I don’t know what he’s doing.
I don’t know how and why he remembers everything from two years ago. And neither do I know why he saved me.
But my wayward, confused thoughts break when I realize that he wasn’t.
Coming near me, I mean.
He was going somewhere else.
He was going to the black stereo off to the side. And when he reaches it, he bends down on his knees and starts fiddling with the buttons.
I finally string some words together as I watch him. “What are you doing?”
“Helping you with your routine.”
“My routine.”
When he’s done with it, he comes back to his feet. “You want to go to Juilliard, don’t you? Well, you’re not going with the way you’re dancing. Because it sucks.”
I’m too shaken up to take offense.
Besides he is right.
It does suck. I can’t, for the life of me, hold that pose. I can do développé à la seconde, which is folding your leg out to the side, but écarté devant is my weakness.
Even so, I don’t need his help.
I don’t need him to give me any more reminders of before. Of when he used to help me, make me better. I already remember those days plenty on my own.
I’m already plenty devastated and broken.
“I don’t need your help.”
“You’re getting it nonetheless.”
“You hate twirling, remember?”
“Maybe I’ve changed. Maybe now I’m ready to embrace my feminine side.”
“You —”
“Unless you’re afraid,” he says, tilting his head to the side.
“Of what?”
“Of me.” His eyes turn hooded. “Touching you.”
I frown as my spine goes up. “Why would I be afraid of that?”
He shrugs, his shoulders that were already massive have now become even more muscled as they move. “I don’t know. You tell me.”
“I’m not afraid of you.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Disgusted, yes. But afraid, no.”
He hums thoughtfully. “Maybe you think that once I put my hands on you, you won’t be able to control yourself.”
“Control myself from what?”
His ruby red lips stretch up in a smirk. “From touching me back.”
