“You mean my fist touching your face?”
His smirk only grows as if I didn’t say anything. “From wanting me. From falling for me again.”
“You —”
“I mean, you did before, right? I twirled for you a little and you thought I was your knight in fucking armor.” Then, “Wait,shiningarmor. That’s what you called it, isn’t it? You thought I was your knight in shining armor.” He chuckles then, thick, syrupy condescension dripping from it. “I mean, there are silly teenage girls who fall in love at the drop of a hat and then there’s you. You, who lives in a house made of cupcakes and whose dreams are full of pink glitter. And who thinks that every story is a love story where the prince is going to get down on his knees and offer you forever. And you both will ride off into the sunset. In his Mustang.”
By the time he finishes, I’m flushed.
With anger.
My spine is the straightest that it’s ever been and my chest is the heaviest. It feels like my bones have turned into iron and all I want to do is use them to hurt him.
To hurt him like he’s hurt me.
Like he continues to hurt me.
But I won’t.
I won’t lower myself to his level. I know he’s provoking me and I know he wants me to give in.
And I will.
But in a different way.
In a way that will prove him wrong. That will show him that I will never ever be that stupid again.
“Fine,” I say, fisting and unfisting my hands at my side. “Let’s do it. But only because you taught me that not every story is a love story and you’re the villain everyone said you were.”
He watches me a beat before he throws a curt nod and bends down, hitting play on the stereo.
The sound comes on, the buzzing static before the music fills the air.
This moment has the power to send me back to the past, to Bardstown High, to the auditorium. But I keep myself in the present. I keep myself grounded to Blue Madonna as I walk toward him to begin.
I try to erase my memory.
I try to develop amnesia.
Especially when as he sees me approaching, he widens his stance and dips his chin like he used to do two years ago.
Especially when the violins come in and I have to assume position, my arms straight up in the air and my calves stretched up, my weight supported on my toes.
Especially when I remember that when I danced for him, I felt perfect.
I felt beautiful.
I felt like a flawless ballerina, and when I take my first turn under his scrutiny, that feeling comes rushing back.
The feeling that I’ve been missing.
The feeling that I’m on fire. That the wings on my back can really fly me away and that I’m spinning so fast that my toes have left the ground and I can levitate.
The feeling that I’m really a fairy.
I haven’t had this in two years.
Not since he went away.
