Then, I’ll make her mine.
16
JOLIE
Iget to class early and warm up. Evelyn, Veronique, and Sara haven’t arrived yet, so I busy myself with reciting the barre combinations in my head. There are about a dozen other dancers in the studio, but most still haven’t introduced themselves to me even though I’ve been here for weeks.
When Mistress Maral arrives and calls class to session, I’m poised and ready for pliés, my chest lifted and fingers wrapped around the wood. I move through each combination comfortably. Now that I’ve memorized the choreography, I can inject some personal flair—my favorite part. The subtle tilt of my chin. The float of my hand. Extending each line to complement the positions we move through. When the throb of pain shoots down my leg, I ignore it and keep going, refusing to let my unhappy hip come out victorious.
I’m in control, I’m going to PT, and I will prove that I deserve to be a soloist again.
Every time we switch sides, my gaze drifts to the window. Disappointment curls in my gut when I find it empty. There’s no sharpened stare from Jax’s wolf, just beams of sunlight pouring through the row of windows.
I rush out as soon as class ends, heading for my lunchtime appointment at Dr. Tanner’s office. My mind leaps to every conclusion I can think of as to why Jax didn’t answer that final question. Maybe he had to be somewhere. It’s supposed to get warmer over the next few days. Maybe he’s gone. The news all but predicted that good ol’ Punxsutawney Phil won’t be seeing his shadow. They claim the unnatural chill of this winter will bring an earlier thaw with spring.
A shiver sends goosebumps down my arms with each brush of the breeze. It’s crazy to wonder each time if it’s Jax, but I can’t help myself. I flit back to my moonlit balcony dance, the sharp bite of wind against my skin. The answers he left on my frosted window.
Gripping the frigid door of my therapist’s office, I tug it a few times until it opens. I have to squeeze through the sliver of space, resisting the gusts blowing outside until I’m able to whip my dance bag into the entryway. A lunchtime appointment is convenient, but the idea of how unsettled I usually feel afterward has my stomach twisting. I still have rehearsal after this.
Just breathe, Jolie.
I bounce my heels while I sit and wait for the receptionist to call me. He bobs to the music crooning through his earbuds.
“Jolie Wilder!” He calls it out like I’m not the only one in the waiting room. I even glance around to double check, finding only myself seated in the chair right in front of the desk.
As I walk past the desk, the catchy rhythm of Katy Perry’s “Never Really Over”spills from his earbuds, and I have to fight the urge to dance toward the office. I’d rather express myself through movement than talk about my feelings any day. Not to knock the years of training and education my therapist has under her belt, but some feelings go beyond anything words can express. Full of joy or shattered into pieces, dancing gives myemotions an outlet. A way to release my anxiety and keep it from building up inside me. It calms the jitters begging to escape.
Unfortunately, it isn’t socially acceptable to dance in public whenever I need to. That’s why I’m here, seated on this dark-beige couch, tapping my toe against the wood floor.
Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap.
Dr. Tanner’s green eyes trace down to my feet and I freeze. Crossing my leg over my opposite knee, I bring my hands to my lap, fingers fiddling as she grabs her clipboard and pen.
“How have things been going since our last session?” she asks, green eyes coming up from her paper to look at me.
“Good. Rehearsals forGiselleare keeping me busy.” I nearly blurt out the words. My nerves ricochet through my body, eyes dart around the room, glancing over each picture hanging in the frames on the wall. Anything to keep my attention off her. “Mistress Maral is still keeping a close watch on me, but I haven’t missed a single PT appointment.”
“How are you feeling about physical therapy?”
“Frustrated,” I sigh. Dropping my leg so my heels are flat against the wooden panels, I take a few deep breaths, refocusing on why I’m here. I don’t want to waste Dr. Tanner’s time or mine. “I don’t enjoy focusing on what my bodycan’tdo. Makes me feel like I’m lacking.”
She arches a brow from under thick tortoise-shell glasses. “Aren’t injuries par for the course in your industry?”
“I mean, yes, but working through one at a new company where only a few people seem to like you is different from working through an injury at a place you’ve been forever.”
“How do you know they don’t like you?”
“Only three of them have bothered to talk to me. Most of the other dancers in the corps seem unsure of me since I came from the Institute and Ballet Potomac is not as established. And anyone who’s a soloist or principal couldn’t care less about myexistence. I know a few of them from being at the same studio or within the same circles growing up, but it doesn’t change anything.”
“How does that make you feel?”
“Invisible.” As soon as the word is out of my mouth, I want to shove it back in. It’s one thing to think it, another to say it out loud. To have a witness to your shame.
If I could crawl into a hole right now, I would.
“I think that’s understandable considering the circumstances,” Dr. Tanner reassures, her voice filled with sincerity.
My chest unclenches. At least I feel like less of an idiot for admitting that. Even if the thought has crossed my mind, speaking it aloud is something I’ve avoided—as if somehow the admission would transform the shitty belief into reality.
