Page 19 of Claiming Genevieve

I shake my head, trying to keep from bursting into tears again. “I’m not okay. But I’m glad you’re here.” I’d known they would be in the audience, known they would have seen me fall, but my two best friends are the only people who I know for certain won’t think less of me for my failure. But I can’t bring myself to tell them the rest of it right now.

I haven’t said anything to either of them about Chris or Rowan. I haven’t known how to explain how Rowan makes me feel, the combination of anger and combustible desire that he rouses in me, and I haven’t wanted to talk about it with anyone. It felt like just another distraction, a way for it to worm deeper into my mind and psyche instead of shaking him loose. And Chris…I haven’t wanted to talk about our problems, either, not least of which because I know if either Evelyn or Dahlia’s husbands found out that Chris has scared me in the slightest, he’d be receiving a terrifying visit from either one of them or one of their right-hand men. That, too, was something I wasn’t prepared to deal with the week before my performance.

And yet, I’ve ended up here anyway, with everything in shambles despite my best efforts to pretend that it was all okay.

“Alek and Dimitri went home,” Dahlia says quietly. “We can stay as long as you like. Where’s Chris?”

“I told him to go home.” My throat tightens. “I wanted to be alone.”

Evelyn looks at me sympathetically. “Do you still want to be alone?”

I look at them both, my two best friends… and a part of me wants them here with me. But any minute now, the doctor is going to come in, and I don’t know if I can handle their worry and sympathy on top of whatever terrible news he’ll have for me.

Part of me just wants to hear it by myself, so I can feel however I need to, and not worry about the emotions of anyone else around me.

“I think so,” I manage finally. “I’m sorry, I just?—”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Evelyn says firmly. “Call either of us if you need anything, okay? Anything at all. I mean it.”

I nod, and they both come over to hug me gently before slipping out of the room.

The doctor comes in a little while later—a tall, lanky man with hair that’s slightly beginning to gray and a sympathetic expression on his face. He looks over at my chart, and then at me. “How are you feeling, Ms. Fournier?”

I stare at him. “How do you think?”

He clicks his tongue, nodding. “Well, I went over your bloodwork. Everything is normal, nothing to indicate that your fall was caused by any physical issues. It was an accident, nothing more. And fortunately, not as bad of an accident as it could have been. I’ve seen much worse.”

A tiny flicker of hope lights up in my chest, even as I know that, no matter what, things have changed irreversibly for me. Iknow—and still, I look at him with that little bit of hope, as if reality could change because I so desperately want it to.

“You fractured your ankle,” he continues, and my stomach drops. “Not a complete break, but the joint is fractured. It’s not a career-ending injury,” he says slowly, and I know thebutis coming before he even says it. “But it will put your career on hold. You’ll need rehab if you want to dance again. It will take time and patience?—”

His voice blurs. I don’t hear anything else.

In that singular moment, my career is shattered.

—

The doctor saysthere’s no reason to keep me overnight. Physically, aside from the injury, I’m the picture of health. I’m put in a cast and given crutches along with instructions to rest and take it slow, as well as information for follow-ups and rehab. It’s all clear, matter-of-fact, as if my world isn’t crumbling around me. The only reason I’m not crying as I numbly take all of the paperwork is that I’ve cried so much, I don’t think I can any longer.

I text Chris to let him know that I could use a ride back to the apartment. When there’s no answer after several minutes, I call. It goes to voicemail, and then again, and again, until I drop my phone into my lap with a heavy sigh and close my eyes tightly.

I’ll just call an Uber.I have a fractured ankle, but I’m not completely helpless. I know that this exact situation is what Evelyn and Dahlia meant bycall us later if you need anything, but it’s late—after midnight, by this point. I can’t bring myself to call either of my very pregnant friends, and ask them to come get me this late because my boyfriend won’t answer his phone. I know they could just send a driver if they didn’t feel like coming themselves, but I also knowthem. They’ll come anyway, and I’ll feel guilty for making them feel obliged to.

Grabbing my crutches, I buzz a nurse and ask if I can be taken down to the lobby so I can call an Uber to take me home. Being wheeled down sounds humiliating, but I don’t feel that I can navigate the entire trek down on these crutches. I’ve never used them before, and I’m not confident that I’m going to be great at it.

I try Chris again as the nurse takes me down to the lobby. Nothing. I try not to think about how helpless I feel, until we reach the lobby and I see a familiar shock of copper-colored hair and broad shoulders, slumped forward as the man they belong to scrolls through his phone.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I blurt out before I can remember that the last thing in the fucking world that I want is for Rowan to see me like this—foranyoneto see me like this. But when he looks up at me, all I see in his face is shock and concern.

“They wouldn’t let me up to your room.” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “And your boyfriend is a wee bit possessive over you. So I waited here. I thought eventually, someone would tell me something, or I’d see you leave, and…” He gestures toward me. “Well, here you are.”

“Don’t you have something better to be doing?” I know the words are cruel as soon as they come out of my mouth—the man just sat here for possibly hours, for god knows what reason, waiting to find out if I’m alright. But I’m hurt, and angry, and scared, and there’s a significant part of me that can’t help but think that he’s partially to blame for all of this. It makes him an easy target for everything I’m feeling right now.

Rowan’s face smooths over, going carefully neutral. “I do, lass,” he says finally. “A good deal else, actually. But—” He trails off, as if he can’t think of a justification for why he’s here, waiting to find out about me instead of doing any of those other things. “Where is he, anyway? Chris? He’s coming to get you?”

I pause, unsure why I feel ashamed that Chris isn’t here. I sent him away earlier, after all, but I thought he’d at least pick up his phone when I needed to come back to the apartment. Now I feel adrift, abandoned, and my mind spins, wondering how things have managed to spiral out of control so utterly fast.

I’m silent for a moment too long, trying to think of what to say, and I see understanding dawn on Rowan’s face. “I’m just going to get an Uber,” I say hurriedly. “It’s easier for us both. It’s not a big deal?—”

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