Several instances I’m certain Nevaeh’s not even aware of.
If not for Ms. Poitier, I would’ve never opened myself up to the possibility I was treating Nevaeh wrong. I would’ve never considered the fact that Nevaeh was a unique woman with her own thoughts and feelings that needed to be considered.
Ms. Poitier has served as something of a marital counselor for us both.
“Alright, Nevi. Breathe, I won’t act just yet,” I say. “I’ll make sure what has been brought to my attention is true.”
“And you’ll talk to her. Please? To get her side of the story?”
I stroke Nevaeh’s cheek in hopes of calming her distress. “Yes, I’ll hear her out. But realize that if she is responsible for what’s happened—and if she’s put you and potentially our baby in danger—then I’ll have no choice.”
Nevaeh’s chin quivers as if she’s about to object again before she thinks better of it. She gives a reluctant nod and then reminds me it’s time for bed. I squeeze her thighs and kiss her lips and do something I rarely do for anyone.
I listen to her.
We get up off my office chair and leave the room curled together as a loving couple. Nevaeh pins herself against my side. I wrap my arms around her shoulders to keep her there. We head to bed relieved we’re a united front again.
Even if in the backs of our minds we’re both wondering the same thing.
How could Ms. P possibly betray us?
EIGHTEEN
Nevaeh
Dancing has always servedas an outlet both physically and mentally. When the outside world became overwhelming and I needed an escape I disappeared into dance. The busy noise quieted down into twinkling, dreamy music and my body moved on its own. I was a natural from the first plié.
It was during the most difficult time of my life that I discovered my love for the art form. I was a small girl freshly on my own… away from Mom and Dad. My contract came into effect, and I had to pack up my things. From that point on I was the property of Ignazio and the Dresden Dance Company—I was property of Nero Vorone.
But as much as I missed my old life, my family, and my perceived freedom, I threw myself into my newfound passion. Dancing the days away dulled the pain; dancing quieted the sad, miserable thoughts in my head and stopped the ache in my heart.
Soon, I adapted.
I was no longer Nevaeh, daughter of Niecy and Levar Graham. I was la principessa, the star dancer in Ignazio’s production.
Ballerina became my identity.
As the music chimes around me and I leap into a jeté, I lose myself again. For the first time in days I’m able to disappear into the fluid movements. I cover every inch of the dance studio Caelian has renovated for me, spinning and twisting in the most graceful fashion.
Still as if Ignazio’s feet away tapping his foot impatiently.
The other dancers too—they’d always stood back with brows arched and a sourness about their faces.
It only made me dance harder.
Feeling their ghosts inhabit the room, I push myself. The last puff of air leaves my lungs, but I gallop across the floor with perfect footwork.
It’s at the last second, right as I build up for my finishing move, that I realize I’m not alone. Someone stands in the doorway.
I sputter and stumble trying to stop myself on a dime. A less practiced dancer would’ve face planted.
But it’s not Caelian watching me like has happened before. Even Ms. Poitier or Umberto, who have both enjoyed my dancing and applauded my talent.
Matteo fills out the open space with shoulders and arms carved in the gym. He’s chewing on gum, indifferent that he’s doing so with his mouth open.
It takes me a couple seconds to swallow down enough air to speak. “Is there an issue?”
“Why would there be an issue?”
