SEEING that my studio is now a thirty-minute drive from my new home, I don’t spend as much time within its mirror-covered walls. But when I finish early at ballet, I steal a few hours to dance in my own space and at my own pace.
Just for the love of it.
Mafioso.
I shake my head as if to physically prevent that word from settling for too long in one place. After having successfully drowned that thought with fatigue all day, I don’t intend on stopping now.
Slinging my backpack to the floor, I begin to remove my shirt and shorts until I’m left in my leotard. Carter sits on a stool beside my little kitchen, looking strangely comfortable when any other man might feel awkward. He makes the spot he’s sitting in his place. It’s true confidence. A wonderful quality.
Mafioso. Was the missing boy confident? Wonderfully so?
‘I’m glad you came inside today,’ I say to Carter, ignoring the slight spike in my pulse.
‘I’m grateful to be here, Miss Slater,’ he states.
Maybe I’ll dance something specifically for him. Maybe something with mystery and darkness and an epic battle scene. I put my ballet compilation on shuffle and move over to the barre to warm up. Aram Khachaturian sounds through the speakers, filling my heart with that freedom I feel when I dance. It pulls at me. Each note plucks at the threads that hold me together, unravelling me and revealing my soul. Much like my love for Max Butcher does. He bares me down and I think – I hope – I bare him down too.
The music suddenly consumes me. Smiling as a tear falls down my cheek, I place my hand gently on the barre and begin my exercises. Even though I am already warmed up and pretty exhausted, it is a routine I can’t break.
After a thirty-minute barre session, I move into the centre of the room.
‘Would you like me to dance something for you?’
‘I would, yes. What would you suggest?’
Pondering on that, I peer around my studio for inspiration. My eyes land on an image of the Black Swan. That choreography would be suitable to a life lived hard.
It is haunting.
Much like the voice of that elderly Italian lady.
Mafioso.
My throat thickens with discomfort, causing me to force a swallow.
Force my mind back to the present. To ballet.
Hanging across the length of one wall are photos from my thirteen years of dancing. Cast photos. Accolades. Newspaper articles. In one of the black frames is the newspaper clip celebrating the first time I was cast as Clara – the youngest Clara in the history of my academy. Beside it is a new wooden frame. Curious, I wander over and stop before it. My dad must have had it framed and hung like he always does. More tears slide from my eyes. For some reason, my stomach sinks.
There I am, foot up on the barre, smiling widely. The article heading is: Golden Girl Cassidy Slater Our Sugar Plum Fairy. That feels like a lifetime ago. . .
‘Miss Slater, are you okay? Have you eaten enough?’
I wipe my moist eyes and nose with my wrist. ‘Yes.’ I pull myself away from the frame. Walking back into the centre of the room, I’m determined to dance my little heart out. My emotions out. Mafioso out. ‘I’m just hormonal. I’m not sad. I’ve been so lucky.’
‘It’s not luck. It’s hard work. You’re a very special young lady,’ he says with a smile.
All the tears inside me suddenly erupt even though I’m shaking my head in defiance against them. They make no sense. And I don’t have time for them. Covering my face with my palms, I sob into them for no reason at all. Carter is in front of me now, wrapping his arms around my head and shoulders. Feeling as though I am being comforted by my dad, I lower my hands and lean into him without reservation.
‘I don’t know why I’m crying,’ I admit. ‘This is so embarrassing.’
‘You’re pregnant and you have been dancing since 8:00 a.m. Go easy on yourself.’
Breathing in strength, I break our embrace. ‘I’m sorry. I’m a silly girl.’
He tilts my chin with his finger. ‘You listen to me. There is nothing silly about crying.’
Collecting myself, I take a deep breath. ‘I love my life. I love Max. I love our blob.’
He nods. ‘I know you do.’
‘I’m not unhappy.’
‘You have already said that.’
My eyes bounce around my studio. ‘It just all happened so fast.’
‘Life does that sometimes. Would you change anything if you could?’
The late nights alone in bed.
The bloodied shirts.
Bruises that can’t be explained.
Mafioso.
But then I think about dark-brown hair, conflicted grey-blue eyes, and big warm hands. I think about the way my heart flutters when he’s nearby. When I can feel him tracking me around a room. I think about how vulnerable he can be when he allows himself to seek comfort in my arms. Sighing, I admit, ‘If changing something meant not having Max, then no.’
His smile widens. ‘That’s good to hear.’
I crane my neck to stare straight at Carter, feeling such comfort even though he’s practically a stranger. And I see past his scars. They don’t shock me anymore. I stare at them, waves upon waves of craters and valleys. ‘Tell me something about yourself. We spend nearly every second together and I know nothing about you.’
‘My story isn’t a happy one,’ he states, clasping his hands in front of him.
‘How did you get your scars?’ I whisper, the question just tumbling out.
He smiles at me, but it doesn’t meet his eyes. ‘In a fire.’
That makes sense; his face does look like it’s melted. ‘What happened?’
When his lips form a thin line, I wish I never asked. Shaking my head, I start to say, ‘Forget I asked’, but then he begins to talk. . .
‘When I was your age, I was a smoke parachuter. Many years ago, before you were even born, there was a huge fire in the District. It cut through half the city. When I made the drop, I miscalculated it and went down into the inferno.’
I gasp. ‘Oh my God. . .’ Filled with instant pride, I smile at him in awe. ‘You’re a real-life hero. . . I always thought-‘ I clear my throat. ‘Sorry, I presumed it had something to do with, ya know, working for Max.’
He moves over to the kitchen, sitting back down on the stool. ‘Most of the people in the neighbourhood lost something or someone over those months. As a community, we were on fire. And it was arson that started it.’
I can’t believe I didn’t know about this. ‘Did they catch him?’
‘They did.’ He nods once. ‘He got ten years but was out on parole after four.’
My ears burn. ‘Four!’
‘Yes,’ he confirms calmly, but his eyes lose a bit of vibrancy. A strange kind of detachment moves over him. And while this whole time he’s been fixed on me, now Carter is suddenly missing from inside his own gaze.
I swallow hard and take a step towards him. ‘How many people died?’
‘One hundred and thirty’
I exhale loudly. ‘God. . .’ Words clog up my throat, making both breathing and speaking hard. I have to force the question out, choking on the fact that I shouldn’t ask but doing it anyway. ‘Anyone you knew?’
For a split second he gazes past me. ‘My wife and son.’
My heart aches.
No.
Smiling at me sadly, Carter appears to be back inside his eyes. Beneath his burnt skin. That strong resilient muscle. ‘Don’t cry for me, Miss Slater. It was a long time ago.’
It doesn’t matter how long ago it was; I cry for him. Covering my face, I let more tears fall through the gaps between my fingers. Tears for my friend and the family he lost while protecting others.
After spending every day with him for weeks, I wish he would resign. Wish he would stop protecting people and find love again. Wish he would – could – move on. It is like he’s stalling; caught in a gear he can’t get out of. Unable to let go of the past. He’s so locked in his need to protect and serve. . . Oh my God. . . He helped raise little Xander. My heart crumbles all over again as realisation takes hold of me. A surrogate son, I imagine. A little man he could watch over, watch grow. . .
I fight back more tears.
‘Carter.’ I lower my hands and look at him through pooling irises and wet lashes. ‘Thank you for looking out for me.’
His smile widens. ‘There is no greater honour.’
Feeling Carter’s story deep in my bones, in my marrow, in my heart, I decide to offer him an alternative story. It is the ending that I want for him. For Max and me. For the boys.
The fairy-tale.
It isn’t mysterious. Or dark. Carter doesn’t need to see my interpretation of his pain or fury – he’s lived it. So instead, my dance is full of hope for his future – for all of ours – for love, contentment, peace, and placemats.
It is full of upbeat swooping movements that culminate in a happy ending.
The dance we all deserve.
