chapter 20

Lillian found Blueat the same booth she’d been in when they met. Blue’s laptop was open to some incomprehensible interface of characters and numbers. An untouched sandwich sat at the end of the table. But Blue wasn’t looking at her computer. She was staring at a small gift box open in front of her, fingering a swatch of fabric.

Lillian hesitated. Blue’s shoulders slumped. She tossed the swatch of fabric back in the box, leaned her head back against the vinyl booth, and sighed.

“Blue,” Lillian said.

Blue jumped. She didn’t look happy, but she didn’t look like she was going to tell Lillian to go away.

“Can I talk to you?”

“Sure.” There was no ire in her voice, just wariness.

“I’m sorry.”

Blue didn’t say anything.

“I don’t think what you do is cheap.”

“First, I hit you with the Zipper, then Bryant wants you to twerk. You have a brand. I get it. If someone told me to advertise diet pills, I’d tell them to fuck off. You have to commit, or your brand is all over the place.” Blue pushed the box away and pulled her laptop closer. “It’s nice of you to apologize.”

That was it. Blue was dismissing her. Lillian hovered at the end of the table.

“Can I buy you one of those horrible purple drinks?” Lillian blurted. “I’ll get one too, and I’ll drink it, and I’ll pretend that it doesn’t taste like dryer sheets.”

Blue’s brow furrowed. “Crème de violette is the nectar of the gods.”

“I’m not sure you can prove that empirically.”

Please let Blue smile.

Blue pondered for a moment. “Ask them to put a skewer of lychees in it.”

There was that hint of a smile.

The Neptune didn’t seem like the kind of place that would have lychees, but, as it turned out, it did.

“For Blue Lenox,” the bartender said and tucked the skewer in the drink. “For you too?”

“Sure.”

When she returned, Blue motioned for Lillian to sit. Lillian handed her a drink.

“You were amazing onstage,” Lillian said. “My uncle and Kia love burlesque. They’re always trying to get me to go. It’s a beautiful art form. I didn’t mean to disparage it.”

Blue sucked a lychee off her skewer, managing to look sexy and glum at the same time.

“You wouldn’t be the first.”

“I shouldn’t have said what I said. The thing is it’s so hard for a Black dancer not to be sexualized. They can be so talented, but no one notices until they do ballet in stilettos.”

“Not an unattractive picture,” Blue said.

Lillian was about to say, But it’s not who we are.

“But if that’s not who you are…” Blue said. “If Bryant tries that again, I’ll run interference. I’ll tell him my mother died twerking and it’s too triggering.”

Blue looked so somber. Her mother couldn’t really have died twerking?

“She didn’t,” Blue added.

Lillian couldn’t tell if it was amusement or irritation in Blue’s expression.

“I stripped for a while.” Blue set the words out like a challenge. “I’m not ashamed of that.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

“I double majored in computer science and dance. There was no way I could’ve done school if I’d had a regular job.”

“Did you like it?” Lillian asked.

“School or stripping?”

“Either. Both.”

“School, absolutely. Stripping was okay. The places I worked at were safe enough.”

There was so much Lillian didn’t know about Blue. Questions she had no right to ask, questions she never asked women. What was your childhood like? How did you become this mesmerizing blend of persona and realness?

Was Kia right? Was she hooked?

“I bet you’ve always had your shit together,” Blue said.

“Can I tell you something?” Lillian said.

“Of course.” Blue’s voice softened. “What’s up?”

Lillian shouldn’t tell Blue about Reed and Whitmer’s ultimatum, not when her dancers were still in the dark, but suddenly she needed to lay that burden on the table between them. She needed that emotional release the same way she’d needed Blue’s hands on her in her hotel room, and not just because she needed someone, but because Blue made her feel like life didn’t have to be so heavy.

“No.” Lillian stopped herself. “I can’t.” She rubbed her temples. “I don’t have my shit together. I just wear the hell out of a suit.”

“If you want to tell me something in confidence,” Blue said, “I can keep it private.”

“That’s not fair to you. And it wasn’t fair to ask you not to talk about us. That’s your story too. You get to talk about whatever you like. I don’t want to tell you what you can and can’t do.”

“But you don’t?”

“What?”

“You said you can’t talk about it, and you’re worried. It’s hard to have secrets. Trust me. I get it.”

“Truth?” Lillian gripped the stem of her martini glass with both hands, a wave of guilt crashing over her for what she hadn’t told her dancers. “A lot of ballet companies don’t make a big profit. We’re backed by donors who believe in the art. For us, it’s Charles Whitmer and Thomas Reed. They believe in diversifying ballet. But they’ve lost too much money on us, even for patrons of the arts. If we don’t win, they’re dropping their sponsorship. If we lose, we split up.”

“Oh, Lillian.” Blue put her hand over Lillian’s, easing Lillian’s hand off the stem of her glass.

Blue’s touch relaxed a bit of the stress tightening Lillian’s body.

“If there’s footage of my dancers twerking, that’s going to be the first thing companies see when they research them before an audition. One viral video of Elijah twerking could ruin his career. What classical ballet company wants their audiences to see that when they google their favorite dancer? And it’s hard enough for Pascale to convince people she has kids and she’s serious about her career, but a twerking mom? No way. And Imani’s phenomenal. If we can showcase her in another season or two with the Reed-Whitmer Ballet Company, she’ll be able to audition for the best companies in the world, but if we split up, she might end up with a mediocre company or a dance master who doesn’t want her in the spotlight. Everything will be hard for them if we don’t win, but at least if we stay on brand, like you said… if the only thing we put out there is our top performances… I have to protect them. It’s not that I don’t respect what you do. It really isn’t.”

“Those videos would hurt you too.” Blue kept her hand on Lillian’s.

“No. I am so. Incredibly. Good.” She hadn’t meant it to sound bitter. “None of that stuff will touch me. Plus my mother is famous. I’m the best, and she was the best before me. I’m an icon.” Lillian sipped her drink. Dryer sheets went well with privileged bitterness. Crème de violette should use that in its marketing. “I want to lift my dancers up.”

“You really love them.”

“Don’t tell them.”

“Why not? Everyone wants to be loved.”

“It’s not my role in the company.”

“That’s sad,” Blue said, but not in a mean way. “You love them and they don’t know?”

“Maybe I don’t love them enough. I haven’t told them. They think we’re having fun on a TV show. They’re all friends. They love working together. I was going to tell them. Then I was worried it’d throw them off their game, but maybe we’ll lose, and I’ll think, If only I’d have told them. They would’ve worked harder.”

Why was she talking so much?

“That’s a lot to carry.” Blue coaxed Lillian’s other hand off her martini glass, then released Lillian’s hands.

“What if I’m letting them down?”

“You did your best and you love them.”

“But what if my best is wrong?”

“Your love isn’t wrong.”

“Are you always this nice?”

“I think so. I like people. I want them to be happy.”

Are you happy?Lillian almost spoke the words out loud.