Page 42 of Just Not That Into Billionaires

“Well?” I say.

“Are you done?” he asks.

“For now,” I say.

He says, “You’ll want to give Alverson your schedule of dance practices and things so he knows when and where to pick you up. He won’t hold you to it, but he likes the general schedule, and then you can text him when it gets closer to the time and adjust accordingly.”

“Okay.” I walk around touching stuff. Naturally, the lowliest guest room that Benny can find is far grander than my bedroom at home. “I can’t believe you live in this building! You know it’s one of the places that I point out to visitors.” I go to the window, feeling his eyes on me. “I can’t believe you live here!”

When I spin around, this morose darkness has come over his tawny personhood.

“What?”

“We good?” he says in the manner of somebody really, really wanting to end the conversation.

The humorous connection between us is gone now. “So you do boxing?” I ask, wanting to talk some more.

“Why else would I have a heavy bag?”

“Yeah, right,” I say. “Okay.”

“You’ll be free to use the kitchen as much as you want, of course.”

“Are you sure there’s no danger of running into me? The annoying wifely employee?”

“I typically take my meals at my desk at work. In fact, I’m heading to the office.” With that he turns and leaves, sneezing as soon as he’s out the door.

I stand there feeling hurt and dismissed. I hate when people shut me out. I hate being kept in the dark. As the youngest of seven children, I was always the last to know everything, always the clueless one. And then not going to a normal high school. Missing so much because of constant rehearsals.

“Suddenly remembering why billionaires suck,” I mumble, closing the door after him.

I put away my stuff, and then I text Mac to get instructions to the house, which happens to include the password to the sound system and his precious Pandora account.

Score! I put it on and skip over a bunch of songs until I find a Dave Matthews Band song.

Ten

Francine

I’m sittingat the corner of the studio after company class among scattered piles of wraps and sweatpants and water bottles.

It was a good class today—my barre buddies and I give the dudes such shit about their push-up contest during barre. Then we changed into pointe shoes and began center work; people were on fire. We ended with grand allegro exercises. Watching my peeps, it gave me shivers. I feel like I’m in the best company in the world. Technically we’re not the best company in the world—that would be the Paris Opera Ballet if you ask me—but in terms of heart, we absolutely are.

I’m wrapping my knee, fueled for a day of rehearsal. My friend Annie is next to me, slathering her legs with arnica gel.

Sometimes I wonder if my amazing resilience could be the undoing of me. The pain I can handle, but am I taking it too far? What happens in ten years? Will I still be able to dance? To do yoga?

Sometimes I wake up in the middle of night with this image of me steering a ship, and I’ve been sailing in this one direction all my life, but am I actually steering the ship into a bunch of rocks? Do I even know how to steer at all?

Then again, the human body has amazing recuperative properties.

Annie nudges me, and I look up to see Rosemary beelining over to me looking determined, reminding me that I have bigger problems than this knee; namely, rules and regulations and entry visa red tape.

I stand up in one fluid motion.No serious injuries here!

“You really brought in the big guns,” Rosemary says, amazed.

“What do you mean?”

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