“My brother died because no one old enough to do it cared enough to catch him. Because he was alone and scared and couldn’t ask for help.” Bones’s eyes are intense on mine. “You were never alone, Emma. Even when you thought you were. Even when you were trying to be.”
Tears prick my eyes. “I know that now.”
“Good.”
We walk in comfortable silence for a few minutes, and I realize how natural this feels. How right.
And that terrifies me.
Because if this is right—walking through Stoneheart with Bones, teaching kids who just want to have fun, belonging here with the club—then what does that say about the last ten years?
Three weeks ago I was in New York, going through the motions of a life that didn’t fit anymore. Forcing myself into a mold I thought I was supposed to fill. Being disciplined. Controlled. Perfect.
Taming every wild impulse until I was nothing but technique and determination.
But here? I don’t have to tame anything. Don’t have to be anything other than Stone’s daughter, Bones’s girl, Emma who teaches kids and laughs with club families and belongs.
It should feel like giving up.
Instead it feels like coming home.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
“What are you thinking about?” Bones asks, reading my expression.
“Just . . . how happy I am,” I admit. “I’m glad we’re doing this.”
He stops walking, turns me to face him, and kisses me right there on the sidewalk. It’s not desperate or hungry like our kisses usually are. It’s soft. Sweet. Full of promise.
“I love you, swan,” he says against my lips.
“I love you too.”
We break apart, and I can see the community center up ahead. My new normal. My new life.
“I’ll pick you up after?” Bones asks.
“I can get back home on my own.”
“I know. But I want to.”
I smile. “OK. See you at four.”
He kisses me one more time, then heads toward the construction site, and I watch him go for a moment before turning toward the center.
Inside, my class is already gathering—twelve kids ranging from seven to fourteen, all in various states of proper dance attire. I only have time to grab my water bottle and change out of my jeans. I swap them for black leggings and an oversize hoodie, then pull my hair up into a bun and slide into the studio. I find my class already mobbing the mirrors, practicing cartwheels and pirouettes with complete disregard for form or spatial awareness.
“All right, chaos goblins—let’s line up.” I clap my hands. “Barre work first, then we can improv. Yeah, little dude, I see you. No backflips on this floor.”
The kid ignores me as usual, executing a cartoonish jeté that’s more frog leap than ballet, then lands in a Spiderman squat. The rest of them shuffle into some semblance of a row. I take attendance, run them through pliés and tendus, correct arms, point toes, try not to dwell on how much of their energy is just wild—loose and explosive and so opposite to what ballet should be.
“OK,” I say, clapping my hands. “Let’s try a simple combination. Watch me first.”
I demonstrate the sequence—chassé, pas de bourrée, pirouette. Simple stuff, but it requires control and balance. The kids watch intently.
“Your turn. Remember, spot your head on the turn.”
I count them through it once, twice, adjusting arms and correcting feet.
