“Do you want to, though?”
“Want to what?” she asks, brows drawing in. “To try again?”
“To change the way you see it,” I clarify, leaning back against the wall opposite hers. “If you could see ballet like you say Nadya sees it, would you still love it?”
Anya makes a sad little noise. “I don’t know if it’s possible.”
“I bet it is,” I say, trying to sound encouraging instead of argumentative. “Like when a professional athlete is injured and has to retire early. Sometimes they realize that they like coachingor reporting the sport more than they ever enjoyed playing it. I bet you’d be an incredible ballet teacher.”
Her lips pop open. “Y-you think so?”
“Are you kidding? You’d be great—especially with kids. You’re great with the twins, and children seem to love you. I could see you teaching a class full of little Isobellas. Tiny future prima ballerinas learning from you? They’d be lucky to have you.”
Her face flushes and she shakes her head, her golden-blonde hair swaying as she does. “You’ve never even seen me dance.”
“Would you be mad at me if I told you that that wasn’t true?”
“What?” she whispers, shocked. “How?”
“There are still some clips of you on your old ballet company’s website,” I admit, feeling my neck grow hot. I never thought I would admit to my light internet stalking, but I couldn’t help searching for any glimpse of Anya I could get after first meeting her. I needed to know more. Hell, I still want to know more. “The site was all in Russian so it was really hard to find you, but I did. You’re incredible, you know?”
“I was.” She swallows hard.
“Youare.” Once again, I find myself wishing I could offer physical comfort, but I know she wouldn’t want it, nor would it be comforting. “I don’t think you realize how amazing you are. You may not be ready to return to ballet, or to befriend Jade, or talk to your brothers, but you’ve made so much progress. It’s honestly inspiring, and I’m sorry if that sounds sappy or cringey or whatever, but I’m amazed by you. Not just because of what you’ve survived, but also just because of who you are.”
She blinks and breathes out. “I don’t know if I really know who I am.”
“I do,” I tell her earnestly. “You’re Anya Morozov. Good friend, loving daughter, niece, and cousin. You’re beautiful, andbrave, and you make people want to be around you when you’re not even trying. You’re a fuckingmeraviglia.”
“A what?”
“A marvel, a wonder, a…I can’t think of a better word, but you’re the best, Anya. I feel like the luckiest bastard in the world just to be your friend.”
Her eyes well up, but she seems to quickly smother the emotion. “Even though my uncle wants to hurt you for it?”
“Even if,” I agree, chuckling.
“Even if today is the only day we see each other for months to come?”
“Even if.”
“I want to go see a house with you tomorrow, at least one.”
“You do?” I ask, hope filling my chest. “Really?”
“Yes.” The word is shaky but sure. “And I want to try something else, if you let me.”
Anything.
“Oh?”
“Can you move closer, off the wall?” she asks, teeth sinking into her bottom lip.
Like a well-trained dog, I treat her question like a command and act. Standing in the middle of the small room, my hands rest motionlessly by my sides as she takes a step toward me.
“Can you put your hands behind your back and try to stay as still as possible?”
My hands lock behind the small of my back and I swallow hard, wondering what she’s thinking about. Her eyes look so full of thoughts and contemplation, so big and wide as she steps closer once more.
