Hot rage bubbled in her stomach as she marched up the stairs to her bedroom, and only intensified when she saw the bed, unmade and rumpled after a night of restful sleep and a morning of pleasure with Marcus. She’d been so stupid. Stupid to trust him, stupid to think he’d be any different than Jack. For one insane moment, she wanted to call Jack and rage at him the way he’d raged at her so many times. She’d tell him that everything Carly had said about him over the years was true: He was a narcissist, a small, insecure man who felt best about himself when he was making other people feel their worst. That he’d broken her heart a thousand tiny times, always mending it just enough that she’d stay and let him do it again. She’d list everything he’d ever done to hurt her until he felt the same shame she felt. Until he apologized for how he’d treated her.
She threw her phone on the bed so she couldn’t give in to temptation. Jack didn’t apologize. Or if he did, he did it so dramatically, so woundedly, that she ended up feeling like the one who’d messed up.
This time, though, shewasthe one who had messed up. It had been a mistake to kiss Marcus, a mistake to call him for help, and a mistake to agree to sneak around with him. She’d been kidding herself to think she could trust him, and a fool to think she could get away with doing cartwheels, when in her heart she’d known it would only get her in trouble. Stupid to think he was immune to believing the rumors the ballet world whispered about her.
Well, that was over now. No more cartwheels. No more sneaking around. For the next two weeks, she was going to do what she’d come here to do: dance. And as for Marcus, well, he’d said it himself. She only dated famous dancers—and he was neither of those things. So they were done. She stripped off her clothes and turned on the shower.
By the time she’d rinsed the last of his scent off her skin, she almost believed it.
**
The sky was dark by the time Marcus trudged into the lobby of his apartment building. He was ravenously hungry and desperately in need of a shower. Davo had driven them all back to the Sand Castle, and the two of them had spent over an hour cleaning up the living room. There’d been shards of glass scattered everywhere—he’d even found a few pieces in the kitchen—and a splash of blood on the sofa that had taken a half hour of soaking and scrubbing to remove. His mum had been right about the rug; it was destined for the tip, and her bloodied pyjama pants had gone into the bin, too.
They had asked her if she wanted them to stay and cook her dinner, but she’d shooed them out, insisting she was just fine on her own.
“It’s just a few stitches,” she’d said impatiently when they objected.
“Six,” Marcus had retorted, putting the dustpan and broom back in the laundry closet. “Six stitches. That’s more than a few.”
“I’ll put my feet up and rest, I promise, and I’ve got some leftovers to reheat,” she’d said grudgingly. “You two have done enough.”
At least she’d been sitting on the couch at that moment, though Marcus was sure that would only last for a minute or two after he and Davo left.
It had been easy enough not to think about Heather while he was cleaning or making sure his mum had supplies to last the next few days. But now that his hands weren’t busy, now that he wasn’t fussing over her or interpreting Davo’s grunts, he couldn’t get the image of Heather’s furious face out of his mind. People always said disappointing someone was worse than making them angry. But that didn’t account for making someone both disappointedandangry. And that’s exactly what he’d seen in Heather’s face and heard in her low, livid voice.
He hated how he’d spoken to Davo. His skin crawled with shame when he thought about how easily he’d allowed himself to be baited into speaking that way about Heather, into acting like someone hewasn’t. Or hoped he wasn’t. He wished she hadn’t heard it, but it would have been shameful even if she hadn’t. Most of all, he thought as he let himself into his empty apartment, he hated how easily his brother was able to get under his skin, how efficiently he could locate and push all of Marcus’s buttons.
It had been that way for years. Davo had never understood Marcus’s passion for ballet and had always found ways to let him know he found it silly and embarrassing. When they were kids, their parents had resorted to bribing Davo to come to one ballet concert a year, and soon after Davo hit his teens he had plenty of excuses not to show up. He was working at the supermarket, or training with his rugby team, or doing just about anything except watching his brother dance. For the first two years of high school, Davo pretended they weren’t even brothers—he’d told anyone who asked that Marcus just happened to have the same very common surname as him. He’d been that embarrassed to tell his mates his little brother took ballet classes.
When their dad had died, Marcus had half hoped the shared loss would give them something to bond over, something to wipe away some of the unpleasantness that had come before. There weren’t a lot of silver linings when your dad died of cancer, but it had seemed possible. Instead, it had only made things worse. Davo became more distant, and, when they’d actually seen each other, more dismissive of Marcus’s work.
Still, Marcus thought as he tested the temperature of the shower and then stepped under the stream, there was no excuse. He was a grown man. A grown man who loved what he did for a living and saw the value in it, even if his brother didn’t. He didn’t need to impress Davo anymore. And he definitely shouldn’t have talked about Heather like she was some kind of reward for being a man in ballet. Even if the idea of Davo asking her out made his stomach churn. He heaved a deep sigh, watched the steam billow and swirl towards the ceiling, and made a plan.
An hour later, he rang Heather’s doorbell and held his breath, partly from nerves and partly because the scents wafting from the bag made him lightheaded with hunger.
She opened the door quickly and purposefully, but she raised her eyebrows in surprise when she saw him. She wore a pair of black leggings and a loose wool sweater, and her hair hung in damp waves around her shoulders.
“Oh, I thought—you’re not dumplings. I mean, I thought it was my dinner.” Heather gave her head a little shake, and her jaw tightened. “What do you want?”
“I want to apologise,” Marcus said quickly. “What I said wasn’t okay. And I’m really sorry. I wanted to come after you and say that, but I couldn’t without Davo getting suspicious about...about us.”If there even is an us anymore.“And you don’t have to accept that or believe me, or do anything at all, but I promise it won’t happen again.”
Heather said nothing, and once again, Marcus found himself waiting. Watching her think. Hoping.
“Is your mom okay?” she asked eventually.
“She’s fine. Six stitches, but she’s home and not in any pain.”
“Okay.” She nodded.
He waited.
“I trusted you.” Her voice was quiet, steely. “You know what a huge risk we’re taking, and what could happen if we’re found out. But I trusted you, and I thought you felt the same way about me. And you couldn’t trust me to say no if your brother asked me out. You had to go swing your dick around and tell him I’m a gold digger.”
He shrugged his shoulders in discomfort. It was nothing he hadn’t said to himself for the last few hours, but hearing Heather say it made him feel a hundred times worse.
“I know, and I’m really sorry.” He’d completely fucked this up. He hadn’t even managed to make whatever they had last a full day. He knew, like everyone else in the ballet world knew, how badlyher trust had been broken, and how recently. He hated that he’d done it again.
Heather studied him reproachfully, like she’d done at the restaurant last night.
