“Danny told me tonight that the dance company thought we’d broken up because you haven’t been out to the theater in a while.”
“You ain’t been keeping them busy enough, they got time to gossip.”
“Maybe. I was surprised they noticed. To be honest, I really hadn’t. I just seem to have in my mind how busy you are all the time, so I hadn’t given it any thought.” He sighed. “You know what else I just noticed? You don’t keep a guitar here anymore.”
Colt found a spot on his neck, working it. “Don’t let them make you sore, cher. You busy. I’m busy. If you just noticed, then it ain’t no thing.”
Colt’s fingers felt so good but completely out of line with what the rest of him was feeling. He shifted away, trying to hold those dark eyes with his. “It’s a thing, Colt. It’s a big thing. I don’t understand the game you’re playing, honestly.”
Colt had just been pulling away, little by little, not telling him things just to see if he’d notice? Subtly removing the things that mattered most, like he didn’t deserve them?
One raven wing dark eyebrow flew up. “I ain’t playing no games with you, cher. Don’t I come when you call, every time? No matter what? Ain’t I here for you, whenever you need?”
He sat back like he’d been stung. Is that all this was anymore? A really hot booty call? “Yeah, Colt. You do. You come every time I call. I can’t remember you ever saying no. I didn’t understand that was all I was to you anymore. You don’t callme. These days, even Timmy knows more about you than I do, for God’s sake.”
The expression on Colt’s face was pure confusion. “Timmy sets up my gigs. You ain’t making no sense, cher. You want I should not come to see you?”
He just stared at Colt, trying to understand what was happening. “What doyouwant?”
“Right now to figure out why you’re pissed at me. Is this about your people asking questions about me? I can’t be the only asshole that has to work another job for a living. It can’t be all that weird.” Colt went to sit next to him, hands in his lap. “Is this ’cause I’m heading to Texas? You told me you was super busy for the weeks up to Christmas, and I can get some work in.”
“I’m not angry. I’m… I don’t know. Confused? Hurt? It’s not about my friends, or Timmy, but if it hadn’t been for talking with them, I wouldn’t have noticed how much distance there is between us these days. And I don’t know what’s worse, really. That you’ve deliberately taken your music, your soul out of my life, or that I’ve been too busy to notice. But we don’t have that connection anymore, and I don’t know what we have, what this is, without it.”
He knew what he didn’t want, though. He didn’t want someone he could snap his fingers at, who was okay with being treated that way. And he didn’t want for Colt to become that person. He meant too much.
“You fired me, cher, not the other way ’round.”
Wait a minute. “Okay, I did fire you. I pulled our number from my show because you were overcommitted, late with the recordings, late to meet me, and totallyamped. I don’t work like that. That was business, Colt. Work. Not our personal lives.” Okay, now he was a little irritated.
“Once. I was late on you once, and you ain’t my boss or my daddy, but you sure took that on, didn’t you? I ain’t worth talking to. You just took it on and told me what was what.” Colt shook his head, looking at him, a deep frown on his face. “Maybe it ain’t personal to you, because you’re used to fucking the cast and they jump when you say. Me, I ain’t cast. You don’ want my music, okay. You don’ think I’m good enough to speak to like I’m over twenty-one and legal, okay. But then you gonna fuss at me for loving on you anyway? Come on, man.”
Whoa. He had to respect the way Colt just stood up for himself, but now he was pissed.
“It’s arguable whether I was your boss at the time, but either way, you walked out of there and sobered right up, didn’t you? I don’t regret that at all. As for not being worth talking to? Timmy told me you were asking him about fucking Christmas presents when I didn’t even know if you planned on coming back from Texas. I wasn’t worth sharing your plans with?”
He stood up and paced away a few steps, needing a little breathing room. “And don’t you ever accuse me of taking advantage of my position and chasing after my company members like a fucking whore. Howdareyou.”
“La. I know me a lot of whores, cher. Good folks, for the most part, selling what’s theirs, just like we do.” Colt snorted. “And like you got to chase anyone. Like you ain’t so fine that anyone don’t want you. Ain’t never been better, and don’t we all know it? Shit, you’re being a lot stupid. We talked on Christmassing together—on a tree and on food. I can’t do that if you here and I’m in Texas on the day.”
“I know we talked about it, but that was before—and I….”
Was he wrong? This wasn’t all him. Maybe he did fuck up, but he still couldn’t put a finger on exactly where, and even if he figured that out, it was pretty damn obvious that Colt was more than capable of speaking up and just… hadn’t. He was more disturbed by why it was so easy to just let all of that go than the fact that they had. Did he want it back? Did Colt?
You didn’t build Christmas on booty calls and not being honest with each other.
He sighed. “I need a shower.”
“Okay.” Colt stood up, stepped toward him, and then he backed up, the motion instinctive, immediate. Colt stopped, then smiled at him, the look bittersweet and knowing. “Your body always tells the truth, jus’ like my guitar don’t know how to lie. Love you, cher. Talk at you later.”
Colt grabbed his backpack from where it was sitting at the bedroom door and headed out of the room, leaving a void there.
He didn’t go after Colt. Instead he just let the air in the room settle, took a deep breath, and got in the shower, thankful at least for the passion he understood. Colt was right about that; his body didn’t lie, and dancing brought him the most joy. Lovers came and went, but there was always his work, and he was going to be busy.
18
Kyle satin the chilly theater, halfway back in the orchestra seats, exhausted and hurting. He had an elbow on the armrest, his chin in his hand, and his left foot out in the aisle, wrapped and elevated, packed in ice, and resting on a folding chair.
The X-rays had shown a stress fracture. It was a common, ordinary dance injury, and one that common, ordinary dancers dealt with all the time. But he wasn’t common or ordinary, and he’d known better. The injury was his own goddamn fault. He hadn’t paid attention to his own advice, to the first rule of performing onstage—keep your head in the fucking game.