Just for a moment, I allow myself to look at Riley again,reallylook at her.
Her body is lean and toned. That’s no surprise after years of discipline and dancing. Her arms are slender and graceful, her legs toned and elegant, honed by ballet. Her posture is flawless, her spine perfectly straight. She’s petite but not fragile, feminine and soft. Just looking at her sends my heart racing so fast, I worry it’ll beat right out of my chest.
As if she feels my gaze, she diverts her attention to me. Her blue eyes remind me of the field of forget-me-nots I once marveled over while we were on tour in Europe, enchanting and inviting.
Warmth spreads through me as she takes me in. Something is happening, and I don’t understand what.
It’s just Riley, I tell myself.
But it’s not just Riley, my inner voice argues.
Her full lips part, and her eyebrows pinch together. She’s probably confused by my scrutiny, and I don’t blame her. What I’m doing right now will send me to hell, no doubt about it.
Riley is not simply beautiful. She’s absolutely divine.
I shake my head, trying to wake up from the trance her beauty has put me in.Fuck. I can’t allow this state to linger. The image of her needs to be fucking bleached from my mind.
I blink, willing all the thoughts I’ve had of her tonight to flee. Then, I mentally put up a wall between us. It’s a line I’ll never cross in real life, which means I can’t let it happen in my thoughts either.
I can’t betray Piper’s trust. Not again.
2
i am cursed
RILEY
Now
Leaning against the wall,I whisper, “One, two, three. One, two, three.”
Some of my five-year-old students are putting their all into following the counts to “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” fromThe Nutcracker. Others are fully immersed in their own world. As they chassé across the floor in pairs, tiny arms flailing, heads held high, I swear, they think they’re dancing at the Lincoln Center.
When Amari tries a piqué turn and nearly crashes into the mirror, I fight back a giggle. When Rina and Elma do grand jetés that are mostly enthusiastic leaps of faith, affection floods me. Honestly, it’s pure glittery chaos with this bunch, but that’s what makes it perfect.
The last notes fade, and I clap. These little ladies deserve praise for all their hard work. It’s fascinating to watch them as they learn to pirouette, plié, and passé, probably because it brings back childhood memories and memories of watching Story dance.
A mental note to myself: I need to call my niece. It’s been ages since we actually talked.
A little body launches itself at me, and the movement tears me outof my thoughts. Sofia, a little blonde-haired devil, wraps her tiny arms around my legs.
With a pat on her back, I scan the class. “You were incredible. I’m so proud of every one of you.” I brush Sofia’s curls from her face with my fingertips, and with a big smile, she releases me. “That’s it for today, sugarplums. Shoes off, stickers up front, and don’t forget to thank your parents!”
The group breaks into a collective squeal, and then they stampede toward the sticker bin.
I can’t help but laugh. This right here is why I became a teacher. Sometimes, I miss being on stage, sure, but the satisfaction and fulfillment I get doing this outweigh that sadness. I may not perform anymore, but that doesn’t mean I don’t dance. I’m only twenty-four. When I dance these days, it’s without the weight of expectations or jealousy.
“No wonder it’s so loud in here,” Nastya says from the doorway. Kids usually call her Miss Ana or Anastasia, but when we met shortly after she moved to the US from Belarus, I asked her what name she prefers, and I’ve stuck with it. It’s the one her parents and friends use.
She’s dressed in black leggings and a loose tee, her red hair in soft waves over her shoulders.
“I’m being attacked by glitter and giggles.”
“Aww, death by cuteness. Could be worse.” She gives me a quick hug and plants a kiss on my cheek. Then, she settles beside me, her back pressed to the wall and her arms crossed. “So?”
I arch a brow, pretending I don’t know what she wants.
“I need the details. Spill. Finance Guy. Third-date guy. Whatever we’re calling him now.”
