Page 26 of Control

I hesitated as I thought it over. My resolve always went to hell whenever I was close to him. Exhaling in defeat, I pushed past him with my bag on my shoulder. “Fine, but I’m ordering dessert,” I said, striding ahead.

We walked to an Italian restaurant nearby. The sky had just turned a deep cerulean color signaling early dusk and the warmth from the summer sun still lingered. I felt too warm with my jacket on, but I didn’t want to look like a lunatic by taking it off, especially in this rich of an area. I already didn’t fit in here when dressed in regular clothes. There was a time when I would have easily blended in, but not anymore. Now, it was imperative to not draw attention to myself.

A short walk later, we found our destination, a seemingly unassuming place the size of a shoe closet. We sat across from each other, separated by a tealight candle enclosed by a cheap red glass holder and a basket of warm ciabatta bread on the table. I wasn’t sure how an old-school place like this was still open for business in such a posh neighborhood since the rent was probably astronomical. The authentic food that was boasted on the signage out front must have just been that damn good.

Various paintings stroked in Mediterranean hues of orange and blue hung on the wall, featuring scenes of different Italian landscapes like a Tuscan vineyard, the Amalfi Coast, and a cottage in Naples.

We sipped on glasses of red wine as we waited for our food to arrive. The drinking age in France was lower than in America, so I had years of practice identifying good wine, and this was good. Notes of cherries and black pepper teased my tongue, instantly numbing the awkwardness that swathed us.

Jai’s eyes were on me when I opened them after savoring the red liquid. Eyes dark like coal blazed into mine, as the spark between us ignited the flame. “Have you ever eaten here before?”

I shook my head. “Never. I don’t usually eat out.” Not by choice, really. Rent was my biggest expense, and I could barely make enough to cover it every month. Throwing money away at a restaurant just didn’t seem like the smartest idea when I was scrounging to stay in that poor excuse for an apartment that I called home.

“Do you cook a lot?” he asked, his lips slick from the wine.

I snorted in laughter. “Me? Cook? No way. You?”

“I do.” I couldn’t hide my surprise. “I actually prefer it. I find creating dishes to be cathartic,” he said. His tongue darted out, skimming over his bottom lip to collect the moisture that had coated it after his last sip.

My thoughts wandered. Visions of him bare-chested in the kitchen, his brow creased as he devoted his attention to chopping and sautéing, hypnotized me. There was nothing sexier than a man who could cook.

“If you don’t eat out or cook, then what do you eat?” he asked.

“Sandwiches. Mostly peanut butter and jelly or lunch meat. Anything I can eat on my way to class.”

He seemed more angry than astonished by my answer. “What? How do you run on lunch meat for fuel? You’re an athlete and you need to feed your body,” he scolded.

My cheeks heated under his scrutiny. Shrugging, I replied, “It’s what fits in my budget. Plus, it’s not like I perform or anything.” My nutritional demand wasn’t as high as that of a performer. Company ballerinas, especially ones that made principal and headlined shows, trained for hours each day, and were expected to dance continuously for nearly two hours with only breaks for costume changes.

“Do you want to perform?” His eyes were trained on me.

The question made me long for the dreams I had as a little girl envisioning my life in ballet. Of course, I wanted to perform. It was all I had ever wanted since I was four years old, twirling around on my tiptoes along to the tinkling melody from my jewelry box. I would spend nights in bed choreographing movements in my head, until my eyelids would droop with drowsiness. But it would never happen for me. It was just that…a dream. “I did, but it’s not an option anymore.”

“Why not?” he inquired, unhappy with my brief answer.

“The money that I make from teaching is better than what I’d make as a performer. I have more time to pick up extra classes. But if I were on the stage, I’d have to commit my entire day to training without the extra income.”

He was quiet for moment, his thoughts showing in the creases of his forehead. I wasn’t shy about discussing my financial situation and I had nothing to be ashamed off. Though I no longer had much to my name, I worked hard for everything. It was either work my ass off to pay for my rent or be out on the street. I preferred the security of a roof over my head, which was ideal for hiding. It was better to live a private life of teaching than to bring attention to myself as a performer, since the recognition would be fatal.

Jai stayed quiet for a long time, his fingers rubbing the scruff on his jaw. “Don’t give up,” he finally said, addressing me.

My eyes rolled at his audacity. “That’s easy for you to say. You look like money.”

He glanced down at his attire, a blazer, concert tee, and jeans. I was sure they were all designer, but I hadn’t meant his outfit.

“It’s not your clothes that give you away. It’s how you carry yourself—with your shoulders back and your chin always slightly higher than the person that you’re addressing.”

His expression hardened, as if he were offended by my assessment.

“I’m not judging you,” I continued. “My family had money but now I’m just more responsible about it since I no longer have them to depend on.”

That piqued his curiosity. “What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?”

I had known that question was coming. The conversation had taken a turn into territory that I didn’t want to visit, all because of my big mouth.

He must have sensed my hesitation. “It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me.”

Amelia’s words rang in my head. I should take a chance and open myself up. Living like a closed box kept me safe but left me alone. So alone.

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