one-time thing.
I fumble with the last button of Cal's flannel, turning my eyes towards the fabric. "Yeah, I won't tell anybody." My stomach swoops when I think about how that means that Mister Calore and Anabel won't be telling anybody either.
Cal nods as I hand him back his flannel. I wonder if he notices the goosebumps that pop up along my bare arms.
"As long as we're talking about not telling people things," I say as I open the door to my apartment, slip inside of it, and turn back around to face Cal. "You shouldn't tell Maven about any of this."
I gesture between us.
He keeps his palm braced against my door frame but stuffs his other hand into his sweatpants pocket. "I wasn't planning on it."
I over-explain, feeling the need to compensate.
"Maven would feel so guilty and horrible if he knew that my dad threw me out because of him."
Cal nods along.
"I'm going to tell him a watered-down version of the story. One that . . . ends with Dad really mad and us not on speaking terms, but without the rest."
Half-truths.
"Thanks, Cal," I say begrudgingly, and that makes him smile.
"Goodnight, Mare," he returns. "You're sleeping until eight, 'kay?"
I nod. "And you'll be here at eight-thirty to talk to Blonos with me?"
"Mmm-hmm."
"Well, then. Goodnight, Cal."
Cal bows his head, draws his hand away from my door.
I force myself to close it.
The moment that Maven walks into Blonos's studio the next morning, I realize that I've made a mistake.
With a well-rested head and clear eyes, I regard my boyfriend with a soft, pasted-on smile as he weaves between the ballet barres. A pair of AirPods don't accompany his sweatshirt, warm-up pants, and socks as they usually do. Maven has his eyes trained on me from the moment he passes through the French doors, unceremoniously dropping his bag at a barre halfway across the room.
He continues, beelining for my barre, where I stand between Iris and a Soloist.
My boyfriend has these worried, puppyish eyes as he reaches me.
Out of guilt, I put out my palms and let Maven take them.
"Good morning," I say, making my smile a little bigger.
"Good morning," he repeats, wasting no time in leaning down and pressing a kiss to my mouth.
I can hardly stand to look into his pretty crystalline eyes when we come up for air. One of Maven's hands slips to my hip, and I find my hand clutching his forearm.
"I'm sorry for forgetting."
"I'm sorry for not calling."
We say our apologies at the same time, mumbling the ends as our words get mixed together. I feel heat rushing to my face.
"I just needed to be alone," I murmur to him. "Dad was really mad."
I don't say more, staring at Maven's Adam's Apple. I texted him late last night, saying that I wasn't mad and wanted to talk tomorrow. He replied within fifteen seconds.
Most of the Company is here, already warming up as our pianist works out Blonos's technique music for the day. Between the low hush of voices and the piano notes, it's easy to talk in a sea of fifty dancers.
"You scared me, Mare," Maven tells me, his voice cracking halfway through.
"I know." I offer a few tight, forced nods. "I'm sorry."
The blurred memories of passing through the stage curtains, of running up the stairs, of letting Cal's arms surround my waist pulse in my mind, pound against my forehead.
I should've been with Maven last night. I should've returned his calls and texts before running off to my contemporary lesson with Cal.
But in hindsight, I know exactly what I wanted.
I wanted Cal to see how much pain I was in. I wanted him to chase me up the stairs. I wanted to be with Cal, not my boyfriend. There's something intoxicating about spending time with him, about bantering with him. Talking to him, on occasion.
My stomach turns with the implications of what I did, of what it means.
I'm in desperate need of pushing Cal back, of getting him out of my head. He doesn't even know what he's done to me, and he's not even trying to do it. He's my contemporary teacher. My boyfriend's brother. That's all that he is.
Back in the studio, Maven pushes my chin up with his fingers. Now that my boyfriend knows that he isn't in the doghouse, I can tell how he gets a little happier. His shoulders get lighter as mine get heavier.
"You look really pretty," he says, shifting the mood. He doesn't keep his voice down as he pulls me closer, encircling my waist with his own arms.
I force myself to keep my smile up, even as it starts to hurt. Our public display of affection is starting to draw attention, but I can't bring myself to stop Maven.
"No, I don't," I hiss. I'm not wearing anything spectacular, and my moon boots certainly don't make me look sexy. "I'm not even wearing mascara today."
Maven laughs. "I didn't mean today, Mare. I meant in general. Want to go on a date tonight?"
My face is hot enough to cook a pancake.
I regard the cute boy in front of me. He doesn't usually flirt this badly or make a show of it. We do have a lot to talk about. I still have to tell him about everything that went down at the Plaza, along with my watered-down version of what happened yesterday. We need to get back to normal, and I need to look at what I have right in front of me. My cute, sweet, loving boyfriend.
My partner in crime.
The guy I share all of my secrets with.
But Maven and I don't usually go out on Fridays. I narrow my eyelids, tilt my head. "Don't you and your brother usually hang out on Fridays?"
As much as Cal has irritated me in past weeks, I've never wanted to get in the way of his relationship with Maven. Friday nights are for the Calore brothers, Marvel movies, and Monopoly.
Still smiling, Maven just offers me a shrug. "I'd rather be with you tonight. Cal's dull company, anyway."
Maven doesn't seem to think anything of missing a night with Cal. He just eyes me, smile turning to smirk as he lets his hands rove my sides. I flinch a little when he hits a ticklish spot below my ribs, letting out a noise that's somewhere in between a shriek and a giggle.
"Okay, okay," I say, slapping one of his wrists with my hand. "But let's not stay out too late, though, and—"
"Hey," Ptolemus barks from halfway across the room. "Mare and Maven."
Slightly incensed, Maven turns around and opens up my line of vision.
Evangeline's brother and half of the Company are gawking at us. I didn't think we were being that distracting. The piano notes grind to a halt, Blonos turns on her heel, and the other half of the Academy dancers look over their shoulders at us.
One barre over, Ptolemus puts a hand on his hip.
"Slow down on the PDA train," he teases. A mocking grin frames his teeth. "And save it for the hot tub."
A moment later, the Academy is rolling in laughter. Apparently pleased with himself, Maven smirks at me. "Well. It's a date," he says before turning around and heading for his own barre.
What a cute bastard.
Face burning, I put my hands up in apology to everyone before sitting down at my barre to put on my pointe shoes. With one last glance up, I let myself look at Cal.
I did talk to him this morning. We walked in together early, and he used his Calore charm to negotiate with Blonos on my behalf. Now, I only owe the woman an extra hour of technique next Tuesday at seven-thirty in the morning.
My eyes find him immediately. Cal has his back to me, and he's talking to one of the other Principal guys. His hair, per usual, matches his shirt, broad shoulders sloping nicely against the fabric.
I notice how one of his large hands grips his barre. Even as he nods along to his conversation, his knuckles turn bone white, matching the color of the barre.
I wonder what his problem is.
But I force my eyes down, gulping. A Scarlet Street Fighter can't be thinking about Tibe Calore's older son. I have to forget about Cal.
And I will. Right after we finish our race tomorrow.