Finding Center (8 page)

Zed

I wake up sluggish, like I have a hangover and God only knows I haven’t had one of those in a long time. I tense instinctively, checking in with myself but I don’t want to drink any more right now than I normally do. It’s not something I think about all the time but some mornings, I wake up all stressed out and my mouth feels dry. Wanting. But no, right now, all I feel is some strange cold grip on my heart.

Slowly, last night trickles back to me.
I
proposed.
She said no.
I open my eyes, expecting Aly to be curled up, her blond hair all over the place, but instead, I find her sitting at the foot of the bed, chin on her knees. She looks tiny and young. She looks fragile.

I can’t remember the last time I woke up and found her so far away from me.

The adult thing to do is to reach out and touch her, apologize for springing that on her with no discussion and go back to living our lives like we always did. But I can’t help rolling out of bed without touching her. Without even saying good morning. Because fuck that. Sometimes it’s tiring doing the right thing and—

I’m an asshole.

But didn’t she see this coming? We’ve known each other for fourteen years. We’ve dated for two years now. We missed each other’s lowest lows, but we’ve been on this roller coaster together for as long as I can remember. How could I have been the only one who thought that marriage was eventually on the horizon for us?

And holy fuck could I not tell anyone about this. Thank God it had been impulsive because if I had told people that I was going to propose and she had shot me down...the humiliation would have been out of control. Our roles feel flipped and I’m alone in my confusion. I shower quickly and dry myself before putting on my leg.

In the kitchen, Aly stares at her tea, her face wide, pale and blank. A piece of toast on a plate next to her remains untouched. I glance at it and then say, “You have to eat.”

She says mechanically, “I’m nauseous.”

I can’t tell if she’s lying because she doesn’t want to eat or if she’s telling the truth. Her cheeks are washed-out and pale, her eyes red-rimmed from crying. She looks both thinner and puffier in the same swoop. I snap the top of a banana and peel it, watching her. I don’t want her saying yes now because she’s upset, but I’ve never stood in a room with her that felt this cold.

I hate myself for being angry with her. That’s not what I was supposed to do. I still haven’t figured out how to tell her that I get her anxiety, that I understand her fear, and instead, I proposed. And she shot me down. We are doing a piss-poor job of getting each other right now.

But I don’t want to touch her and there’s never been a time in the past fourteen years when I didn’t want to touch her. I don’t trust myself. I just want to get out of the house. I toss the peel in the trash.

“I’m going to leave now, grab a cup of coffee on my way out,” I tell her.

Her knuckles turn white where she stands at the counter, her fingers wrapped around the edge. She just nods.

I grab my bag by the door and slam it shut behind me. I hope she heard it echo.

By the time I get to camp, I’ve calmed down enough to feel almost bad, and to worry when I haven’t heard from her. We’ve had little fights before, but they almost always end with one of us texting an apology to the other. But my phone’s silent, so I don’t know what to do with myself.

“Mr. Harrow?” asks my student assistant, Mia, home from her freshman year of college. She raises her eyebrow at me. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I answer automatically.

In my head, Aly whispers, “
Fine means fucking insecure
,
needy and emotional.
Fine is not a feeling.
” But Mia hadn’t asked how I was feeling. She only asked if I was okay and I am okay. I’m fine. Mia doesn’t look convinced though so I ask her how the set designers are doing and she launches into a long story about lost brushes, a spilled paint bucket and artistic differences. It drags me out of my head for a short time.

We head out to the stage, Mia explaining how she intended on getting the kids under control.

“Mostly,” she grumbles, “they don’t care. They’re not focusing. It’s not like Theater Club. It’s weird that kids who
pay money
to be in camp here are treating it less seriously than kids who do Theater Club to fulfill an elective.”

“You can’t make people like something they don’t like,” I remind her, shoulder through the doors.

“Sure you can,” she says with a frown. “You can inspire them.”

“Inspiration’s only showing them the part they would have loved if they had only known about it. It’s not making them love something. It’s showing them how.” My throat tightens up. Is that’s what’s wrong with Aly and me? My brain shuts down that thought so fast it’s like a guillotine falling in my mind. With a snap, I push the thought away. There’s no room for Aly here.

“Why’d you choose this musical, Mr. Harrow?” Mia hands me the stage script for
Billy Elliot
.

Her voice is way too knowing. “Because it’s a great musical.”

“Seems to me,” Mia says coyly, “that if you wanted to inspire students to figure out Billy a little better, that you might have more insight into him than the rest of us.”

She winks at me before she disappears.

That girl’s trouble.

Aly

“You can take another tissue, Alyona.”

“I don’t need more tissues.”

“The one you have is a little destroyed, don’t you think? I have many boxes of tissues. We therapists buy in bulk.”

“That’s smart.”

“I thought so. I don’t want you to worry about that here.”

“Worry about what?”

“Needing things. Needing me. Needing more than one tissue.”

“Don’t you think that metaphor’s a bit of a stretch?”

“Not at all. Do you?”

“I don’t know.”

“I went to the ballet this weekend.”

“Where?”

“A performance up in Philadelphia. A modern contemporary ballet company. It was stunning to watch. What really impressed me was how I understood the stories, even in the abstract ballets. I’m not someone who’s ever been good at telling stories, though I’ve always thought I understood them better than most. But when I sat there, I didn’t feel like I was bearing witness. I felt like
they
were bearing witness to a bigger story, and I was just their audience. I found it heartbreaking and also fulfilling.”

“You don’t have to bear witness to me.”

“I know I don’t. I choose to.”

“Why?”

“Because I like you, Alyona. Because I think you’re smart and interesting, and because I like how passionate you are. Because you remind me that people can be both fragile and powerful.”

“I don’t feel powerful.”

“Do you feel weak?”

“I don’t know that I feel anything.”

“Right now, or in general?”

“Now.”

“When did you last feel strong?”

“Yesterday.”

“You’re leading me toward it, Alyona. Why don’t you just tell me what happened?”

“Zed proposed.”

“And you said no.”

“How’d you know?”

“Besides the fact that you’re sad, there’s no ring on your finger.”

“He didn’t propose with a ring. I think it was impulsive.”

“What made you say no?”

“Everything in my head is a mess. It feels like bumper cars up here. I can’t process the next thing until I’ve handled what’s in front of me right now. I don’t have any more space for any more anxiety.”

“Fair enough. Did you tell him that?”

“He wouldn’t let me explain. And, I couldn’t really. I didn’t know how to say all that. We just went back to bed. This morning, we barely said a word to each other. I can’t remember ever feeling that humiliated around him. That’s the thing about Zed. He’s never made me feel like a monster for whatever’s in my head.”

“Your monsters have never had anything to do with him before.”

“I know. But this one’s not about him either.”

“Do you think he sees it that way?”

“No.”

“Where do you go from here?”

“Aren’t you supposed to tell me that?”

“I’m your therapist, not your couples therapist.”

“Do we need couples therapy?”

“That’s between you and Zed. I’m always on the side of therapy, you know that. But for now, I’m more concerned about you. You’re very hard to reach today.”

“I feel hard to reach.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I’m drifting. I feel like everyone else is on fast-forward and I’m just drifting. I feel hazy and like I can’t see clearly today.”

“Have you danced yet?”

“No, I skipped the morning class. Between Zed and the nausea and the exhaustion, it seemed impossible.”

“Did you eat enough to dance today?”

“No.”

“Thank you for being honest with me.”

“It was more to be honest with myself too.”

“Do you want to walk with me?”

“Where?”

“To get lunch.”

“We haven’t done that in a while.”

“I know. I thought maybe you could use some company to get some food into you.”

“It’s freaky when you know what I need before I do.”

“You know. You just don’t know how you’re telling me what you need.”

“Am I going to be okay?”

“Yes.”

“Are Zed and I going to be okay?”

“Yes.”

“Shit.”

“What?”

“Can I have another tissue for our walk?”

“You can have two.”

“Your generosity astounds me.”

Zed

Aly’s not home when I return. The apartment feels still and quiet, like it’s holding its breath. Everything in my chest aches. I pick up my phone and put it back down, turning in a slow circle. The mirror, the barre, the couch, the table. A picture of Aly and me dancing when we were seventeen. A picture of us in London last New Year’s right after
The Nutcracker
ended and we both had time off. It rained and snowed the whole time, and I don’t think we noticed. We didn’t see much of London, to be honest. We went out to pubs even though I don’t drink anymore and she rarely does these days, and then stumbled back to our hotel rooms, deliriously happy.

So many people think she isn’t easy to love, because she’s obsessive and determined, tunnel-visioned and occasionally self-centered. But other people only see the stage version of Aly. The girl who could be prima ballerina. They forget that the coldest people were once water, strong and supple, vulnerable and omnipotent, before they froze. They get
Alyona
.

I get Aly. I get the woman who isn’t afraid to be vulnerable, because her curiosity and openness is what makes her an artist. I get the girl who laughed until she cried, eating breakfast in bed, the sheets pooled at her hips, chocolate on the corner of her mouth.

I get the woman whose only prison is herself. Once I thought I was her key, but I was wrong, wasn’t I? She’s her lock and key. She’s her own jailer and her own savior. Maybe ballet’s in that jail cell too.

I get to be her coconspirator. People think I’m the steady one but I’m not. I’m always afraid of what comes next. I’m always unsure of what came before. I’m just better at the people part than her.

And if I’m her coconspirator, if I’m my own jailer and my own Robin Hood, then I’m only standing here, lost and confused, because I’m not taking the obvious choice.

I pick up my phone and unlock it. A picture of us kissing beneath a sky full of kites stares back at me. She’s in a leotard and her legs are bare, her pointe shoes dusty with the sand from the Mall. She danced there in an exhibition for the Cherry Blossom Festival, all the kites above her. We look happy. We look like we’re in love.

I still am.

I needed her to say yes because I needed to know what
we
are is not something I needed to worry about. Needed to carry with me. I wanted us to be a guarantee. But I should have known better. We’re a given, but not a guarantee. And a
yes
from her wouldn’t have changed that.

I’m a fucking moron sometimes.

I text her.
Hey just got home. What do you and the poppy seed want for dinner?

If I stare at my phone any longer, it might combust. I place it on the kitchen counter and open the fridge. We didn’t go grocery shopping yesterday, and now we have nothing to eat. I can’t remember what she said made her nauseous and I can’t tell whether I trust her to tell me the truth. Or just not eat at all. My mind spins and the room tilts. I grip on to the fridge door hard.

No.
She’s upset because she upset you
, I remind myself.
She’s not upset over the baby.
She’ll be okay.
No matter what
,
she’s not going to go down that rabbit hole again.

I check my phone. No reply. I flip it over so I can’t even see the light blinking. I’ll get an email right now and probably have a coronary. I pace out into the living room, and for a reason I can’t really explain, beeline for the barre. I wrap my hands around the cool wood and stare at myself in the mirror. I barely recognize myself, standing here, button-down shirt, a tie, slacks, my uneven hips, the scruffy beard that hides the scars from my jaw being wired shut, my dark hair tousled from me anxiously running my hands through it.

I’m half a dancer, half a teacher, and not at all a good partner, a good boyfriend, a good person. Straddling worlds exhausts me.

The phone buzzes against the counter and I push off the barre, my face heating up instantly. I can’t help but glance around, like someone saw me standing there, being awkward and stupid. The phone keeps buzzing as I head back to the kitchen. A call, not just a text.

I answer, my heart pounding in my throat. “Hey.”

“Hi,” she says, and I want to shake myself for how guarded and exhausted she sounds. “I’m at the studio. I’m heading home soon.”

I glance at the clock and I shouldn’t ask, but I can’t help it. “You’re there late, aren’t you?”

“I didn’t get in today until three. Yevgeny was kind enough to rehearse with me after hours.” I can hear Yevgeny in the background, asking her something. She answers but I can barely hear her.

“Okay,” I say, my voice careful but even I can hear the strain. “You feel okay?”

She laughs, a bitter soft sound. “I’m tired. I’ll try to stay awake enough to get up the stairs.”

I smile a little bit even though my heart’s plummeting. “Okay. See you later.”

“Bye,” she echoes, and then hangs up.

I can’t sit there and stare at myself in a fucking mirror all night, so I head out to the grocery store and do the shopping trip we should have done together.

The door clicks open eventually, long after my cup of instant soup is cold. Even though it’s hot outside, she comes through the door looking tiny and pale, wrapped in an old hoodie of mine she usually keeps at the studio. She locks the door in slow motion, and lets her bag fall to the ground. The sound echoes in my ears. Her hair has dried to her sweaty skin and it’s fallen mostly out of her bun. She kicks off her shoes and hobbles to the couch, sitting down to strip off her socks.

She’s done all of this and never looked at me. She might as well have kicked me in the balls. And I think it’s on purpose.

I deserve it.

From where I sit at the kitchen barstool, I can see her feet are bright red and bleeding, bunions swollen and new blisters on her toes. Though her feet are dancer’s feet, calloused and pretty gross, they don’t normally bleed unless—she broke new pointe shoes in today. Sometimes, I forget about that streak in her that has to turn an emotional pain into a physical one. Her feet are my fault.

Kicked balls or not, this I can handle. I slide off the stool and head to the bathroom, grabbing Band-Aids, antibiotic ointment and the foot stretcher ball she leaves rolling around on the floor for me to trip on.

In the living room, I carefully lower myself to the floor in front of her. She yanks her feet away from me. “Zed, no, they’re gross.”

“Like I haven’t seen dancer feet my whole life,” I say, trying not to roll my eyes. “Aly, come on.”

She jumps when I touch her foot but I know that’s from ticklishness. I don’t tease her tonight. I cover the blisters in antibiotic ointment and then begin the process of wrapping Band-Aids around each one. “What? You ran out of tape?”

She doesn’t say anything for a moment and says, “Sure. Let’s go with that.”

I shoot her a dark look that she meets with an alarmingly steady gaze.
So that’s where we are
. I wrap the gauze around her blisters to protect them tonight. They’ll hurt worse when they burst in her shoes tomorrow. I press my thumbs into the arch of her foot and she arches backward instantly, her face scrunching up in pain. Kicked in the balls, and now kicked in the heart.

“Christ, did you use someone else’s shoes? Madison’s?”

She grimaces as I gently rub the knots out of the arch of her foot. “They’re fine. I tried a new brand tonight.”

I work my hands up the ball of her foot and then to her ankle. Her pulse pounds into my hands from the inflammation. “They look like winners.”

“Madison was incredible in the first day of rehearsals this afternoon,” she murmurs, and at least then, I know, these feet aren’t all because of me. I shouldn’t be as relieved as I am. But God, I feel like I can breathe again.

She’s quiet for a long moment, and I can’t take the silence. “Where’s your head right now?”

“I’m doing my best not to think today, to be honest,” she mumbles, her eyes closed and mouth against her arm. I rub my hands up her leg. Her muscles feel hot still. She’s no stranger to overextending herself, but this seems like overkill early in the season, even for her.

I touch the back of her hand with my fingers. “Aly.”

A tear slips from underneath her eyelids and rolls down her cheek. My heart clenches in my chest. I say her name again and she shakes her head in slow motion. “I can’t do this today. Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

I almost tell her no, and then I stop myself.
She’s asked you for something in plain English.
You weren’t listening last night or this morning.
You’re really going to turn away from this now?
I swallow and say hoarsely, “Yeah. We can. Do you want dinner or do you want to go to sleep?”

“Sleep,” she says, and then pulls herself up like a zombie, limping toward the bedroom. I should argue with her. She should eat. She needs to eat. But I can’t even summon myself to argue with her about this. So instead, I take a deep breath before I drag myself off the floor and limp after her.

She pulls her shirt over her head and slowly peels her yoga pants off, leaving everything on the floor. One strap of her leotard comes off her shoulder and she pulls the other too. She shimmies out of her dance clothes and pulls a billowing T-shirt from a charity race neither of us ran over her head.

What if we never have the conversation about why I proposed and why she said no? What if we just forget it ever happened? Can we just keep spinning on indefinitely as we were? I want to take her into my arms and pretend that’s enough.
It’s not
,
but it has to be.
I don’t realize how true it is until the thought pops into my head. If it’s a matter of Aly saying no, or Aly leaving, then I’ll take Aly here. I can convince myself I don’t need the guarantee, just the given.

If this is what she wants, then of course. It’s always been her. I can’t imagine anyone else. So of course, if this is what she wants, then... “If this only works for you like it has been, then that’s okay.”

I had to say it, and when I do, she drops like a marionette doll whose strings have been let loose. She slumps toward the bedside lamp and the bed. She sits down hard and I watch her wrists flop on her lap. She’s always so controlled, it’s so strange to see her completely loose. It’s like she’s given up. “You’re lying.”

I sit down on the other side of the bed. “I’m not.” She flops backward and slides her legs under the quilt. I follow suit, but don’t touch her. Not yet. “Are you scared?”

She swallows. “Yes.”

“Me too.”

She rolls over and stares at me openly. This close, in the obnoxiously bright overhead light in our room and the bedside lamps illuminating her hair, her eyes are crystalline, the thin type of blue like a hot summer day sky. Her lashes flutter up and her fingers curl into small fists beneath her chin. “Stop.”

I blink. “Stop what?”

“You’re staring,” she says. “We’re in the middle of a very important discussion.”

“Is there anything more to say?” It’s an honest question.

I see the flash of confusion in her eyes before she whispers back, “I don’t know. I don’t understand what broke.”

“Nothing broke. It should have been a discussion, not a question, and I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. We’re not broken, Kitten,” I whisper. “We left ourselves out in the rain. We just need to scrape away some of the rust.”

I exhale and slide closer to her, and she doesn’t move away. She taps her finger against my mouth and I purse my lips as if to kiss it. She makes a face and pulls her hand away. “Not tonight, but tomorrow, Zed, we need to talk.”

“I know,” I say. And I mean it. I want to touch her but I’m not sure I’m allowed. God, I can’t even remember when I was last not allowed to touch her. She’s been mine since forever. “How was your day?”

We rarely ask each other simple questions. It feels strange coming out of my mouth, and then weirder still hovering in the air between us. She opens her mouth, then shuts it. Her body relaxes and sinks toward me. “Shitty. Yours?”

My hand rests on her side and she doesn’t pull away. “Super shitty. Mia got all therapist-y on me.”

She smiles. “Strange. Ham did the same thing to me.”

I slide a little closer and our noses touch. I can barely bring her face into focus at this distance but I’ve been thinking about her all day. I don’t need to see her right now. I just want to hear her. Touch her. I whisper, “I’m sorry for being a complete and total asshole this morning.”

She nods a little bit, her nose brushing against my cheek. “I’m sorry for not knowing how to explain myself.”

“We’ll talk tomorrow but I’d really like to kiss you right now.” I brush the back of my hand down her cheek.

She smiles and tilts her chin up. “Oh good. I was going to say the same thing.”

It’s different to kiss her tonight. We touch constantly, and we kiss almost as often as we simply touch each other. I have no illusions that we’re an unusually physical couple but I think we need more reassurance than other couples. I’ve never felt like I was trying to kiss her with a certain intention. Kisses aren’t for messages. That’s what words are for. But we’ve run out of words and we’re terrible at them too often and kissing—that’s where we excel.

So tonight, I’m kissing her an apology for wanting her to be someone she isn’t. I kiss her an apology, running our tongues together, for being headstrong and stubborn. I kiss her an apology for never knowing how to say this aloud. “
I
am sorry for the ways that I am impossible
,” I whisper to her with my fingers slipping beneath her shirt, gliding over her soft skin and hard muscles. “
I
am sorry for the ways in which I’m unforgiving
,” I murmur against her mouth, making her gasp and rock against me.

And I hear her too, her fingers digging into my scalp. “
I
am sorry for the ways in which I’m afraid.
” And she kisses me with a feverishness she hasn’t had since we were young. “
I
am sorry for the ways in which I let fear control me.
” She grinds down against my knee and gasps, opening her mouth enough for my tongue. “
I
am sorry for the ways in which I shut you out.
”