Page 83 of Just Not That Into Billionaires

She pokes at my abs. “I’m sure it’s easy for you, what with your hardbody weightlifting ways.”

“That’s right,” I say.

“I can’t anymore,” she says, meaning she can’t get up without the use of her hands. Because of her knee. “Not now.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put your mind back on it again.”

“Like I don’t freak out about it twenty-four seven already,” she says. “Running every doom scenario possible. Go ahead. You want to ask me how bad it is.”

“I don’t need to,” I say. I already know. It’s bad.

“Teaching that class yesterday in that beautiful space...I had this realization that that’s where I’m happiest, even the most fulfilled.”

“Wow! That’s massive,” I say. “Isn’t it?”

She sighs sadly and looks out over the chockablock buildings, all muted grays and browns except for where the sky reflects. The sun is gone, but there’s still brightness. For now.

“Isn’t that a valuable insight?”

“No. Because I don’t know who I am without that goal. This European tour, dancing in front of the ruins, being this international ballerina, it’s what I’ve been dreaming of all this time—it feels like all my life. Striving and striving. When I think of letting it go…it makes me want to weep.”

I curl my fingers around her forearm. I’m not the kind of man who’s good with people or who knows what they need on an emotional level. I barely know my own mind, but I want to show her that I’m with her. I am with her. Or I want to be.

“I know what you think,” she says. “I know you think I shouldn’t do the tour because of my knee. You think I’d mess it up even more. I’d let down the whole company.”

“It’s not my decision,” I say. “I’m the last person to suggest you stop being extreme.”

This gets a smile from her.

“How about you tell me this,” I say. “What are the chocolate chip cookie dough parts? Of the ballet tour? And what’s the boring ice cream?”

“I think you’re being sneaky,” she says.

“What parts?”

“The whole thing is chocolate chip cookie dough,” she says tersely. “That’s the problem.”

“Come on, you know that’s not true. Tell me.”

She touches the buttons of my sports jacket, one and then another, then adjusts my lapels. “The chocolate chip cookie dough is very plentiful. Dancing in front of the ruins, obviously. Being specifically chosen for this prestigious tour out of a large pool of hopefuls. That’s chocolate chip cookie dough, dude. A European dance tour! Fabulous hotels! Dream come true.”

“So dancing in front of the ruins, accommodations, and having been invited. What else?”

“What else…” She adjusts my collar. “Kind of, that somebody thought enough of my skills to literally pay for me to fly to Europe in order to dance for people.”

“That’s a restatement about having been invited. What about the dance itself? The ballet itself.”

“It’s an original creation of Sevigny’s.” She shrugs. “It’s very challenging technically, and I’m proud to be nailing it. But Sevigny’s not really thinking about the ruins on an artistic level. The ruins are just one stop on a tour that’s all about showcasing his choreography.”

“Like how?” I ask.

“This feels like an exercise in frustration,” she says, swinging around so that her legs are on my lap.

I settle my hands lightly over her knee, wishing I had ice, wishing I could trade knees with her. “Tell me how the dance would be different if it were pure cookie dough.”

“If I had my way, the dance would be done in complete response to the ruins. It wouldn’t be as polished. I’d want it more exuberant, the way the girls dance. A less breakneck tempo. Better costumes.”

“So the cookie dough parts of your upcoming tour are being invited in the first place, which you’ve nailed. Being able to do a technically difficult dance, which you’ve nailed. And the accommodations.”

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