Chapter 30
Maxime
Aurora enters the dance hall before me. It's only been a week since the miscarriage, yet she insisted that we shouldn't wait any longer. She probably thinks I can't see it, but I'm very much aware that her heart pounds in her throat. Her chest betrays her, rising and falling rapidly, and she presses the nails of her little fingers into her thumbs.
As much as everything in me resists, I shouldn't ignore her panic. On the evening of... of the tragedy, for a moment, I thought it might be better to address our problems to solve them. But when I picked Aurora up from the hospital, I couldn't do it. The mere thought of her possible reaction scared me too much.
This is my next chance. I have to try.
"It's too early to return to training," I say with effort. "Your body is still weakened," I add, hating myself for it.
She's tense; I can see her nervousness, and that's what it's really about. Why can't I just say it like that?
"No, no. We have to dance," she replies now. Her fighting spirit is not new to me, but the stubbornness is.
She marches to the mirrored wall to leave her towel and water bottle. Then she starts bending forward and sideways to stretch.
Now, Maxime. Tell her you know she's scared.
"But we won't overdo it, okay?" Instead, I say, giving her a warning look. "Even though you've been recovering a bit in the past few days and even eating normally again, you're still not fully recovered."
Better. But not enough.
You're not doing well. You haven't left the apartment even once so far, you didn't want to see anyone. Not even your best friend. And now you want to force yourself to dance, even though you're clearly on the verge of a panic attack.
I should say that, but it won't come out of my mouth.
Aurora puts her hands on her hips and tilts her head to the side. "You don't need to mother me; we've been through this already."
I'm not mothering her. I'm just trying to confront our problems instead of running away from them. Maybe I'm doing it wrong? But how do you do it right?
I approach her. "It's okay to ask for help sometimes, you know," I say gently.
"I'm fine." She swallows hard. "Really."
Why is she lying to me when I'm trying so hard to be open? Since her emotional outburst when she came home, I can't shake the feeling that she doesn't want me to see what's really going on inside her.
Should I be even more loving? Even more accommodating? Does she not trust me?
Or is it better to just look ahead and try to leave our pain behind as quickly as possible?
No matter how much we confront the situation, it won't change. So why poke at the wound?
Or?
I study her expression, which acts as a shield. "Are you sure?" I ask.
She pulls her hair up into a ponytail. Her fingers tremble. "Absolutely." Awkwardly, I watch her turn away from me and head toward the music system. "What should we start with?"
She's determined to go through with this. No matter what I try, she won't be swayed.
"How about the mambo?" As Madame Durand made clear, competitions are off-limits for us in the near future. But we can participate in shows and galas, and the mambo is very popular here.
Besides, it's our dance. It has always represented our connection, deep trust, and unwavering love for each other. Today, in my mind, it stands for the hope that both of us can process our loss.
She scratches her forearm so vigorously that it becomes covered in welts within seconds. "Okay."
Should I ask her again if she's truly ready?
