Page 39 of Guarded Hearts
Maybe being in the hospital had reminded him too much of Zoya. He’d never told me how she died. Or had he realized I’d no longer be useful to him, and he’d decided to end things without actually telling me we were ending? Seemed cowardly, the opposite of how I’d come to see him. I didn’t know what the cause had been, but the result was the same. Complete indifference, no matter the situation.
His lack of communication hurt more than if he’d simply told me he was done. Grown tired. Needed some variety. Whatever excuse men used to dump a relationship or cheat would have been enough. I’d heard them all, and I would have recognized it for what it was.
Instead, I’d gotten nothing. Distance. Silence. A strong desire to strangle him.
I’d sat in the hospital, alone, thinking about my bills, about not being able to do Sarah Telling’s tour, about Ricky’s offer to come back, about how much I wanted Pasha to say or do something to make my life feel solid again, like it had before I’d answered my sister’s call, before I’d fallen on stage, before he’d gone stony silent.
On top of that, I’d watched Mia scramble to rejig the stage show with two fewer dancers. Jazz was out, and so was I, but instead of hiring new people, Mia had rearranged some of the dance numbers to compensate. Mia had assured me several times that as far as she was concerned, I was being paid until the end of the tour, and if I couldn’t tour with Sarah Telling because of my injury, we’d come to another arrangement.
Nonetheless, the worry came.
Another arrangement didn’t guarantee I’d be able to pay my bills. Every day, I prayed I’d wake up and my ankle would be better, as if by magic.
“How was that?” Amy asked as the section of music they were working on came to a close.
“See if you can get it faster.” I’d been so caught up in my thoughts, I hadn’t been paying enough attention to what they’d been doing. Watching Pasha touch Amy, run his hands along her like he’d done to me hundreds of times, made me queasy. Each time I reset the music, I had to steel myself, to act like they were people I hardly knew.
My phone beeped beside me, and I struggled to my feet, wedging my crutches under my arms.
“Physio?” Amy asked her as she gathered her towel and water bottle.
“Yeah.” I dropped my phone in the backpack I’d started carrying instead of a purse. At least then, my hands were free.
“Did you want to stay for a while?” Amy was focused on Pasha as she swigged her water. “I’ve been watching the next set of steps, and I think I can get us to a passable spot for Alyssa to fine-tune tomorrow.”
Pasha glanced in my direction, but his gaze was shuttered, unreadable. I’d give anything to know what he was thinking. It didn’t even seem like he cared that he’d hurt me, was still hurting my feelings right now. Hisindifference was like a thousand tiny pinpricks every time he looked at me and showed that the affection I’d come to expect was absent.
We’d become strangers, worse than strangers, almost overnight.
“Yes,” he said with a nod. “Thank you. That would be helpful.”
I was learning it was possible to want someone so badly with so much of your being that it mirrored hate. I clicked across the floor on my crutches, and I mentally geared up to juggle everything to grab the handle when the door opened. Pasha pressed his broad shoulder into the door, propping it open for me to pass through.
I didn’t meet his gaze but mumbled a “thank you” before heading into the hallway. As I brushed past, I caught a whiff of sweat and tangy cologne. It had been a week since I’d been close enough to smell him, and the familiarity, all the memories attached to his scent, almost sent me to my knees. I hated him, who he’d turned out to be, but I still wanted him. And that made me hate him just a little more.
Emika, the physiotherapist, took me through the exercises to strengthen and loosen my ankle. While I sat with a heating pad at the end of our session, Maria came in to get her shoulder checked before the show.
I hadn’t been one to use Emika’s services before my injury, but every day, it seemed one of the dancers appeared for a heating pad or an ice bath or just to have a chat about some part of them that was tender or sore.
“How are you doing?” Maria asked as she settled her own heating pad on her shoulder.
“Progress is slow but consistent. I hate being laid up.”
“How long are you on the crutches?”
I glanced at Emika. “I get a brace today, right? No more crutches?”
“That’s right,” Emika agreed. “You’ll keep the crutches in case your ankle gets tender, but you should be able to bear weight with a brace in small stretches. Still elevate whenever possible.”
“Celebration time,” Maria said with a grin. “We’re going out tonight after the show. You should come. We can sit you in a corner with your foot on a table.” She moved the heat and rotated her shoulder, grimacing. “You’ve been holed up with your ankle for what? A week? Before that, we hardly saw you with all those extra dance sessions.”
On every other tour, I had been one of the more social dancers. I’d never said “no” to a night out, to an opportunity to try something new, to a few drinks with friends. Maybe I needed to get back to that version of myself. Sitting around feeling sorry for myself wasn’t helping my ankle heal, and my misery didn’t seem to be drawing Pasha closer. Not that I wanted him back at this point. Any man who could ghost me so completely while still seeing me almost every day wasn’t a man for me. I’d thought he was one of the good ones. Turned out he was the worst of them all.
No matter what I did, I couldn’t seem to catch and keep a good man, so maybe I needed to give in to my fate. I’d never had any trouble finding the bad boys before, and keeping them entertained for a short time was easy.
“I think I will,” I said with a smile. “Share a ride?”
Maria extended her hand for a first bump. “Yes, girl. It’ll be nice to have you back in the game.”
