All the memories I’d tried to suppress over the past few years were suddenly playing right in front of me, and the blood under my skin was starting to boil.
“Mr. Hamilton?” she asked again.
I picked up my phone. “Security?”
“Are you f**king kidding me?” She slammed the phone down. “You’re not going to ask why I’m here? Why I came to see you?”
“Doing so would imply that I care.”
“Did you know that when most people get sentenced to prison, they get care packages, money orders, even a phone call on their first day?” She clenched her jaw. “I got divorce papers.”
“I told you I’d write.”
“You told me you’d stay. You told me you forgave me, you said that we could start over when I got out, that you would be right there—”
“You f**king ruined me, Ava.” I glared at her. “Ruined me, and the only reason I said those dumb ass things to you was because my lawyer told me to.”
“So, you don’t love me anymore?”
“I don’t answer rhetorical questions,” I said. “And I’m not a geography expert, but I know damn well that North Carolina is outside of New York and a direct violation of your parole. What do you think will happen when they find out you’re here? Do you think they’ll make you serve out the sentence that you more than f**king deserve?”
She gasped. “You would snitch on me?”
“I would run my car over you.”
She opened her mouth to say something else, but my door opened and the security team walked in.
“Miss?” The lead guard, Paul cleared his throat. “We’re going to need you to vacate the premises now.”
Ava scowled at me, shaking her head. “Really? You’re really going to let them haul me off like I’m some kind of animal?”
“Once again, rhetorical.” I sat down in my chair, signaling for Paul to get rid of her.
She said something else, but I tuned it out. She didn’t mean shit to me, and I needed to find someone online tonight so I could f**k her random and unwanted appearance out of my mind.
Evasion (n.):
A subtle device to set aside the truth, or escape the punishment of the law.
Aubrey
Andrew was the epitome of what it meant to be an ass**le, a shining example of what that word stood for, but no matter how pissed I was, I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him.
In the six months that we’d spoken, he’d never mentioned a wife. And the one time I’d asked if he’d ever done anything more than “One dinner. One night. No repeats.” –he’d said “Once,” and quickly changed the subject.
I’d been replaying that conversation in my mind all night, telling myself to accept that he was a liar, and that I needed to move on.
“Ladies and gentlemen of La Monte Art Gallery...” My ballet instructor suddenly spoke into a mic, cutting through my thoughts. “May I have your attention please?”
I shook my head and looked out into the full audience. Tonight was supposed to be one of the highlights of my dance career. It was an exhibition for the city’s college dancers. All of the leading performers for spring productions were supposed to dance a two minute solo in honor of their school, in celebration of what was to come months later.
“This next performer you’re about to see is Miss Aubrey Everhart.” There was pride in his voice. “She is playing the role of Odette/Odile in Duke’s production of Swan Lake, and when I tell you that she is one of the most talented dancers I’ve ever seen...” He paused as the crowd’s chatter dissolved into silence. “I need you to take my word for it.”
One of the photographers in the front row snapped a picture of me, temporarily rendering me blind by the flash.
“As most of you know,” he continued, “I’ve worked with the best of the best, spent countless years in Russia studying underneath the greats, and after a long and illustrious career with the New York Ballet Company, I’ve retired to teach those with untapped potential.”
There was a loud applause. Everyone in the room knew who Paul Petrova was, and even though most in the field were confused as to why he would ever want to teach in Durham, no one dared to question his decision.
“I hope you’ll come out and see the first transformation of the Duke ballet program in the spring,” he said as he slowly walked to the other side of the stage. “But for now, Miss Everhart will perform a short duet from Balanchine’s ‘Serenade,’ with her partner Eric Lofton!”
The audience clapped again, and the lights above them dimmed. A soft spotlight shone on me and Eric, and the violinists began to play.
Short, soft notes filled the room, and I stood on my toes—trying to dance as delicately as the music demanded. Yet, with each step, all I could picture was Andrew kissing me, f**king me, and ultimately lying to me.
“I’ve never lied to you, Aubrey. I trust you for some strange reason...”
I pushed Eric away when he held out his hands, and twirled across the stage until he came after me. He held my face in his hands—as if he was begging me to stay, but I spun away again, launching myself into a full set of nonstop pirouettes.
I was angry, I was hurt, and I wasn’t holding anything back as I showed off just how well I could dance en pointe.
The second the violinists struck the last note, the audience let out a collective gasp and applauded the loudest they had all night.