I turn, still half-thrumming with adrenaline, and find her watching me. Blue eyes narrowed, lips parted, posture tilted as she examines. It’s impossible to know if I’ve just impressed her or disgraced the studio in which I stand.
She looks like someone who’s experienced every possible human emotion in rapid succession—joy, grief, rage, and exhaustion all competing for real estate on her face like overcrowded tenants in a studio apartment, each one leaving its mark before the previous one has had time to pack up and leave. I recognize that look she wears. It exudes exhaustion, the type that comes after you’ve demolished something that needed demolishing, but you’re still mourning the rubble.
And yet, amidst it all, she remains gorgeous.
“That jeté…” her voice carries genuine bewilderment. “When did you—how did you figure that out?”
“Just been practicing what you taught me. A lot,” I say.
She shakes her head, approaching with that analytical gaze she gets sometimes. “You’re actually starting to resemble a dancer.”
“Careful with the compliments,” I say. “I might start believing them.”
She rolls her eyes. “Still plenty to work on. Plenty. Don’t you worry.”
“Good. Push me harder. I want every correction you’ve got.”
What follows is sixty minutes of discovering new ways muscles can file complaints. She puts me through combinations that make my brain attempt to divide by zero, footwork that requires cognitive functions I’m not sure I possess. But I push through each challenge because the expression on her face when I nail something supposedly impossible? That’s a drug I haven’t found in any physical therapy protocol.
By the time the session is complete, I’m on the floor, chest heaving, wearing what I suspect is a deranged smile. This is what progress addiction feels like: not the pain itself, but the tiny increments of becoming something you weren’t yesterday.
Petra settles beside me, legs extending in front of her. “You’re really improving.”
Her fingers have started their telltale circular pattern-tracing on the floor, invisible choreography for whatever she’s not saying.
“Seems like something’s on your mind today,” I say because literal dancing is now my thing, but metaphorical dancing around subjects isn’t my style anymore.
She keeps her gaze fixed downward. “Just…processing some stuff.”
“Want to talk about it, or should I just start guessing?”
She sighs. “You’re exhausting, you know that?”
“It’s been mentioned in performance reviews.”
I watch her internal debate play out—trust versus self-protection, the universal human wrestling match. Then she takes one of those signature breaths that indicate she’s ready to show her cards.
“I got an offer.”
“For a role?”
She nods, fingers creating a death grip on her ankle. “Not quite. An offer for a spot as a principal dancer.”
I sit up immediately. “Wait—seriously?”
Another nod, a hint of a smile but shadowed with something that isn’t quite celebration.
“Petra, that’s incredible!” My smile arrives without consultation from my brain. “This is what you’ve been working for. This is so exciting. Congratulations!”
“It’s in Saint Petersburg.”
Ah, there it is. The universe’s punchline: You finally connect withsomeone who makes you want to be better, and geography decides to play the role of heckling disruptor.
But this isn’t about me. This is abouther.
“Your dad lived there at one point, right? Didn’t you mention? And it has the Mariinsky Theatre, and…” I say, trailing off.
“Yes,” she says softly. “I still have family there.”
