“I need a break. From you, from Mother, from dancing, from my whole fucking life,” she says defeatedly.
I don’t think Taye would ever harm herself, but I want her to know I’ll bear the burden. I’ll walk with her through this.
“I’m right next door. Holler and I’ll hear you, okay?”
“Bronson offered to come over if I need someone,” she tells me before slamming her door. It hurts, this insinuation that she doesn’t need me. But the disaster is my own fault. I vow to myself to do whatever it takes to make it up to her.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Natayla
I alternate between thinking I’ll never be able to show my face in public to feeling like it’s not a big deal because I don’t care what anyone thinks of me. My emotions wind in and out like a rollercoaster, and I research other career-minded women who’ve had nudes or sex tapes released to the public without their consent. I learn I’m far from alone in my predicament. Some have had the injustice perpetrated in an act of maliciousness. Others, like me, are caught up in a misunderstanding or an honest mistake.
Dashiell calls and leaves voice messages and more than a few emails, telling me he’s working with his lawyers on getting the images permanently removed and establishing hefty consequences for any media company that attempts to use them again.
He knocks on my door at least three times a day, sometimes sending Lizzy, but I want to be alone, and I tell them so through the closed door. Katerina makes no effort to contact me to offer remorse or an apology.
By the end of the week, I return to my Crestview class schedule and Studio Company rehearsals.
I go on with my life and try to keep my head up even with all the whispers. Unfortunately, I stop eating because of the stress, but I do dance my wounded heart out to get rid of the pain. Channeling my emotion through my body has always been my favorite way to process things.
All of my colleagues’ lips are sealed, and no one, not even Cappadonna, brings up the leaked photos. I know they all know, so I try to make them forget by blowing them away with my performance.
Late one night, after an especially rigorous and emotional run-through of Limerence, I let my body fall to the floor when the music ends. I’m not being dramatic. I simply can’t hold it up anymore.
“Christ,” Dashiell mutters. He’s instantly at my side, soaking a towel in water to use as a compress on my forehead. “Have you been eating, Sam,” he asks me quietly. I can see a blur of Dahlia and Bronson and Donavan Tate leaning over me.
I shake my head sadly, feeling a deep humiliation. The years have flown by, but somehow, I’m right back where I was as a child. Depriving my body of food, thinking it will make me more lovable. Finding out the hard way that I’m only hurting myself. I can’t get rid of the deep-seated belief that if there is less of me, I can’t possibly be a burden to anyone.
“Let’s call it a night,” Tate says. “You okay, Taye? Can I trust Cunningham to get you home, or should I call your parents?”
“My mother would tell me, ‘to get my fat ass up and stop being dramatic,’” I say tiredly.
“Right. That’s why I’m leaving you with Cunningham,” Tate says frankly. “I like my dancers alive, so if you could get on track for the performance, Natayla, that would be helpful—for everyone involved.”
Tate grabs his duffle bag and speakers while Bronson and Dahlia wander out, sending me looks of pity over their shoulders.
I turn my face away from Dash’s gaze. I don’t want to see the disappointment in his eyes.
“We were doing great with eating,” he says, yanking me to sit.
I fold my hands on my knees and lower my head to quell the dizziness.
“Let me see if I have anything.” Dash rummages through his bag. He pulls out some type of protein shake and cracks the lid. “Guess I’ve got to boss you into doing things right.”
He takes a sip of the shake and turns on his tunes. Soon, Bad Bunny is filling up the studio. Dash hands me the shake after gliding across the floor.
“Do that again!” I’ve always wondered how hip-hop dancers achieve that sideways glide that looks like moonwalking.
Dash does it again and makes it look easy, like butter, like sexy butter. He smiles hugely as he slows it down so I can see exactly how his feet move. I take a sip of the chalky substance, and Dashiell begins to gyrate his hips and dance to the song. He pulls his sweatshirt over his head and drops it on the floor, making it look like a choreographed dance move. Watching him in a white tank top and loose sweats is hotter than hot; it makes me wet.