Davo looked back at his shoes. “Didn’t really see the point.”
Marcus shook his head. “Thisis the point. Not walking around being a stroppy shit all the time is the point.” He gestured to the hallway in the direction of the stairs. “Being there for each other when they’re not around anymore is the point.”
“Okay, okay, I get it,” Davo said. “Are we done with our big emotional moment now?”
“Sure, if you want to be.” Still a stroppy shit, then. That wasn’t going to get fixed with one conversation. All the same, when Davo turned back to the sink and busied himself with the dishes, Marcusresumed packing the leftovers, feeling a bit unsteady—but with his mind clearer than it had been in days.
Leanne came downstairs a few minutes later, acting impressively and unconvincingly normal. She thanked them for cleaning up, then handed each of them a container of leftover apple crumble and walked them to the door, Banjo at Davo’s heels. Then she kissed them both goodnight—Davo first, then Marcus—and closed the door behind them.
Marcus hovered awkwardly on the front steps, wondering what to say to his brother.Fuck it, he thought, then held his arms out and offered Davo a hug. To his surprise, Davo accepted, and they gave each other a brief squeeze. Relief seeped into his muscles, and he could feel tears threatening behind his eyes. Against his shoulder, he felt Davo clear his throat and released him.
“I am proud of you, you know,” Davo said, meeting his eyes with what looked like a lot of effort. “I don’t really understand your job, but I know you love it and you’re good at it.”
“Was good at it,” Marcus corrected, but he nodded his thanks all the same. “I’m proud of you too.”
Davo gave him a clap on the shoulder, then turned down the front steps towards his ute, Banjo trotting beside him. Marcus headed for the bus stop, but he’d only walked a block or so when his phone buzzed in his pocket.
Alice, 8:14PM: Big NYB news
Marcus, 8:14PM: ???
Alice’s reply was a link, and when Marcus hastily clicked it, his phone pulled up an article from theNew York Times. The first thing he saw was a photo of a man—a dancer—wearing white tights beneath a white singlet, which had one shoulder strap and a knot tied at the hips. He recognized that costume instantly. It was Apollo, and the dancer was Jack Andersen. He scrolled down, his stomach suddenly fluttering with anxiety, and read.
SHOCKDEPARTURE ATNEWYORKBALLET
The city’s premiere dance company
loses its brightest star
New York Ballet announced Saturday the departure of principal dancer Jack Andersen, a beloved second-generation star of the company whose presence on the program has for years guaranteed a sold-out crowd.
In a brief statement, the company’s board of directors said Mr. Andersen, who has danced with NYB for a decade and is a graduate of the company’s highly selective feeder school, had resigned earlier that day and would not be appearing with the company in the upcoming fall season. The board did not give a reason for Mr. Andersen’s departure, and Andersen did not return requests for comment.
Andersen, the son of two former NYB principal dancers and a fan favorite since he joined the company at eighteen, rocketed to principal status ...
“Holy shit,” Marcus murmured. He scanned the rest of the article, but it was mostly a recitation of Jack’s professional biography—the many principal parts he’d danced, and quotes from the sparkling reviews theTimes’s dance critic had given him over the years—with no real news beyond the headline. Jack Andersen, Prince of American ballet, abdicating out of nowhere, just days after threatening Heather’s best friend? Had Heather had anything to do with this?
Marcus read the article again, more closely this time. Looking for any hint of Heather, any clue about what really happened behind the bland statement the company released to the press. The ballet gossip machine would circulate the truth sooner or later—and probably sooner—but he needed to know now.
His phone vibrated again; Alice had sent him another link.
Alice, 8:16PM: Looks like someone got unfired.
When he clicked the link, his phone pulled up an Instagram post, and his heart cramped painfully at Heather’s smiling face. She was sitting on a sagging burnt-orange couch, holding a dumpling between disposable chopsticks in one hand and a glass of what looked like sparkling wine in the other. She looked tired and washed out, but her smile was sheer sunshine.
“Celebrating a few things, including the return of my fave person and partner in crime,” the caption on @carlymontgomery’s photo said. “Can’t wait to light up the stage with her very soon.”
Marcus stared at Heather’s frozen smile, wishing it was for him. But it wasn’t. Heather had made her priorities clear: She’d come to Sydney to dance, and everything else had been a distraction. And everyone else. And now she was back in New York where she belonged. He stared for one more second before closing the app and shoving his phone back in his pocket. She looked happy, he thought as he headed for the bus stop. She was probably happy. He hoped she was happy.
Chapter 20
Carly, 12:29PM: How is apartment #876169?
Heather, 12:37PM: Can’t I just buy you a new couch and live on that?
Carly, 12:37PM:
“So what was wrong with this place, exactly?” Carly asked later that night, as they sat cross-legged on her existing couch.
