“To the bathroom.”
“Not long,” he muttered.
I still had to wiggle out of his hold, but he released me. Instead of going straight there, I pressed the button to close the privacy curtain, which gave the room a nighttime feel. He could hide, take shelter in the darkness. I had seen all I needed to.
Much more, I felt it on another level.
Sleep wasn’t the cure all, but it was a start. And the room was cool, a fresh breath of air circulating. He’d be comfortable.
Padding to the bathroom, I did all the usual things. I attempted to brush my hair. It was longer than usual, and my waves ensnared the teeth of the hairbrush. Giving up, I stuck it in another loose bun, baby pieces falling around my face.
That wouldn’t do. Shaking my head, I redid my hair, tighter this time. A proper bun.
“You know what you’re going to do,” I murmured to my reflection.
Blood from Brando’s chest had made dark lines against the paleness of my skin. Though a bit of sun had touched me over the last couple of days, giving me a nice glow. It contrasted with the circles underneath my eyes. All my bones were on prominent display. The ordeal with Nemours had stolen my appetite.
“Stole so damn much.” I looked away from myself, not wanting to see anymore.
I cursed the day my eyes ever saw that…that thief for the first time.
The thought made me feel stubborn, and chucking my chin up, I crept into the closet, as quiet as a mouse. It would have been easy enough to blame habit for making me pack what I had. Leftover dance clothes from my parents’ house that I hadn’t seen in years but still fit. Even down to the pointes. But truth was all I allowed myself, and the truth was that I had packed my old dance clothes on purpose.
A reminder.
Like a photo of the deceased, something to remember them by. Even the smell brought back memories.
I dallied by the door for a moment to make sure he slept. But if I continued to dally, I’d lose the inspiration and crawl back into bed.
Never one to cower, I pushed myself toward an empty room on the other side of the expansive house. A room that had no furniture, and newly installed glass walls that reflected without a speck of dirt. My mother had made this a habit of hers. No matter where the property, she made sure it had a dance room. Especially since Mia had picked up where I left off, she’d never quit. My mother’s flame for an extinguished dream of hers only grew hotter and hotter.
Moving to the opposite side of the room, I selected a song and pressed play. It didn’t matter what it was, as long as it was slow.
At first.
How many times had I done this? Prepared to move my body in ways that came as natural as eating, drinking, or even sleeping. Breathing. And in that moment?
The empty space inside of me left me with nothing, and I didn’t know my body anymore.
I moved one way, it seemed to move another.
The transformation used to start in an instant. It was instinctual and visceral. Then, I couldn’t even lose myself, give myself over to the part of me that would take over. Take the torch from me and light up the darkness.
The struggle would leave me breathless, desperately wishing for one more second, dreading one more second.
“God!” I cried out, all the frustration and rage screeching out in a voice that sounded like it belonged to a beast, not a ballerina.
Sweat soaked through my clothes, and I could feel each muscle, each bone, as though each one weighed a ton. My body seemed to revolt against me, making me…heavy, weighed down. Gravity my worst enemy. Where it had once been my most treasured confidant.
Still, I pushed on, through the blood, sweat, and tears. Through the clunky awfulness that my movements had become. I was mired down, not able to pull my hands or feet out of the bog. But determination and stubbornness rushed through my veins, something Maja had told me was a family trait. Like the color of eyes or freckles.
Where I once could lose myself to the world, have it fade away while the artist took over, in that moment, I heard every grunt from my mouth, every hard step the pointes made on the wooden floor, and even the subtle cries that escaped my mouth periodically.
My husband was there too. Watching. Had been there since the music started playing. Just one step behind. He had known that I had slipped out of the room. He had been awake with his eyes closed the entire time I padded around our room—alert, waiting for me to drift here, the water at my back pushing me in this direction.
In the great scheme of things, wasn’t that true for everyone? We all had water at our back, making us drift to different shores in an attempt to bring us home.
The mirror caught his reflection. Shirtless, the cut from last night congealed but his skin still stained, sweatpants hanging on his hips, and barefoot, he stood with his arms crossed, eyes narrowed. His jaw ticked, his veins swollen above the skin, and even though it wasn’t apparent, I knew his hands were clenched into tight fists.
