The Best Friend Zone

Swiping my hand across a searing tear, I dig the phone into my ear.

“So is that all you called for, or what?” I bite off.

“No. I have a proposition I’d like to discuss with you, Tory. A rather serious one. When are you coming home?”

“I don’t know. What is it?” I ask. “Just tell me.”

“For this, I would greatly prefer to speak in person.”

“Tell me, Jean-Paul, or this call is over.”

I’ve had it up to here with his shit. I’m not going to let him drown me in toxic games any longer.

“Well, without going into specific details…I’d like you to take over the role of Creative Dance Director. I’ll have my hands full with our new arrivals from overseas and their directors, and you did a better job with the new girls than I could’ve managed the past few years, being so busy with the intricacies of business.”

Oh, God.

What? His job?

Oh. My. God.

“It’s physically light work,” he continues. “I know you can help the other girls through their routines without even dancing yourself, and as for morale…if you can work the same magic with our Russian friends, you’ll send us to the stars. Why should the past be any obstacle? Together, we can go places, Tory. Straight to Elysium.”

Damn, damn, damn him.

Dance Director would be too perfect, and something I barely dreamed of landing one day.

I’d be doing everything I loved most about dancing without the grueling exertion.

“I want you, Tory. I want you to be a part of all this, and frankly, if possible…I want us to have a chance to mend.”

Aaand just like that I go from stunned out of my skin to pissed. I can’t believe I’m hearing these words, but I’m too furious to stop him.

“We were good together, and now, we’ll only be better with this extraordinary opportunity. Together, we could put our ballet group on top of the list, worldwide.” He takes a harsh, loud breath. “People will pay millions for performances at that level, gazelle. Do you want to be a royal?”

I don’t want to admit anything.

How much I want to be a part of the success, but not him.

Not the us he mentioned.

That’s long dead, but the ballet…

I feel like he’s stabbing me with choices. Making our group effectively number one globally didn’t even seem possible, but now…how could I turn my back?

How could I walk away?

How could I live with myself?

“Tory? What do you say?” he whispers, his words a fast hell my mind can’t keep up with.

I shake my head, not knowing what to think, what to say, what to do.

“I think…” Taking a deep breath, I say, “I need time to think about this, Jean-Paul.”

“About what?” He goes quiet.

Hell if I know.

“I have several commitments here in North Dakota,” I whisper, grasping at straws.

“What commitments? Watching goats?” he asks sourly.

The revulsion in his tone raises my ire.

“Your mother told me that’s what you’re doing,” he says. “That’s not a commitment of any kind. It’s crude, demeaning work for a smart, capable woman like yourself. Entirely beneath you, working for a drunk.”

Oh, here we go.

“Excuse you? My uncle is not a drunk, and the goats are none of your damn business,” I whip out. “There’s more to it than just watching them. It’s a viable business and—and you know what?—I don’t have to justify jack shit to you, Jean-Paul.”

For a second, we’re both suspended in this stunned silence. I never once talked back to him with so much anger.

“Tory, I don’t want to argue over your small-town pursuits. I just want you home.”

Home.

That word draws a blank.

Do I even have one? Is there a place where I still fit in? Is Chicago completely alien now?

“I can book a flight for you today,” Jean-Paul says, trying to strong-arm me into getting his way.

As usual.

“No.”

I’m not sure why everyone thinks I need them to book my ticket.

I’m not completely helpless. I’ve just let others rule my life for so long, they think I can’t do it myself.

“What do you—”

“I’ll book my own damn flight when I’m good and ready,” I say coldly. “And I’ll call you again when I make a decision about the job.”

“It’s more than a job,” he tells me, as if I don’t already know it. “And you know how fast these things move, Tory. I—”

“Bye, Jean-Paul.” I cut him off and finger-punch the End Call icon.

“Jean-Paul Whats-the-schmuck?” Granny asks, sauntering around the corner. “What kind of job is that gutless fink offering you now?”

I turn around and shove my phone in my pocket as it dings with a text message.

One from Jean-Paul, no doubt.

Somehow, I doubt standing up for myself—something I’ve never done before—makes him any less relentless.

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it, Gran.” My nerves are too frayed to go into all of that with Granny right now, so I change the subject. “What were you trying to cancel on the phone, anyway?”