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“I was being blackmailed and I couldn’t go back. I’d be dead. If not by their hands, then by my own. I could never go back there! To that country. To that place. To those people, who hunted me and tormented me and made me dance like their puppet on a string. And you were leaving! Shannon Robbards was about to make you an offer and you never told me!”
Leaving? Shannon?
Juliette blinked, the barrage of information sweeping her up, but Katarina wasn’t done.
“You were leaving, and you were leaving me behind.” Katarina swallowed jerkily, coughed, then closed her eyes. When she opened them, her voice was quieter, the panic gone. Only sorrow remained.
“I had a moment of weakness. The one you witnessed. I said yes to Foltin. I said yes to stop the deluge of threats. To give myself some time.” Katarina licked her lips, and then her smile was all sharp edges of regret. “Turns out I ran out of time in the exact three minutes it took you to flee to the stage and break your leg. And there has never been a second that I haven’t blamed myself for that weakness, Juliette. For letting his lies and his viciousness scare me. Plant doubt in me. I blame myself with every breath. Every class. Every tendu. Every fouetté. Every ballet I dance. It should be you, and I should be watching from the audience, adoring you.”
Juliette felt more than heard her own whimper. Katarina reached out, her fingers no longer cold, and wiped away a stray tear. Juliette almost leaned into the touch. Almost.
“And so I lost everything. I lost you, Juliette. And I lost ballet. Even if I keep dancing, the joy, the life of it is gone from me. And every day I am alone in the place we shared, and all I think about is that I am the only one to blame. Juliette, have you tried blaming yourself for seven years for making a choice so wrong it destroyed two lives?”
Juliette gulped down her sorrow, the pain making her back teeth sing. This was all too much. She needed to punch something—and preferably do it while she was alone, lest she broke another bone in Katarina’s presence.
“You need to leave, Katarina. You’ll be back in New York soon enough. I’ll be polite. You’ll performSwan Lakeand danceOdette, as you always wanted, and I will pretend that it isn’t my part. You’ll get your grand reviews and five curtain calls. And we will both pretend we don’t know each other. Life will move on. And I need you to move on too.”
Katarina gave her a strange, faraway look before nodding and taking a few steps toward the front door. Juliette heard the door open, and then Katarina’s words reached her before the sound of the door closing did.
“I dance on your stage, I look in your mirror in your dressing room, I sleep in your bed in your apartment on your street. I have nowhere to move on, Juliette. I’ve given up trying.”
27
OF CHAIN-SMOKING & LAST BOWS
The door shut, the words like mustard gas slithered to the floor, heavier than air, poisoning everything around them. Juliette closed her eyes and then opened the window. Greenwich Village was full of conversations and tidings of fall, and after a few deep inhalations, she decided the poison was better.
Other people were their own hell, and autumn was a reminder of all her “nevers.” The opening of a new ballet season she’d never dance in. Or a tour she’d never go on. Or Katarina Vyatka, whom she’d never see again.
Katarina Vyatka, who dared to walk through life as a martyr. Who lived wounded, who tore her own muscles and tendons and never quite allowed any of those wounds to heal. How dare she? And how dare she come here?
Juliette flung herself to the sofa, then remembered Gabriel sitting exactly there, just a few days ago, looking at her with pity. Because it was her, Juliette, who was swearing up and down a Manhattan afternoon that she had moved on, went on dates, and had a full life.
Well, he sure showed her. Writing to Katarina, begging her to attempt a reconciliation, chipping at Juliette’s armor, pointingto her how utterly ridiculous she had been, and then going out and getting himself killed. And here Juliette sat in the damn room that still smelled of the tobacco he favored and still held his last mangled butt in the ashtray.
Juliette reached over and plucked a cigarette from the limp pack with a shaking hand. Said shaking made the lighter take forever to flicker to life, and every single unsuccessfulsnickgot Juliette madder.
In fact, she had been enraged since the call from Presbyterian. Maybe for seven years, but for the purpose of exorcism of this particular demon, she’d settle on this timeline.
The smoke enveloped her in the familiar fog, and Juliette prayed it would erase the orange blossom lingering in the air.
How dare Gabriel write to Katarina? And how dare he die? After they had survived so much, after she had gone with Gustavo and bought him a ring? And how dare Katarina come to New York? This was Juliette’s city now. Juliette’s street, Juliette’s apartment. And now she was chain-smoking to drive the scent of Katarina deeper into the cracks in the walls. It would resurface in the middle of winter nights and haunt her dreams, her waking hours, lacing everything like arsenic.
She looked down at her fingers and realized she’d snapped the cigarette in half. When she reached for the pack again, it was empty. And wasn’t that a fitting last drop, last straw, last everything that broke all the backs, filled all the cups, and she screamed, allowing her throat to take the brunt of her impotence to do anything but love this one woman who for some reason would never just leave.
Juliette stood up and lifted the phone from the hook. She couldn’t yell at Gabriel for going behind her back, for dying, for leaving her to face all of this alone, but she could do something about Katarina.
When a tired hello greeted her on the other end of the line, Juliette knew that this was a sign indeed. Francesca had never been home at this hour in all the years she had known her.
“Cesca, where is Foltin staying in New York?”
There was rustling and then a sound of things falling, making Juliette pull the receiver away from her ear. More coughing, and then a Zippo lighting and Francesca inhaling. After two drags, Juliette heard her drink a sip of something. She tapped her fingers on the coffee table and tried not to lose her temper yet. She needed it for later.
“Four Seasons.”
Two words. No questions. No commentary. Another long drag and another sip. More clothes rustling. Francesca said nothing more, and it was Juliette’s turn to exhale.
“Thank you.”
