My gut twists. “You’re saying she might not be able to dance again?”
“I’m saying she’s done significant damage that may not be fully repairable. At minimum, she’s looking at six months of recovery. More likely a year.” Dr. Hines’s expression softens. “I’m sorry. I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear.”
“Does she know?”
“I told her. She’s . . . processing.”
“Can I see her?”
“Room 3. Down the hall, second door on the left.”
I find Emma sitting on an exam table, still in her dance clothes, staring at her swollen ankle like it’s personally betrayed her. Which, I guess, it has.
“Swan.”
She looks up, and the sight of tears on her face makes my chest ache.
“They’re going to cut me open,” she says, voice small. “Multiple times, maybe. And even then, they can’t promise I’ll dance again.”
I cross the room and pull her into my arms, careful of her ankle. She buries her face in my chest and I feel her shoulders shake.
“I’m so sorry,” I murmur into her hair. “I’m so fucking sorry.”
“I should have said something sooner. I should have—” Her voice breaks. “I knew something was wrong. I just thought if I kept going, was careful of it, then it’d get better on its own.”
“Hey.” I pull back enough to cup her face. “This isn’t your fault.”
“Yes it is. I did this to myself.”
“No. You were doing what you’ve been trained to do since you were a kid—push through the pain, keep performing, don’t show weakness.” I wipe her tears with my thumbs. “That’s not your fault. That’s what they taught you.”
She closes her eyes, fresh tears spilling over. “What am I supposed to do now? I was happy to come home, stop performing. But dance is all I am. And if I can’t dance anymore, then what am I?”
The question breaks my heart because I know exactly how she feels. When Stone stripped my rank, I felt the same way. Like I’d lost my identity, my purpose, everything that made me who I was.
“You’re Emma,” I say firmly. “Dancer or not, professional or not, you’re still you. And you’re still the most incredible person I know.”
She shakes her head like she doesn’t believe me, and I get it. I remember losing my rank. Feeling like without that patch on my cut, I was nobody.
But here’s what I learned: You’re not what you do. You’re who you are when everything else is stripped away.
And Emma without ballet? She’s still the woman who fake-fell down my stairs. Who always called me first with news—good or bad. Who fights for what she wants even when she’s terrified.
Ballet didn’t make her fearless. She brought that wildnesstoballet. And she’ll bring it to whatever comes next.
“That’s easy for you to say.”
“It’s true.” I kiss her forehead. “You are a force to be reckoned with, and no ankle injury is going to stop you. We’ll beat the odds.”
There’s a knock on the door and Stone walks in.
Emma tenses slightly beside me—old instinct, expecting a fight.
“Emma.” Stone’s face is tight with concern. “Lee called me. What happened?”
“My ankle gave out,” Emma says, swiping at her eyes. “I need surgery.”
Stone’s expression shifts through several emotions. “Surgery? For a sprain?”
