I took a seat on the floor, pointing out that the stereo played songs from numerous genres and times. He watched as the ribbons around my ankles unraveled and my pointe shoes revealed the ugliness of a dancer’s foot. Packaged in beauty, what lied beneath showed the truth—how grueling it could be.
He inhaled a shocked breath and his face turned into a hard mask. “Your feet.” The words were a threat.
I smiled at his chivalry. The pivot in conversation worked too. “Dance. Dance happens to my feet. It’s a normal part of the process. My feet are the tools of my trade. They work hard.”
He stepped forward with cautious intent, as if moving too fast would hurt me even more. He knelt down beside me, taking my foot in his hand. His soft touch over bruised and bloodied skin made me tremble.
“I didn’t realize.”
“Most people don’t. See?” I used his back to lift myself from the floor. He stood with me. Then I stood on my toes (en pointe), one pointe shoe off, one on. “That’s all anyone sees—the end result, not the reality.”
I gasped, taken by surprise when he swept me off my feet. He just as swiftly set me back on the floor. “Take the other one off. Tell me what I have to do around here to close up.”
I directed him, just like he had asked. He refused to let me move despite my protests. He kept eyeing my feet with both fear and intrigue. My feet were not my prettiest feature. That’s what made the irony so thick. The beautiful slipper hid the hard work it took to wear them.
He seemed uncomfortable, a bit unnerved, angry even. He kept questioning me as he cleaned—You’re bleeding. You have bruises. Your toes are taped. Blood is coming through the tape. Are those bandages?
After I continued to assure him that all was normal with my feet, and he was finished closing up, he swept me off my feet, or the floor, once again, refusing to let me walk to his truck.
I threw my head back and laughed, moving my legs despite him telling me not to. “You are insane, youbeastlyman!”
“You’re not allowed to walk. Stop moving your legs.”
I sighed, keeping my head back, looking up at the stars as he carried me. The back of the leotard scooped into a deep U, and the leather jacket pressed against bare skin. “Where are we going then?” I asked. “It better be a place that has zero gravity or your arms are going to get tired.”
“Never. I could carry you forever. Even if your toes didn’t resemble shredded meat.”
My body bobbed with his movements. “That was the tape—” bob “—not my toes,monange.”
The endearment came out softer than intended. His thoughtfulness had gotten to me, turning me into a floating creature, his love my helium.
He stopped walking. His heart picked up speed against my ear. “Angel.”
I lifted my head and caught his stare. “I’myourballerina girl. You’remyangel. Remember? At the cabins, after you served me coffee in bed, I—”
“Not the same.”
“How so?”
“Softer,” he said.
“Oh.” I sighed. He had noticed the subtle difference. This time it had felt more personal, more…intimate.
He bent down, opening his creaking truck door, then set me gently on the old leather seat. The cold seemed to cling to my bottom half, not as covered as the top half, making me shiver. My bare feet against the floor mat felt raw; the hot ache pulsated against the chill.
Brando stood there, staring at me long enough that I started to worry. “Bran—”
“Watch your hands and feet,” he said, almost a pleading note in his voice. He bent over and kissed the tip of my nose before shutting the door.
I scooted over and opened his side. After he had slid in, I sat next to him on the middle seat.
“Where are we going?” I whispered.
“I’m going to take care of you, Scarlett.”
Those were the last words spoken between us until we arrived at Maggie Beautiful’s.
* * *
