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“I got in touch with them when I came back from New York, you know that,” I say with annoyance. “And you also know that Clark made it very clear to me that they’re not ready yet and need more time. I respect that.”

“But that was almost four months ago. The situation is totally different now. You have a job, and you’re taking on responsibility, and—”

“That doesn’t change the fact that they don’t want to see me,” I say sharply.

“No, they do want to see you. Really. They would be very happy to see you. I spoke to Brittany, and she said—”

“You did what?” I interrupt her, adrenaline rushing through my system and jacking up my pulse.

“I called her.” There’s an unmistakable sound of defiance in Mom’s voice. “You didn’t try again after the first time, and this is our family we’re talking about, after all.”

I force myself to take a deep breath and count to five so I don’t yell at her. “I’m telling you this for the last time: Stop getting involved. This is none of your business. It’s entirely my decision when to talk to them. Stay out of it!” My voice gets louder with every word, so the counting doesn’t seem to have worked after all. I’m met by a deafening silence.

“Fine, if you don’t want my help, I’ll stay out of it,” she says, offended. She wants to make me feel guilty, but I can’t give in.

“Thanks,” I reply tersely, biting back what I actually want to say right now.

“Have a nice evening, then.” Mom hangs up before I can say another word.

I groan. That went well. For a moment, I’m tempted to call her back and clear things up, but I can’t bring myself to do it. She has to stop meddling in my life.

It’s my life.

It’s my own damn responsibility.

I put my phone back in my pocket and take out my car keys. But somehow I can’t bring myself to get in the car and drive home to an apartment with an empty room in it.

Mom spoke to Brittany and Clark. They want to see me. But do they really want to, or did Mom just successfully make them feel guilty until they finally gave in? Otherwise, they would have gotten in touch with me themselves, right? At least, that’s what Clark promised me a little over three months ago when I finally got up the nerve to call him. He said they’d contact me when they were ready to see me.

So far, they haven’t. But maybe they’ve been waiting for me to contact them again to prove how important this is to me. My stomach is in knots, and my head is spinning. I’m not sure what to think anymore. Damn, why does everything have to be so complicated?

Because my whole life is fucking complicated.

Without thinking about it or making a conscious decision, I turn around and walk back to the school, across the little campus, until I reach the practice building. Apart from me, no one else is here; classes ended a while ago, and by now everyone is probably at dinner. I need to clear my head, and there’s only one thing that will reliably help me stop thinking.

It’s quiet as I climb the stairs to the second floor and enter an empty studio after taking off my shoes. I came here this morning wearing sweatpants because it’s ridiculous to put on jeans just to walk from my apartment to campus, so I save myself the hassle of constantly changing clothes. I take my ballet slippers out of my gym bag and connect my phone to the stereo, then start loosening up my shoulders.

The warm-up exercises are comforting and familiar, even though I haven’t really danced in months. It seemed so unnecessary after I decided to give up my dream of being on stage.

I can go to the gym or jog as much as I want, but it’s not the same. It’s a different kind of tiredness that hits you later, when you start the cooldown with trembling legs, drenched in sweat. It’s less euphoric, less satisfying. Less of everything, really. You don’t need passion for the equipment at the gym, and you certainly don’t need a dream. The same goes for jogging. I’m not trying to win a damn marathon.

No, I want to stop thinking, and there’s nothing better for that than dancing.

I take a deep breath and continue with my warm-up before finally taking the first real step. As I dance, I finally feel my body properly again. The pulling and working of my muscles, the pounding of my heart, my lungs expanding with every breath. My body knows what to do, and my mind goes silent. Mom’s reproaches, Brittany and Clark’s rejection, the fear that’s always in the background. The memories of Isabel.

I spin again and again, so fast that the world around me blurs. But I keep my balance, concentrating on the tension in my legs.

They want to see you.

Mom’s voice gets louder again, and even dancing isn’t enough to block it out anymore.

I called them.

I try to ignore her, switching from spins to jumps until my T-shirt is soaked with sweat and my heart is beating so fast that I can feel it in every cell of my body.

After all, this is about our family.

I want her out of my head; this isn’t about her. It’s only about me and what I’ve done.