Reasonable Doubt: Volume 3 (Reasonable Doubt #3)(50)

“And to get some pu**y on the side, of course.”

“Of course.” He smirked, but I didn’t return his smile.

“I told you not to get my hopes up, Andrew.” I stepped back. “And you did it anyway.”

“What do you want me to do, Aubrey? Move in with you? Fucking propose?”

“I want you to stay…And if you can’t stay, I want you to leave…Now.”

“Aubrey…”

“Now,” I said. “We can still be friends, but I don’t want to—”

“Stop.” He pulled me close and pressed his mouth against mine. “We’re more than friends…We always were. I just can’t be with you right now.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but he kissed me again and again, whispering as he cupped my br**sts, “I would really prefer if we spent the rest of night in bed and not arguing…”

Adjourn (v.):

To suspend proceedings: to suspend the business of a court, legislature, or committee indefinitely.

Weeks later…

Aubrey

I stood on my toes backstage—tilting my head toward the ceiling, rehearsing the final move of the production one last time. I should’ve been happy and smiling—overjoyed at the fact that I was about to debut in the leading role in a New York Ballet Company production, but I wasn’t. Far from it.

I felt alone, and I knew no amount of applause or accolades would take those feelings away.

I was still hanging onto my last few moments with Andrew: The early morning sex in the shower, the sex against my door, the sex in the town car on the way to the airport. (And there was also the final romp in the airport’s bathroom…)

He told me that he loved me each time—that he didn’t want to leave me, but he left anyway.

Our relationship was now relegated to talking on the phone every night—recapping our days, getting off on each other’s fantasies in between, but it wasn’t enough. And I knew it wasn’t going to be enough for me for too much longer.

I needed him here.

“Forty minutes everyone!” A stage hand slipped past me. “Places in forty!”

I took a deep breath and walked to a mirror that hung near the wing. Staring at myself, I looked over tonight’s costume—a glimmering white visage that looked like it’d been plucked from a dream: Sparkling crystals adorned every inch of the leotard, the tutu was freshly fluffed and sprayed with glitter, and my feathered headband was far more defined and layered than the one I’d worn in Durham.

“Aubrey?” A familiar voice said from behind.

“Mom?” I spun around. “What are you doing backstage?”

“We wanted to come and tell you good luck in person.” She nodded at my father.

“Thank you…”

“We also want you to know that despite the fact that we still wish you’d pursued law school, we’re very proud of you for pursuing your own dreams.”

I smiled. “Thank you, again.”

“And we are also very, very honored to have you as our daughter because you’re such an inspiration to all the college students who will be heading to the polls in this year’s election—students who have similar dreams and ambitions regarding careers in the arts.”

“What?”

“Did you get all that?” She turned to the reporter behind us who was shutting off his device. “Make sure you use that last part as a sound bite for the next commercial.”

“Seriously?”

“What?” She shrugged. “I meant every word of that, but it’s also good to get it on tape, don’t you think?”

I didn’t bother with a rebuttal.

My father stepped over and hugged me, posing for an unnatural photo-op, but when the photographer walked away he smiled.

“I’m happy for you, Aubrey,” he said. “I think this is where you belong.”

“You’re just saying that because you think me being here means I won’t mess up the campaign at home.”

“No, I know you being here means you won’t mess up the campaign at home.” He laughed. “But I’m still happy for you.”

“How reassuring…”

“It’s true,” my mother chimed in. “We’re excited for you.”

“Ladies and gentlemen we are about to begin our show in exactly one hour!” Mr. Ashcroft bellowed. “If you are not a ballerina, a danseur, or a stagehand please find your way off my stage. Now!”

My parents embraced me—holding onto me for a long time. As they pulled back, they took turns kissing my cheek before they walked away.

I adjusted my headband one last time and checked my phone. Sure enough, there was an email. Andrew.

Subject: Good luck.

I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to your first opening night, but I look forward to hearing about it tonight when you call me.

I’m sure you’ll be quite memorable to everyone in the audience.

—Andrew.

PS—I miss you.

Subject: Re: Good luck.

I am not calling you tonight. You should’ve been here. I’ll think about recapping it for you next week.

—Aubrey.

PS—You “missing me” would be a lot more convincing if the subject of the email you sent two hours ago wasn’t “I miss your pu**y.”