“Because I'm not sure if you’re going to say it back.”
It would be easier if she started to hate me. All the love in the world won’t make this distance between us easier. It won’t give me more time to talk with her. It won’t give me the freedom to watch her performances, or the freedom for her to come visit me when I’m on the verge of breaking. Life doesn’t pause just because we’re hurting. No matter how miserable I feel, the sun will always rise the next day. Work will still be waiting, jobs will still pile up. It doesn’t matter if I’m fighting for the will to live, because the world doesn’t have time to stop.
“I’ll always say it back. Loving you has never been the hard part, Mags. I promised you that, and it still holds true.”
She sighs softly. “I know. I just wish it didn’t hurt this bad sometimes.”
“To be with me, or to be apart from me?”
Her lingering pause tells me all I need to know. So, when she whispers, “Both,” it’s like my soul has been crushed from the inside out. I run a hand over my head, letting it fall to the back of my neck.
“I’m sorry, Mags, I do love you. I’m going to let you go, alright? Love you, bye.”
CHAPTER 27
Magnolia
Ipoint my toes toward my face, then attempt to point them toward the wall, away from me. The movement causes shooting pain along the outside of my left foot, and I hiss, my hand darting out to rub against the swollen area. “Shoot, shoot,shoot,” I grumble, my gut telling me this is more than just the average strain or sprain.
There’s a knock on the exam room door, and I sit up straight, forcing a theatrical smile on my face as the door swings open.
“Magnolia?” A handsome doctor enters. He’s tall with a kind smile. He reaches his hand out to shake mine, and when my eyes flick up to his, his smile broadens, and I feel a slight flush of my cheeks.
Averting my gaze, I reach my hand out to shake his. “Yes, hi. I’m Magnolia.”
“I’m Dr. Armstrong,” he says, releasing his hold on me. I must have a confused look on my face because he chuckles, pulling out the swivel chair in front of the computer to sit down. “Yes, I’m American as well, if that’s your question.”
I drop my gaze to my hands, twisting them together in my lap. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me. I’ve been here for a fewyears now and it still excites me to meet another American. Feels like reuniting with a friend, you know?”
Dr. Armstrong doesn’t respond, and when I finally look back at him, his gaze has softened, a coy smile on his face. “I feel the same, believe me. I’m excited to be doing my residency here in Paris, and I plan to stay here long after it’s finished, but I’ll always be a Florida boy at heart.”
“Florida is gorgeous. I don’t blame you.”
“Are you from that area?” He spins to type something on the keyboard, the computer screen unlocking, and an x-ray of what I presume is of my foot pops up on the screen.
“Nope, I’m a lucky Midwest gal. Born and raised in Iowa. Lived in the States until I moved to Paris to join the ballet a little over two years ago.” I lean forward, trying to decipher the x-ray myself, but it looks like a bunch of gray and white sticks to me.
Dr. Armstrong takes a pen from his coat pocket, tapping the soft end to what I think is the outside of my foot. “Well, it’s as I suspected. A stress fracture to your fifth metatarsal, right where it meets the base of your foot.”
I release an audible groan, falling back on the firm plastic table and tossing my arm across my face. “Great.” I can feel the tears brimming my eyes, my bottom lip quivering, but I refuse to break down and cry in front of this stranger.
When I gather my composure, I glance over at Dr. Armstrong. I’m surprised to find him sitting patiently, waiting for me.
“Sorry,” I whisper. “That was dramatic.” I force a small laugh. “It’s just been … things have been rough lately.” My foot was aching all through rehearsal yesterday. I ignored it, telling myself I needed to stretch more, or that maybe my shoes were dead. I told myself it was because of the tension I’m carrying in my body from the minimal amount of sleep that’s likely because of the lack of contact with Lukas.
It’s been over a month since we last spoke. I’ve missed one call from him in that time. And I’ve sent two letters, both which went unanswered, but who knows if he’s even received them yet. I keep telling myself to listen to my therapist, to know that I just need to wait. To have hope. So, I threw myself into my work, and apparently, that means pushing my body past its breaking point. My adrenaline was through the roof last night, the performance feeling monumental. It wasn’t until that post-performance high faded that I noticed the swelling wasn’t normal.
Thankfully, the company has a full staff of doctors available for the dancers. Dr. Armstrong’s office had a last-minute cancellation this morning, which left an open spot for me.
“Listen,” he says, voice softer. “It’s a fracture, yes, but not a severe one. You’ll have to wear a walking boot—” I gasp at that, and he playfully holds his hands up in surrender. “It’s all temporary. We’ll start with six to eight weeks, see how you feel. We’ll take another x-ray at that time and see what it looks like. The fracture is near the base…” He takes a pen from his pocket and uses the tip to point to the x-ray on the screen, showing me the faint line across the base of my toe.
“The better news is that a lot of your healing depends on how well you can rest. Take care of yourself; don’t put any weight on it. When your foot is ready, we’ll wean you out of the boot, then get you to slowly start movement again and set up with therapy.”
He stands, wheeling the chair back near the computer. “I know this isn’t what any professional athlete wants to hear, especially not one of your caliber.”
Professional athlete. His sentiment causes an ache in my chest.What’s the hardest decision you have to make in a day? Whether to twirl right or left?
Fuck Lukas for undermining me like that. For looking down on the career I’ve been working toward since I was three yearsold. For getting so deep under my skin that his words continue to eat at me months later.
