Lead and Follow(52)
“Cool. C’mon, we got a minute or two.” He pulled her into the corridor between the bar and the kitchen. Lizzie flipped her hair, hoping to distract him from whatever he was hinting about. Probably Dima-related.
God, she was tired of being scared all the time. No such luck.
Paul’s smile didn’t stick around. That now-familiar concern shone from his eyes, which were shadowy in the club’s dim lighting. “So, spill it. What’s up with you two?”
“You haven’t been here?”
“Nope. I have a new gig in Westchester, renovating a big, drafty old colonial. A good two month’s work. I was out there this weekend for the interview. Tonight’s my last regular night.”
“Wow.” Lizzie rested her hands on his biceps. She squeezed. Damn, such a rocket and already burning out. Had she really thought it would be any different? After all, shagging him in a dressing room wasn’t the best start to a potential relationship. Nor was sharing him with her dance partner. “I’m…damn, Paul, I’m happy for you. A bit disappointed you won’t be around, but I’m glad you’ll be doing what you love.”
His mouth tightened. “Save it, Lizzie.”
“Huh?”
Leaning closer, he was near enough to share breaths—his calm but heavy, hers truncated. She wasn’t used to seeing Paul upset. “If you’d wanted to see me so bad, you’d have found me. Dima or not. We both knew that wasn’t going to happen, not after what he said at the diner.”
“He didn’t mean it. I know he didn’t. He’s still angry for what I said that morning.”
“No way. He doesn’t seem like the guy to open up like that if he didn’t mean to.”
“You call that opening up? Seriously?”
“You don’t? Jesus, open your eyes. Because, sure, guys make statements like that all the time. As for the do-what-you-love shtick, you don’t get to talk about that stuff when you’re wallowing too.”
“Where do you get off?”
With a sad shake of his head, he touched her shoulder, petting the bare skin revealed by her purple spaghetti strap top. “I’m not angry, Liz. Promise. I just know where I play in all of this, but I don’t think you do.” A customer yelled for his attention, but he waved him off. “It’s time to be honest. You can know a person for years and still not know them. Not even see them.”
“I don’t get it.”
He exhaled heavily. “I told my wife of six years that, on occasion, I fantasize about men. I thought all her anti-gay shit was just Texas talking. That our marriage would hold. Hell, that she loved me more than that. It was only fantasy, anyway. Wasn’t like I was gonna go pick up a rentboy.”
“But she…?” Her heart sank for him as the lines on either side of his mouth tightened. Without his smile, he seemed a little older, a little less like Paul.
“We gave it time in counseling, gave each other space. That was all we could manage. You know what? At the end, it hurt like fuck.” He straightened and grabbed the nearest bottle of Jack, pouring them each a shot. “Yet…I’m here. I’m in love with this town, and I’ve already had a helluva time. If you put too much of yourself in a box, you’ll regret it. I would’ve had I stayed.”
She downed the whiskey, needing another three or four to quell the restless pain in her gut. “What does this have to do with me and Dima?”
“Could you go back to just being friends?”
Hell no.
Mine.
The words were so quick and clear that she grabbed the counter. Fear rushed in behind it, equally powerful. It was easier with Paul there to say the things she and Dima couldn’t say to each other. To carry on without him was a terrifying prospect.
To carry on without Dima at all…
He gave up a Broadway show. He gave up his girlfriend. For Lizzie. What insanity thought that was a fair trade, especially when he hadn’t ever told her? He never talked, but telling her at least a little bit would’ve been enough to keep her holding on forever. Instead she’d spent months reading tea leaves and trying to figure out why he’d chosen to perform at Devant.
He’d done it to stay with her, without changing a damn thing about how they’d lived.
“You have a lot to think about, and I have to work before Declan takes my head off.” Paul stood up straight and crossed his arms. “Now you get to ask where he is.”
Lizzie grimaced. “Where is he?”
“Some dark-haired Russian chick has him holed up in a corner booth by the stage.”
Ice. Pure ice. She fumbled for a second shot, abandoning the bottle when Paul took control. Even an extra dose of JD didn’t melt the fear. What if Dima had given up? He laid himself out there so rarely, no matter how clumsily. He’d done so with gusto at the diner. Now he was cozied up to Svetlana—his bitchy, skeletal back-up plan—in a corner booth.