Page 4 of Ruthless Roses
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The crowd explodes into uproarious applause as I leap across the stage and then strike the final pose of the show, my arm arced above my head.
The last notes of the music play. Audience members all across the large theater rise out of their seats with faces full of adulation. Roses are thrown at my feet. Slowly, the rest of the cast trickles out onto the stage to take their bows and wave at the audience.
The theater has never shaken with so much excitement.
TheTribune’sprobably writing a glowing review of tonight’s show at this very moment.
Thisshouldbe one of the happiest memories of my life.
Yet, as the director moves up to take my hand and lead me into a bow, I’m blinking back tears.
My mind’s muddled with thoughts of Clay. He had bought front row seats to the final show of the season, promising he’d be there to cheer me on. The seats remain empty as I glance down at the section and feel as if it’s a stab to the heart.
Dancing has always been my greatest passion in life, and I can’t imagine my life without it, but my life without Clay has proven to be just as miserable.
It’s as if I’m a shell of my former self.
The applause goes on for minutes. Some of the other dancers in the show collect the bouquets being thrown at them, their smiles bright and dazzling. They’re enjoying the barrage of attention and praise that echoes around the cavernous room.
I couldn’t want more to make my escape. The director nudges me forward to go for an encore bow as the crowd roars with more applause for me—the star of the show, the prima ballerina.
I wave and force a smile onto my face, though I suspect it looks more pained than anything.
My gaze falls to the section where Clay was supposed to be sitting again. The empty seat speak volumes louder than the thunder of applause coming from the other hundreds of seats.
I’m trying so hard not to shed a tear, so close to bursting into a cry.
…until I catch the eye of a man sitting a few seats away from where Clay was supposed to be.
He’s studious and broad-shouldered, dressed in a perfect tuxedo. Dark skin and a strong jaw. He stares at me and only me despite the many others on stage.
There’s a sense of longing that exists in his eyes. Longing he wants me to know about.
It does something to me, eliciting a flutter in my stomach. I return his stare for a long moment as the theater continues to clap and cheer, and then I force my gaze away.
Eventually, I sneak away as several of the other dancers happily bow to third rounds of applause. The show is so close to being over that no one notices.
I escape to my dressing room, rushing inside and slamming shut the door. Ripping off my delicate lace mask, the tears that have been bottled up burst free of me. I stumble forward to clutch the edges of my vanity table top.
A huge crystal vase of magnificent red roses sits within reach. A dozen velvety red roses that weren’t there when the show began and I rushed out of my dressing room at the fifteen-minute call.
Someone had these delivered.
Clay!?!
I scramble to tear off the tiny note attached to the vase, my heart beating frantically.
It falls just as fast. The exact second I read the name neatly scrawled at the bottom of an invitation to dinner.
You’re the most elegant dancer I’ve ever seen, deserving of every second of applause. I would consider it an honor if you would please accompany me to dinner sometime.
Ernest Adams
I blink at the notecard as another feeling I’m not sure what to call washes over me.
Curiosity? Surprise? Flattery? Some mixture of all three?