Jonah bends in half, laughing his little ass off. “Jameson. She full-named you, Murphy.”
I flick the back of his head as we walk outside where more snow has started to fall, wondering why the girls want to meet Ashton so badly and why exactly I feel the need to protect her?
She’s not mine.
But she was for one night, and fuck if that doesn’t mess with my head.
Ashton
Iset the baby monitor on the floor in the corner of the basement gym and hit play on my favorite Lilah Ryan playlist before I sit and stretch my legs.
Whenever I need to think, I dance. I’ve been doing it for a lifetime. It’s the only thing that’s ever helped me work through my emotions, and those bitches are running wild at the moment.
Text from my roommate saying she boxed my stuff up and sent it to me—check.
Another text with the UPS receipt and QR code for her Venmo account—check, check.
A final text, asking if I had the money for rent until they found my replacement—damn. Don’t I just feel loved and missed already?
And that was all before I got another attempted collect call from the Philadelphia Women’s Correctional Facility which I declined.
But the final nail in the shit-tastic day’s coffin was the one from Dad.
Dad
Hey, hon. Circling back to that thing with your mom. Making sure I don’t need to handle anything on my end.
Sincefuck youis never an appropriate answer to your father, I left him on read, blessedly got Kyrie down after her bath, grabbed the monitor, and decided to check out Jamie’s gym. I was hoping for a treadmill or maybe a rowing machine. I wasn’t prepared for the state-of-the-art gym this man has hiding in his basement, or the way half the room is lined in mirrors and floors with a beautiful give to them. I’m not sure why I’m surprised, but it’s the best surprise I could have stumbled on.
I need this.
Once my muscles are loose and warm, I get lost in the music, the beautiful acoustic sounds of Audrey St. Clair and the way it mixes with the static of Kyrie’s monitor, and just... dance.
One song gives way to the next, and I lose track of time.
Of everything but the moment inside this room.
I find my center.
I find my spot.
The one that keeps the world from spinning out of control as I’m whipping out pirouettes.
It’s that crack in the wall... in that perfect facade. That spot in every studio... on every stage... in every basement I’ve ever danced in. The one that helps me find balance in the madness. In the chaos.
My constant.
With each revolution, the spot stays the same, and I keep my balance.
I keep from spinning out. From falling on my face.
I keep the chaos from winning.
But there’s always that one moment.
That tiny fraction of a split-second where I have to let go. Where I lose the visual and have to trust that I’ll find it again as my head whips around.
When I have to have faith and just trust.
