Chapter 12
Willow
The sun's shining, birds are chirping, and River is bouncing on the spot like a hyperactive puppy on a sugar rush.
“I told you not to eat that many sweets at the cinema,” I scold, tugging at his sleeve as we step up to a massive building. The walls gleam pristine white, sunlight glinting off the large glass windows that stretch from floor to ceiling.
River barely glances at me, too busy bouncing on his. “But I needed them!” he protests, grinning like a maniac.
You wouldn't think he's almost eighteen and a football player. I’m never letting him eat that much sugar and drink that much pop again. Even if it has been fun.
My eyes wander, scanning the facade until I spot the sign, Ariamotion Studios. This must be the dance building Elijah mentioned a while ago. I tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear, taking it all in. Clean, modern, and intimidatingly professional—it's the kind of place that makes me want to both panic and prove myself all at once.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” I twist my fingers together, nerves fluttering just a little.
After a few solid nights of sleep and some real food that wasn't McDonald's, I’m feeling lighter than I have in weeks. So I agreed to spend the day with River, and so far, it's been pretty fun.
He looks down at me, grinning, and throws his arm casually over my shoulders. “No harm in checking. I know a great coffee place around the corner—my treat.”
I nudge him lightly as we start toward the doors. “I hope it's your money and not Elijah's.”
He smirks. “I thought you hated my dad and wanted to spend every penny he has.”
I push past him to open the door, pinching his side as I go. “Maybe I don't hate him as much anymore. Rose, on the other hand…”
I kept my promise to Elijah; I haven't and won't tell River, it's not my place anyway.
He chuckles. “She's complicated.” That's one word for her. “I get it, and I won't lie—she didn't want you at our house, and the arguments she and Dad had because he wanted you with us? World War Three.”
I stop in my tracks. “Wait—what do you mean? I thought it was you who suggested I move in?” That's how he made it sound before.
River stuffs his hands into his pockets, looking down like he's choosing his words carefully. “Dad offered. Not that I didn't want you here with us,” he rushes out.
My stomach twists. Why would he do that? I’m practically nothing to him. Just the other child.
All this time, I thought River had to convince both of them for me to live here—and that Elijah was just being nice, for the sake of it. But it turns out it was all his idea.
I gulp, pressing my fingers to my forehead as everything feels both denser and unnervingly vivid all at once.
“I don't understand,” I murmur, pausing outside the quiet studio.
The room beyond is stunning—sunlight streams through tall windows, bouncing off the polished wooden floors. Ballet bars line the mirrored walls, reflecting everything twice over, and the pale walls are dotted with golden frames showcasing dancers frozen mid-leap, mid-twirl, each one more graceful than the last.Above, soft, swirly light twists across the ceiling, casting a warm glow that makes the whole space feel magical.
I step inside and am immediately transported back. My eyes blur with memory. I can see myself as a little girl, eyes wide, hair pulled into the perfect bun, my first pair of pink ballet shoes pinching my toes, but making me feel unstoppable anyway. I remember the way my dad tried to dance alongside me, his laughter rumbling through the room, his smile growing impossibly wide every time I hit a step just right.
Back then, I was his world, and he was mine.
The ache of living without that—the absence of his pride, his warmth, the way the world seemed simpler when he was there—hits me like a shadow in the bright studio. It's harder than I expected to breathe in a room that should feel like home, but instead reminds me of what I've lost.
“I miss watching you dance,” he says softly.
I look up at him, and the ache in his eyes makes my chest hurt. Without thinking, I reach out and squeeze his hand. “I miss it too,” I whisper. “It's just… hard, you know?”
I drift toward the barres, letting my fingers skim over the smooth wood. It feels like a lifeline, grounding me in the room. He won't ever truly understand this kind of loss, and I’m quietly grateful he doesn't have to.
“I know,” he says, gently, pulling out his phone and tapping the screen a few times. “All you can do is try. If it doesn't feel right today, we can stop. Go to the cafe and eat a ridiculous amount of ice cream.”
“I hate ice cream.” I remind him.
