"It’s not you I doubt; it’s me."
She blinks.
"It’s not your words I’m unsure of; it’s my thoughts."
She swallows.
I take a step forward and the scent of jasmine clouds my senses. The band around my chest tightens. I raise my hand toward her and her breathing grows harsher.
"It’s not your persistence that I question; it’s my ability to stay true to myself that I have reservations about."
I make the sign of the cross, then walk past her. I head for the exit, when she calls out, "Edward."
The sound of my name from her lips sends my pulse racing. I fist my fingers at my sides, then pause.
Footsteps thud, she draws abreast, then plants herself in my path.
"You believe in a higher power, don’t you? So, do I. I believe there’s a reason we are drawn to each other. And while I can’t claim to understand why, I am willing to be patient to find out. Meanwhile, I really do want us to be friends." She holds out her hand, "Please, Edward."
I glance down at her hand, then at her face.
"We can never be friends."
Brushing past her, I walk out.
6
Ava
I stare at my reflection in the mirror of the dressing room allocated to me. My first gig. My FIRST gig. Whoa. It’s for a destination wedding Isla is organizing. The entire theme is a mix of exotica drawing on different influences from the East. They’d wanted a performance to kick off the evening’s festivities, which is where I come in. Isla had asked me and I’d jumped at the opportunity. Finally, I am moving forward in the direction of my dreams.
I take in the beaded appliqué work of my blouse, the tiny mirrors sewn into it reflecting the light from the bulbs that frame the mirror. My hips are encased in a pair of shorts, attached to long panels of light, gossamer fabric that falls to my ankles. Intricate overlays of sequins catch the light and shimmer. I stare at my reflection and can’t stop the smile that traces my lips.
I’d only been twelve when I’d attended a musical and watched the women shaking their hips. With the colored scarfs that they’d wrapped around their hips, their hair open and rippling down their backs, their laughter and happy faces as they’d flung their heads back, shaken their arms and legs, and moved to a rhythm I’d sensed but not heard—I’d felt a primitive calling to be one of them. To be as free, to not think, to be able to live in the moment as I allow the music to take over, to let my body flow with the beats.
My mother had loved everything to do with the East. Even though she had been dead set against my career as a dancer, it was she who'd influenced my eclectic taste in music. I reach for my purse on the dressing table, pull out the picture I keep in its protective sleeve. It's of the four of us—Mum, Dad, me and Raisa. I touch my finger to Mum's smiling face. She looked so young, so happy there. I love this picture, taken on one of the many summer vacations we'd spent exploring the countryside, wearing my favorite red dress, a gift from Mum. It's the only picture I took with me when I left home. I had been angry and grieving at Mum's death, the loss too much to bear.
Had even wondered if the disappointment in my career choice had brought on the cancer. But my sister had banished the notion. It was Raisa who had encouraged me to follow my dream when my parents had been so against my dropping out of med school. She'd told me that if my heart lay in dancing, then I should follow it. If I didn’t try, I’d never know what was right for me.
I’d taken her advice, and never regretted it. If only I could bring some of that courage to bear on the upcoming solo performance. My first solo performance. Gah!
There’s a knock on the door and Isla pops her head into the room, "Five minutes, babe."
I nod as she closes the door behind her, then slide the picture back inside my handbag. This is it. I can do this. I have to do this. If I have any hope of competing in the World Belly Dancing Championships that will be held in a few months, then I have to start with conquering my fear of live performances, which begins with this one. Of course, I do have to actually sign up for the competition, which I will do... Just as soon as I get my courage together.
I rise to my feet, walk out toward the stage that’s been erected in one corner of the ballroom of the Dorchester Hotel. It’s the most exclusive hotel in town, also owned by Saint, one of the Seven.
The sound of guests talking and cutlery clinking against plates reaches me as I step on the stage. I walk to the center of the platform, take my stance. Wait… Wait…as the noise ebbs…flows…begins to die down. A hush creeps through the audience and I still don’t move. I keep my sight focused on a distant point at the back of the room. Silence descends, yet I still wait. A beat, then another. The first strains of the music I’d chosen for this piece drift through the air. Where Have You Beenby Rihanna.
The notes swirl around me, sink into my blood as I sway my hips, twitch the muscles of my stomach, raise my arms in the air, and allow the notes to guide me. I close my eyes, let myself sink into the rhythm, swirl my hips, move my feet, glide my arms down to my hips, lower still, curve my spine and raise my arms above me, then straighten to twirl around and around. I dance to the beats until I am sweating and limber.
My joints loose, my skin warm from the exertion, sweat beads my forehead and trickles down my back. Finally, I leap through the air, land on my feet, roll, and sink to one knee, head bowed.
The music fades away.
In the silence that follows, my heart beat drums in my ears, blood pumps at my wrists, behind my eyes. My heart thunders in my chest—clap-clap-clap—the sound of the audience’s applause echoes the rhythm.
"Bravo."
