Page 11 of The Dancer and the Grumpy Billionaire

Vasily: Why?

Gigi: So much punctuation

We go back and forth for hours. I learn that she moved to the U.S. with a nanny at age fifteen. She first lived in New York, where she trained with a professional company. When she was seventeen, she earned a company role in DC. I do tell her that I am thirty-two – notthatold – but that I am not a predator trying to date her. I was simply worried for her. I am glad she is okay.

Gigi:Thank you

Gigi:It is nice that someone cares

Vasily:It is late. I will let you go.

Gigi:Okay gnite

I set my phone on the charger and lie back in bed, thoughts of Gigi Sokolov dancing, literally, through my mind. I think about the way she moved on stage, about the emotion her body conveyed. I think about her profile, her lips.

And then I remind myself that I should stop. Gigi is too young for me, nearly ten years my junior. She is also Russian, which is not such a problem for me, but would very likely upset both of our parents, considering the war.

I toss and turn, annoyed about my terrible date earlier, about my generally terrible luck with women. I suppose I could have been having mediocre sex with a woman I barely found attractive, but that isn’t who I am. I am not a promiscuous person; I am looking for something real and lasting.

Still, as I finally force my body to relax toward sleep, the face of a dancer is the last thing I see.

Why is it that I always want women I cannot have?

CHAPTER 5

Galina

Things I learned last night. One, Vasily Kyrylo is the name of the man who tried to help me when Roman and Alexei were playing good-cop, bad-cop. Two, Vasily is very handsome in a boyish way, tall and broad-shouldered with longish hair, sad eyes, and pretty lips. Three, he is Ukrainian, which explains his ability to speak Russian.

The latter pleases me, more because I know that it would seriously irk Vera and my father if I struck up a friendship with a decade-older Ukrainian man.

Even if I did not recognize a clear opportunity to rebel, I liked Vasily. We texted for a long time, until I could barely hold my eyelids open. And he recognized me, asked me if I was okay. How long has it been since anyone has asked me that question – about anything.

I find myself looking for him after every show for the rest of the week, and then feeling disappointed when he does not return, does not text me again. I suspect it is because he has satisfied his curiosity regarding my well-being after our first encounter, but I hope that it might also be because he is older and I am, Russian and he does not want to stoke the spark thatseemed to ignite between us when we first locked eyes at the show.

At least,Ifelt there was a spark. Who am I to know, truly? I do not often meet new men. I do not actually know how to recognize when they find me attractive. HowcouldI know those things? I have such limited experience because I am so isolated. Still, I do have some experience, enough to indulge the thought that he might have found me as attractive as I found him.

Even before we moved to the U.S., I was sheltered. My mother died when I was young and since then, my father has been terribly overprotective. My life, very early on, became primarily focused on my schooling and my dance training. Any friendships I had when I was a child fizzled away. Boys who liked me quickly gave up when I was not allowed to hang out.

I once asked my father if I could go to college. The answer was no, of course. My father reminded me that he has enemies in all corners of the world, and that college campuses are too hard to defend without attracting a great deal of attention. Besides, why would I go to college when I am already working professionally? My security and safety, he reminds me, are most important. My mother died violently and he will not see me meet the same fate. He could not bear it.

I am not blind to who my father is, what he has done. I understand how I could be utilized to get to him. Still, I just want to be free of this life, free of this feeling of incarceration. I barely know my father. He is unknowable in general, but more practically, I have not seen him in person since I came from Russia six years ago. I was a teenager when I came with Vera, and how well does any teenager know her parents?

On occasion, I take stock of my reality and realize that I am some stuck version of that fifteen-year-old still. I am twenty-one now, but still rebellious in a way that screams of immaturity. I am a professional dancer, earning a salary, working every day,yet I still sneak candy bars that are hidden in my room. I still say things just to hurt Vera. I stomp and I yell, and I tear things apart.

And I sneak away. I sneak away like a teenager, only to always be dragged back, imprisoned, belittled, abused.

I had a boyfriend once. I was eighteen and had just gotten to the Washington Ballet. A young man named Andrew was interning with the lighting crew. He has a boyish smile and used to take cigarette breaks out the back door of the theater. I started to join him, taking drags just for an excuse to talk to someone.

For that summer, we stole away whenever we could, our entire relationship held within the bubble of the Ballet facilities. I lost my virginity in one of the practice rooms. The memory still makes me smile because I lied to Vera for weeks about having late rehearsals. Andrew and I would order food delivery and sit on the rehearsal room floors, dining by candlelight.

Each night, we ate and talked and I was happier than I had been in years, perhaps ever. When we decided to go all the way, he found a blanket and laid it out and it hurt a lot, but I liked it. I liked making thechoiceto feel something, even pain.

One night, Vera got suspicious and showed up, finding us entwined and naked. She screamed at us in both Russian and English, made me dress, and then beat me once we got home. She forbade me to see him again. She took my phone and had my number changed. She got Andrew fired.

It has been three years since I have even considered allowing myself to look at someone like that, to want someone.

It has been a week since opening night, since I saw recognition and attraction in Vasily’s eyes. I am tired as we sign autographs and accept congratulations, ready to go home, to bed. And then Marcus elbows me, snapping me awake.

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