I use my hand to cover my smile; I’m fairly certain Dashiell Cunningham doesn’t have a fucking secretary.
He grabs Katerina by the elbow and marches her out of my apartment.
“You’re her manager?” Katerina motions to Dashiell in disgust.
“Keep walking or I will be forced to use the trash shoot,” Dashiell says. His jaw is hard and a muscle tics with anger.
“Get your hands off me. How can you manage her? You don’t know the first thing about ballet or how the dance world works, you fucking mongrel,” Katerina hisses.
“I know how to keep her healthy and happy. That’s all that matters,” Dashiell says.
I peek my head out the door and watch him yank Mother close, whisper something inaudible, and toss her in the elevator. He waits for it to descend, dusts his hands, and marches back to me.
“She’s not allowed in here. I’m making a note for the security desk. If it happens again, call the police. If I have to get a restraining order, I will.” Then his face brightens, “How’d you sleep? Did you eat?”
“I did,” I say. I’m trying not to smile, but watching Dashiell overpower Katerina has me feeling downright giddy.
“What?”
“Oh. I had the protein powder mixed with bananas and peanut butter in the blender like you taught me and the cold oats with chia seeds and berries. I ate everything on the menu,” I tell him proudly.
“And how do you feel?”
“Great! Ready to take class and kill it in rehearsal.”
Dashiell is ready, too, and he’s wearing the diamond tennis bracelet. In fact, he hasn’t taken it off.
At Crestview, we barely have any classes together. Mine are all classical while his are all contemporary. It’s not that I don’t like modern dance, but Mother always forbade me from taking styles she disapproved of, which were anything other than classical ballet. But most of the elite school’s curriculum demands versatile dancers. While you can specialize, you have to master other dance genres, so I’ve faked my way through plenty of classes. It was the same when Dashiell pulled off being a classically trained dancer—you take what you know and make it look like something else. Dancers are natural mimics, and I’ve watched my fair share of YouTube videos to cheat a style to get me through a semester. Growing up, Shareen let me dance to the music she played, and along with her son Marshall, I’d jump around the living room to anything from pop songs to ballads to dance hall reggae.
As I warm up for my advanced ballet class, I think about how that could all change now. I can take whatever style I want and Dashiell will cheer me on. He couldn’t care less what class I’m taking as long as the dancing makes me happy. Maybe I’ll do some shuffling of my schedule and see what strikes my fancy.
I meet Dashiell for lunch, and although we’re a far cry from our days at Haverton, we both like to eat, and there’s no one in this world I’d rather break bread with.
“The Greek salad is good, and you can’t go wrong with the custom sandwiches,” Dash says, slamming down a loaded tray.
He’s ordered enough food for the entire graduating class, and I zero in on the clear boxes as the rest of the world falls away. Dashiell wrote up a meal plan for me, giving me the simple goal of no more fainting or dizzy spells and no calorie deficit.
“There’s room for weight gain, but let’s get you relaxed about the numbers and feeling optimal and energized,” he’d said as we sat at his table to write out the plan.
I’ve followed the plan to the letter and it makes me feel safe and loved. In a strange way, Dashiell is acting like the parent I never had, the parent I longed for. Someone who cares about me and not what I achieve. He doesn’t want to plow me through to the next dance role and takes drastic measures to ensure I receive it. He wants to nourish me and help me grow as a person, both inside and out.
Later that night at the Studio Company rehearsal, the tension in the room feels as thick as pea soup while we dance with our respective partners for the piece called Limerence. I have a visceral reaction to seeing Dash’s hands on Dahlia, watching him cradle her in a loving embrace whenever the choreography calls for it. He’s too good of an actor because I’m hot with jealousy after watching them run through their duet and observing Dahlia gobble up every tiny correction he gives her. She’s an eager pupil and seems to garner attention for how well she applies corrections, not only from her partner but from Cappadonna and Tate as well. She’s my direct competition, and she’s killing it. Meanwhile, I’m having a nervous breakdown because I can’t deal with all of the emotional upheavals in my life.