“Besides,” she barrels on, “you don’t get to demand your girlfriend coddle you when you’re actively being a dick to her. That’s an exception to the coddling rule.Areyou even his girlfriend, by the way? Like, did he use that actual word?”
Why did I have a feeling Cessy would call me on that one?
“We haven’t labeled it, no. But it has that kind of vibe.”
“That kind ofvibe?”
“Shut up and just…focus on the issue at hand,” I say, blowing out a heavy breath. “All right? The point isn’t that Jamie wasn’t a raging fucking dickwad, because he absolutely was. But this is a sore spot for him. Everybody has one.”
She looks unconvinced. “I guess. I still think that’s giving him a lot of outs.”
I let out a long breath. She’s not wrong, really. Jamie isn’tentitled to a forever-long list of excuses and justifications just because I’m low-key obsessed with him. He didn’t have to react off initial instinct and lash out—he could have sat there with his stupid little thoughts and reminded himself that they were, in fact, stupid, and that we’d already talked about this five hundred zillion times, and that maybe he should smoke a joint and just relax.
But if the tables were turned, I’d want someone to cut me a break, too.
“I told him about my MS,” I say. “Right after the fight. And he was…he was so good about it. He was really supportive. And like…sure, maybe I was mad about the whole Phil thing, but it doesn’t actually matter? What matters is who he is, what he wants this relationship to look like. And he showed me that last night.”
“You told him?”
“That’s what I just said,” I confirm, a thread of irritation weaving into my voice. It was my decision, after all. It’s my life. Cessy doesn’t get a say on when or if I tell Jamie—or anybody else, for that matter.
Cessy sighs, then chews her lower lip for a long moment. “Yeah. Okay. I’m glad he took it well. And I’m glad he’s being…good. I just hope he keeps it up.”
“He’s kept it up for a while now.”
She just shrugs and twists to put her empty glass on the nearest table.
“How’s the knee, by the way?” I say, because it feels like the right time for a change in subject. At least if I don’t want to get even more annoyed.
Cessy blows out a heavy breath. “Still shitty. They gave me some more cortisol injections, but it’s doing nothing. My doctor wants me to get an MRI.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Hopefully it’s just a big nothingburger, and you’ll feel better by the showcase.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
She doesn’t sound convinced. I’m not sure I can blame her. It’s hard not to feel, sometimes, like the universe is stacked against you. Impossible to imagine anything ever just…going your way.
I’m sure she’s thinking the same thing I am: What if it doesn’t get better? What if she can’t dance in the showcase? This is her chance to prove to everyone—to recruiters, to her classmates, to her parents—that she is exactly where she needs to be. That she deserves recognition.
“What have your teachers said?” I ask, after a moment’s hesitation.
She sighs. “I mean…it is what it is. If I’m injured, I can’t dance. They aren’t going to risk the liability of putting me onstage if my knee is truly fucked.”
“What happens then?”
“I don’t know. I guess I could do another year at Parker and try again next spring. Or I could just go on the regular audition circuit and try to impress choreographers in the cattle call.” She says it like that’s the worst thing that could ever happen to a person.
But I get it. It’s so hard to distinguish yourself in an audition where you’re competing against hundreds of other artists. Far better to show off what you’ve got at a competition or—for Cessy—a showcase, and have companies run toyou.
Which only serves to remind me how much Stockholm represents, and how much I stand to lose.
Stockholm
Five Days Until Preliminaries
21
Jamie
