“They’re out of town.” I lied. I hadn’t wasted my time even attempting to invite them to this.
“Well, that’s too bad!” he said. “I’m sure they’re very proud of you. You can exit the stage now.”
“Thank you.” I headed into the dressing room and changed into a short white silk dress and a grey feathered headband. As I looked myself over in the mirror, I smiled. There was no way anyone could tell that I was an emotional wreck inside.
I pulled out my phone and noticed a new voicemail from GBH. I knew it was about me missing my internship for the fourth day in a row, so I deleted it. Then something came over me and I googled “Andrew Hamilton” for the umpteenth time this week—hoping something would pop up.
Nothing. Again.
With the exception of his perfect, poised photo on GBH’s website and that less than telling bio, there was no information about him anywhere.
I tried “Andrew Hamilton: New York, lawyer,” but the results were just as dismal. It was as if he hadn’t come into existence until starting at GBH.
“Great performance, Aubrey...” Jennifer, one of Duke’s top seniors, suddenly stepped into the bathroom. “It really is an honor watching someone so young and underdeveloped get unnecessary credit.”
I rolled my eyes and zipped my purse.
“Tell me something,” she said. “Do you honestly think you’re going to last until the spring performance?”
“Do you honestly think I’m going to stand here and continue this dumbass conversation?”
“You should.” She smirked. “Because between you and me, four years ago—back before your time...There was a certain dancer picked to be the lead in Sleeping Beauty, a double major. She was quite talented—a natural really, but she caved under pressure because she couldn’t devote as many hours to the craft as the dancers who only wanted to dance.”
“Is there a point to this story?”
“I took her spot and I was only a freshman.” She smiled. “Now I’m a senior, and a certain someone is dancing in the role that belongs to me. So, just like back then, I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure I get what’s rightfully mine.”
I shook my head and moved past her, ignoring the fact that she whispered “stupid bitch” under her breath. I was supposed to return to the gallery room and watch the other performers, but I needed a break.
I slipped past the sliding doors to the other side of the room and stepped into the gallery’s bistro. It was much quieter on this side, and the people sitting at the tables seemed to be preoccupied with conversations not centered on ballet.
“Miss?” A tuxedoed waiter stepped in front of me with a tray. “Would you be interested in a complimentary glass of champagne?”
“Two please.”
He raised his eyebrow, but handed me two glasses anyway.
With no grace whatsoever, I tossed one back, then the other—licking the rims to make sure I didn’t miss a drop.
“Where’s your bar?” I asked.
“Our bar? I don’t think the patrons of the art gallery are permitted to—”
“Please don’t make me ask again.”
He pointed to the other side of the room where a few smokers were sitting, and I walked toward them.
“What can I get for you tonight, Miss?” The bartender smiled as I approached. “Would you like to try one of our house specials?”
“Can any of those help me forget about sleeping with a married man?”
The smile on his face faded and he set out three shot glasses, filling them with what I could only hope was the strongest liquor in the house.
I slid my credit card across the counter and downed the first one in seconds—shutting my eyes as the burning sensation crawled down my throat. I held the next one against my lips, but I suddenly heard a familiar laugh.
It was low and gravelly, and I’d heard it a million times before.