But when I come to the studio later in the day, Lyla isn’t waiting outside of the studio like she said she would. Instead I find her already inside of her old apartment. Slowly I shove the door open and it creaks, causing her to look up.
She’s sitting by her closet, going through what looks like knick-knacks in a shoebox. Quickly she gives me a smile, but it burns out just as fast and she looks down.
“Hey,” she murmurs, her voice frail and a riptide of worry immediately washes over me.
“What has made you upset?” I ask, closing the door and the desperation to see her happy again is pretty fucking potent.
“Nothing,” she whispers as she goes through a couple of old photos and my chest starts spraining.
“Lyla,” I say in warning, “is everything okay?”
“Fine!” she yaps but she doesn’t sound fine and I grab her shoulders, cupping her chin and she gasps.
“You don’t get to keep secrets from me,” I growl. “You do not get to hide your true wellbeing from me and pretend that you’re fine when you are not.”
Brushing my hands off, she bites her lip and she looks angry. My little ballerina is angry. I turn cold when I wonder whether she somehow found out about Sorkin. But there is no way she could know.
The anger on her dainty face dissipates. “It’s stupid,” she begins, “I’m just being childish...”
“Everything that concerns you is important.” I grind my jaw. “Tell me.”
She surprises me by taking my arms and wrapping them around her like she’s looking for her safe place and I immediately enclose her. My coat is open and she sneaks her hand down my shirt, running her fingers over my skin. I love it when she is like this, when she seeks me for support. Makes me melt.
“They were mean to me today,” she says in a puerile voice and aggression rises in me and I am ready to kill whoever it was.
“Who?”
“Some of the other dancers, especially this one named Nicoletta.”
Fuck, then I can’t do anything about it. I can’t hurt women. If only they had been men. Then flowers would have already been growing on their graves by now.
My jaw coarsens and I rasp, “What did she do?”
“She yelled at me that I had been made the prima ballerina only because I have an aggressive looking Russian husband.” Lyla inhales. “She thinks the director is scared of you and trying to suck up.” Shaking her head she adds, “She’s so ridiculous and besides you don’t even look that aggressive...”
My wife has really put on her rosy glasses extra tight when it comes to me. I should be tempted to loosen them at least a little, help her see who I am deep down. But instead, I’m not the least tempted.
Having them on makes her happy. And what kind of man would I be if I ripped them off and allowed her to see the harsh reality? I’m not ready yet. She’s not ready yet.
“And it’s not true, is it?” she asks. “That you have anything to do with me being the prima ballerina?”
What do I tell her? Tell her the truth or tell her a lie. The truth could hurt her but the lie hurts me. But her happiness always wins over mine and I say,
“No, I had nothing to do with it. You’re one of the most talented dancers this world that is unworthy of you has ever seen.”
In my mind, the last part is true at least.
“You only say that because I’m your other half,” she smiles, then gives me a kiss, “I don’t know what I would do without you.”
Same, little ballerina. Same.
She wriggles out of my arms and my fists clench at the loss of her, my eyes intent on her as she looks around the room.
“I should hurry up with this.” Opening a drawer she gashes through her garments, some of them falling onto the floor. “By the way, are any of the brother’s coming over for dinner tonight?”
“Probably,” I respond and she nods.
“I’ll ask the chef to make something extra special then.”