“It would be a dream if I got cast as Sugar Plum,” she says with warmth. “But for now, I’m happy with where I am.”
The lie is so smooth I almost believe it myself.
Bunny makes a thoughtful noise, swirling her wine like she’s reading tea leaves. “Well, I’ll certainly be keeping my fingers crossed. I have no doubt we’ll be seeing you in that role soon.”
As waiters replace our salads with butternut squash soup, Bunny shifts her attention back to me, regaling us with stories about her impossible children, one who thinks he’s Gordon Ramsay despite barely mastering scrambled eggs, another who insists he’s the next Warren Buffett despite calling home on a weekly basis to ask which mutual funds are the “safe ones.”
“And my daughter, bless her, is very into design,” she continues. “She’s been shadowing some incredible people in the field.”
Petra glances up. “That’s wonderful. Did she study in New York?”
“Yes, I feel we have the best programs here in the city.”
Petra hesitates for a moment before continuing: “My younger sister is actually about to start design school here in a few months.”
“Where?” asks Bunny.
“Parsons School of Design.”
The words land in my stomach like a rock.
Bunny’s face lights up. “Oh, how lovely! I know the school well. I’ve been on the board for nearly a decade now.”
Of course she has.
“I had no idea,” Petra says. “That’s incredible.”
I force myself to pick up my wine glass, keeping my hand steady through sheer will.
“Your sister must be thrilled,” Bunny continues, unknowingly dancing on the grave of truth. “Parsons is truly one of the best.”
Petra smiles. “She’s 100 percent committed. Actually just left the city yesterday after visiting for a week to scope it out and get acquainted with things before she moves here for good.”
Every word is true except for the one fundamental fact that makes them all lies.
“Well, I’d be happy to make introductions if she wants to meet some of the faculty before the semester begins.”
The offer hangs there like a hand grenade with the pin pulled. Bunny Newman, board member of Parsons, offers to make introductions for a student who doesn’t exist.
I take another sip of wine, wondering if it’s possible to drown in twelve ounces of Cabernet.
Petra’s gaze settles across the room, over where Nilas is laughing with Kate and Gavin, the three of them looking like they’re planning either world domination or next season’s casting. Same thing, really.
Petra doesn’t react, not outwardly. But I see it. The slight downturn of her lips that means she’s considering her odds. The extra sip of wine that means she doesn’t like them.
I force myself to stay present, to keep nodding at Bunny’s stories, to play the part of the recovered athlete grateful to be here. But the weight of Claire’s secret presses against my mind, heavy and persistent.
This room is full of people who can make or break careers with an offhand comment, and I’m sitting on information that could detonate multiple lives.
The soup is probably delicious. The wine is definitely expensive. The conversation continues to flow around me like water around a rock.
But all I can think about is how secrets are like injuries: you can ignore them for a while; you can even function around them, but eventually, they demand to be dealt with.
And unlike my hamstring, this one can’t be fixed with ballet.
Chapter Twenty-Two
This morning, the Sentinels locker room possesses a unique type of tension you don’t find elsewhere. It’s not the usual tension caused by pre-game anxiety or post-loss silence. This one is different.
