"I have no idea what you guys have been through," I say quietly, "but I know how much it sucks to realize you can't count on the people you should be able to count on. I'm so sorry your mom is that person for you, Harlan. No one deserves that."
I wouldn't have survived without my parents. They've always been my biggest supporters, the two people I could count on no matter what. It kills me that Harlan and Hattie lost their dad, only for their mother to spend all these years being an evil bitch.
"You're right," he says, scrubbing his hand over his face before he pins me with a look. "No one deserves what you've gone through, either, baby."
"I'm fine." I mean, it sucks, but when you want to dance, you learn to deal with it. And it's not like I'm the only one. Even ballerinas half my size deal with similar shit. There is a whole world of thin dancers out there with eating disorders and PTSD, simply because existing in the dance world is fucking hard.
"Doesn't change the fact that you've dealt with a lot of shit you don't deserve," he says, and then pauses when the waitress reappears with our food under silver domes.
She sets it in front of us—steak, asparagus, and loaded potatoes—and then vanishes again.
"Your dance partner is a fucking asshole who doesn't deserve the honor of dancing at your side," he says as soon as she's gone. "I'd love to introduce my fist to his face."
"He is a dick," I mutter. "But it's not like he's the only one who has something snarky or shitty to say about me. Half the dancers in our company don't think I deserve to be there."
"Why do you stay?" Harlan asks, cutting into his steak.
"No one else wanted me. I auditioned for damn near every major ballet company in the United States, and they all turned me down." I roll my eyes. "I didn't fit the image, and God forbid a ballerina doesn't look the part." To them, I'll never be anything but a threat to a tradition so old it's basically holy at this point.
"That was what? Six years ago? It's a different world now," Harlan murmurs. "I don't know if you've noticed or not, but you helped change it. You don't have to dance where you're miserable, not when you're the one who opened doors for dancers who break the mold."
"Maybe, but I've caused a lot of problems in the last six years, Harlan. Like a lot," I remind him, chewing on a piece of steak. "Slapping Greg on stage was just the latest incident in a long line of me refusing to shut up and take it like a good little ballerina should."
"You should have hit him harder," he grunts.
I grin. I kind of love that he's a savage who hates Greg as much as I do. It feeds my petty little soul.
Part of me wonders if he's right, though. Is there a place for me out there where it doesn't feel so damn heavy every single day? I don't know.
"Enough about ballet," I say, shoving the wistful thought to the back of my mind. "Tell me something about you that no one knows."
"You mean other than my fantasy football league secret?" he says, his lips twitching.
I laugh at the reminder. "How is Tye looking this season?"
"Deplorable," he says cheerfully. "He's mad as hell that he's tanking our whole league again because of me."
I grin around a bite of potato. "You're evil."
"You fucking love it."
He isn't wrong about that. I've spent months falling for this man and his wicked sense of humor. What the hell am I going to do about it?
"I've got a good one for you," he murmurs while I'm still trying to figure out an answer. His lips curve into a deadly smirk. "But you aren't allowed to slap me for it."
"Oh, jeez." I eye him sideways. "What did you do?"
"I've spent the last four months jerking my cock raw to clips of you dancing," he says, his eyes locked on mine. "I was mad as hell when you blocked me, ballerina. Not just because it meant you weren't talking to me anymore, but because it meant I didn't get to watch you dance." He groans softly, his eyes dark. "You're so fucking beautiful when you dance."
"Harlan," I gasp, shocked and shaking. "You didn't."
"I did. Every goddamn day, Sophie."
I don't know what to say. Maybe I should be offended or mortified. But…I'm not. Not even a little bit.
"You mad?" he asks.
"No," I whisper, licking my lips. My heart pounds like a damn drum. "M-maybe I've gotten myself off to your social media a few times, too."
