Once more, I shake my head. “He knows something is off. Assumes I’m just like every other dancer that suffers from anorexia or bulimia or drugs to maintain my size and status, so he keeps an eye on me at meals. Reminds me to eat. Shoves a burger or taco at me if he thinks I’m having some sort of food episode, unaware of the real problem.”
“Why haven’t you told him?”
My shoulders bounce on their own accord. “Shame?”
Silence begins stretching between us sending his stare away from mine.
Of course, he said he wouldn’t judge.
That was before he had the information.
The truth.
And people are always quick to think they can accept something unbecoming until they actually hear it.
Steady churning in my stomach combines with the steam filling the space increasing my inability to breathe.
Speak.
“I suffer from panic attacks,” J.T. quietly confesses, gaze drifting back to mine. “But it’s not from the stress or strain of the job.” Hesitation reveals itself pushing me to be the one to squeeze his fingers in unspoken support. “My mom died of Huntington’s Disease and because she had it there was a fifty, fifty shot that I did. I got genetic testing done – more than once to be sure – anddon’ttechnically carry the mutation, but my mind does.”
It’s my turn for befuddlement to bloom in my expression.
“I wastherefor the whole thing. I was there when the involuntary jerking started and clumsiness began. I was there when her mood would lead her to throwing dishes against the wall and me wearing the wrong color socks or shirt for the day – anything that wasn’t blue – would send her into a spell of depression that would leave her in bed for days. I was there when the hallucinations began. I was there when her speech started to slur and she struggled to swallow.” Strain in his voice mimics that in his figure. “Those things…aren’t things you ever forget. And sometimes…when I trip over my own two feet or swallow something wrong, panic kicks in. Fear that the tests were wrong, that Idohave HD, that I’m showing early signs that people are ignoring, thatI’mignoring, cause me to hyperventilate. Feel like I can’t breathe. Like I’ll never be able to breathe again.” His lips briefly press together as if contemplating to continue. “Sometimes I have to clear a room or ditch a conference call or find the nearest unoccupied space just so no one sees me falling apart.”
“Your best friends don’t know?”
“No.” The corner of his lip twitches upward. “They know something is off, though. Likely assume it’s just typical high stress job bullshit.”
“Why haven’t you told them?”
“Shame.”
Our shared answer successfully sinks my shoulders.
“I don’t want them to see me like that. I don’t want them to think I don’t have all my shit together. I’m theliteralface of a multibillion-dollar company, a company that was once run by the family that helped take care of my mom, that helped take care ofmewhen she died, that Icannotandwill notlet down. I have to live up to the legacy of the man who built it. One of the only men in my life who stuck around and gave a shit about me.I have to be the best of the best at all times. I can’t ever be less than…less than…”
“Perfect?” I understandingly interject.
“Yeah.”
“As an elite dancer and cheerleader and celebrity and twin to one of the most beloved and well-known NBA players currently out there, let’s just say I fucking get it. Irealllllyyyyyget it.” His mouth opts out of smiling again, an action that spurs me to whisper out, “You can always be imperfect with me, J.T.”
Feathery kisses to my knuckles precede him sweetly cooing back, “And you can always be imperfect with me, Janae.”
Chapter 7
Janae
“You will never wear this shit again,” Jer chuckles from the couch cushion beside me, fingers fumbling to glue on the rhinestone piece in his wobbly grip.
“Imma wear it every summer.”
“You won’t.”
“Imma wear it to your first home game of the season.”
“You wouldn’t.”
