When I texted Kyle earlier today, I didn’t expect him to answer. Well, that’s a lie—I knew he would reply because he’s a ray of sunshine, but I didn’t expect him to accept my invitation. In a way, I wasn’t ready.
And maybe that’s why I now find myself with fidgeting fingers resting on my lap as Kyle and I stare at the pizza box that got here five minutes ago. I still haven’t said a word, and neither has he.
Not awkward at all.
Silence consumes my apartment until, finally, I gather the little dignity I have left and say what I’ve been meaning to tell him for weeks now. “I’m really sorry, Kyle. I didn’t mean to go MIA.”
Then Kyle does something I did not see coming. Not in a million years.
He smiles.
Just a tiny one, but it’s there.
“It’s okay,” he says, one hand reaching for the pizza box and opening the lid. The delicious smell of cheese and pepperoni blinds all my senses and gives me that small dose of serotonin I’ve been lacking. Or maybe it’s his forgiveness. “How’s recovery going?”
“My recovery?”
“Yeah.” He takes a big bite of pizza and speaks with his mouth full. “Are you seeing any progress yet?”
Why isn’t he calling me out for ignoring him for the past few weeks? Why isn’t he telling me I’m a horrible friend and he never wants to see me again? That’s what I’d deserve.
“It’s going well.” My words are laced with skepticism. Surely he’ll go off in just a moment. It’s coming. “How’s…work?”
I hate myself for not being able to say The Norcastle Ballet out loud, but I almost had a mental breakdown earlier from just looking at the building, so there’s that. Kyle, however, scans my eyes like he knows the truth I’m hiding behind them.
“Maddie,” he starts, and I already know I’m not going to like how this ends. I blow out a breath as I dump the pizza slice I’ve just grabbed back in the box. I don’t have an appetite anymore. “I understand how you’re feeling. I promise I do.”
We’re doing this.
“We shared that dream, and then you got injured and lost the chance to prove yourself. I’m so sorry it happened, Maddie. I’m so incredibly sorry you’re going through this, but…”
“But I’ve been a shit friend,” I deadpan. There’s no heat in my voice, not even frustration at this point.
I’m the worst—plain and simple. The notion that I hurt my friend, one of my best friends, because I was selfish enough to let my injury blind me is something I will never forgive myself for.
“No, you haven’t,” he says firmly, but I don’t believe him. And because he must see that in my eyes, he adds, “I knew you’d come around eventually, and I knew you’d realize this wasn’t the way to act, and that’s all that matters. I’m not mad at you, and I don’t think you’re a terrible person, Maddie. Not at all. I just think you were hurt in more ways than one and didn’t know how to handle it well. Everyone deserves a second chance.”
“I’m so sorry” is all I can say, even though words could never be enough for the pain I must have caused him.
He shakes his head and takes another bite, as if me ignoring him for weeks wasn’t that big of a deal. “People go through things. I get it. Just promise me next time you’ll talk to me instead of going MIA.”
“I promise.” And I mean it. He’s giving me a second chance, and I’m going to make it count, even if I don’t think I deserve it. “It wasn’t about you, Kyle. I promise it wasn’t. I’m so proud of you. You’re a star, and I can’t wait to see you shine on that stage.”
He smiles at that, genuine and warm. “Thank you, Mads. You’ll get your chance to do the same sooner than you think. You’ll be back onstage before the year ends, I’m sure of it.”
I shrug, not really feeling like raining on his parade. We both know if you miss an audition for TNB, that’s it. You’re out.
I’m never going to be his dance partner again, but I’ll be cheering him on from the audience. That’s for sure.
He drops all conversations about ballet and my injury after that, and it’s not until he starts talking about a disastrous blind date he went on over the weekend, that I realize something. Something major, and probably something I should’ve worked out a long time ago.
I’m tired of feeling sorry for myself. Of being a downer, of telling myself my future is over just because I missed an audition.
If Kyle hadn’t been such a compassionate angel, I would’ve lost one of my closest friends because I got blinded by my own darkness. I didn’t even try to fight back the intrusive thoughts, and that’s what kills me inside. Because I’m not a quitter. I’m not one to run away when things get tough. Sammy and Grace raised me to shine, yet I’m dimming my own light.
Kyle is right—I’m not handling the aftermath of my injury well. At all. I’m not doing myself or my loved ones any favors by making this cloud over my head even heavier. Because, when it finally pours down on me, I’ll drown.
Sure, my current situation is far from ideal, and I’m allowed to mourn a future that isn’t in the cards for me anymore, but I still have options.
When I recover in four weeks, I can go back to dancing. Maybe I’ll get into a master’s program and find a new path. And if not, I can always turn to teaching jobs like Grace suggested.
My life isn’t over, damn it. I refuse to wither away when I’m only twenty-one, and I still have so much about the world and about myself to discover.
I don’t want to be pitied; I just want my heart to be calm. And the first step to achieve that is to come to terms with the fact that my present doesn’t look like I envisioned it, but it doesn’t mean it has to be terrible.
I refuse to keep living in the past.
✽✽✽
“Again,” his deep voice says. A commanding rumble I’m so used to by now. “Good. Again.”
I let out a shaky, tired breath as I follow his commands. Turns out Dr. Simmons, my ankle, and resistance bands aren’t a good combination. Who knew?
It doesn’t matter that I’ve been focusing on this particular exercise for ten minutes, on the way my toes bend when I move my foot backward again and again. Today, for some reason, I can’t keep my mind pinned in place. And so it drifts.
Not only is it returning to my missed audition—the traitor—but now it also makes sure I don’t forget about the whole I’m-pretty-sure-someone’s-watching-me moment at the park. For my own sake though, I pretend it’s all in my head. I think I’ve watched too many crime shows.
But hey, it can’t rain every day. Because after much begging and assuring Monica that Dr. Grouchy had given me the thumbs-up—he hasn’t—I finally convinced her to let me take a few shifts at the bar.
I can’t wait tables for obvious reasons, but she liked the idea of me washing the dishes while sitting on a stool well enough to allow me to do it three times a week. It isn’t much, but it’s far better than sitting at home.
“That’s it. Once more.”
I’m momentarily distracted by the warmth of his touch dripping into my skin as he guides my ankle the way he wants to. He isn’t looking at me, doesn’t seem to share this weird ache in my chest that expands every time his skin grazes mine, and it’s easy to get consumed by the voices in my head again.
I thought getting my job back at Monica’s would help get my life back on track, but so far it has done nothing but remind me of how stuck I am.
I try to stay positive; I really do. But it’s difficult to keep going when the pressure of doing something with my life weighs down on my shoulders every single day, during every waking moment—I don’t have a plan, and it’s driving me a little crazy.
Nope. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. We don’t do that anymore.
“Again,” Dr. Simmons instructs.
He must notice my head isn’t into it today, because I swear he growls under his breath right before the warm weight of his hand settles between my shoulders. His gentle touch is a contrast to his mean scowl. “Keep your back straight.”
The shiver that has just traveled down my spine has nothing to do with the sound of that deep baritone caressing my ear. Absolutely nothing.
I tell myself his hand doesn’t linger on my back for a bit longer than necessary, that I’m just imagining things because I’m delusional.
When he takes a step back, watching my ankle from a safe distance again, my head goes back to its favorite pastime—overthinking.
Sure, I can’t exactly move normally, but my head is still on my shoulders, working at its full capacity. I could come up with a step-by-step plan.
Maybe my immediate future doesn’t include The Norcastle Ballet, but it can include…something else.
“Well done. That should be all for today.”
Dr. Simmons’s voice brings me back to reality. We’ve been doing some exercises with the resistance band for the past hour, and although I hated them at the start of the week, by now I’m humbled.
For the first time in who-knows-how-long, I can actually feel my foot gaining strength. I shouldn’t be surprised that he can do his job so well, but damn, he’s an actual magician.
The smallest ember of hope reignites in my chest.
I follow him to his desk, barely relying on my crutches at this point. I’m still a bit on the fence about letting my foot touch the ground just in case I mess it up, but I’ve been slowly regaining that confidence by walking back and forth in my studio.
When he sits on his chair and a sudden frown mars his strong and—fine—handsome features, a weird feeling sits in the pit of my stomach. Only, this time, it has nothing to do with my small, not-crush on him.
This isn’t like his usual pissed-off-for-no-reason frown. This is a you-won’t-like-what-I’m-about-to-say kind of scowl, and it makes my skin crawl.
“Tomorrow at nine?” I ask, as if we hadn’t been meeting at the exact same time for the past three weeks. Not-so-deep down, I know this is a poor attempt at distracting him from whatever made him frown so he won’t tell me.
It doesn’t work.
“Take a seat, Miss Stevens. Please.”
Ah, shit. Swallowing, I don’t sit down but lean on the treatment table instead. “Is everything okay?” I’m almost too afraid to ask.
He sets those big hands on the desk, his fingers laced together, and starts, “As you know, we’re halfway through your recovery process and everything looks normal. However.”
I’m not ready. I’m truly not.
He makes a thoughtful face I don’t like one bit before he continues. “You mentioned you had plans to join a professional ballet company in the near future.”
It’s not a question, but I still give him an answer. “Yes.” I did. Before it all went to hell, I did.
He makes another weird face I don’t like, and bile rises in my throat. It’s barely noticeable, but the way he turns his mouth to the side just slightly is very obvious to me.
For better or for worse, he isn’t one to beat around the bush.
“That level of skill might be too aggressive for an ankle that has just recovered from an injury like yours.”
He’s not saying what I think he’s saying.
He isn’t.
“From a medical standpoint, it would be wiser to avoid such high-risk activities for at least a year. Preferably longer.”
The small ember of hope whooshes out of my chest.
Dies.
Gone.
Just like that.
He’s not… He’s not saying…
“What are you saying?” I manage to ask through the thick fog clouding my brain. I must have misunderstood. Surely.
“You should be able to return to ballet progressively.” He eyes me carefully, as if he’s afraid I’m about to start bawling my eyes out. He isn’t all that wrong. “In your case, that progress will take twelve months or, as I said, a little longer. You can start with easy, nonaggressive routines next week, and we’ll see how your ankle reacts to that.”
One breath in. One breath out. I can do this. I can have a civilized conversation about my health like any adult would.
I won’t start crying in front of him, damn it. My crying sessions are restricted to my shower so I can let it all out in ten minutes and be done with it for the rest of the day.
“Just to be clear,” I start, licking my lips that now feel like sandpaper. I need water. I need air. I need the last month of my life to disappear from existence. “I can’t dance for a year?”
His cold gaze moves to my lips for a whole millisecond before his eyes land on mine again. “No, that’s not what I said. You can return to your activities progressively, starting next week. But you won’t be able to perform at the same capacity you did—let’s say, when you graduated—for at least a year. Just to be safe, I would advise eighteen months, and then we’ll see.”
And then we’ll see.
I’m about to pass out. Or throw up. Possibly both.
I’m not sure how I manage to do it because I can barely feel my body anymore, but I ask him, “Can I have some water?”
A minute later, there’s a sealed bottle in my hands, and I gulp down half of it in seconds. Dr. Simmons still hasn’t said a word, and his eyes haven’t moved from my face.
Once I put the cap back on and set the water bottle on the treatment table, I stare at him. And he stares at me.
“Miss Stevens, I unders—”
“What am I going to do now?” I blurt out, catching both of us off guard.
I don’t miss the way his frown deepens, but there’s something else in his eyes now. Something I don’t like. Something that looks a lot like pity.
“I’m sorry. I… I don’t know why I just asked you that.”
I grab my bottle and my tote bag, heat climbing up my cheeks. I can’t believe I just said that to him.
I wouldn’t call myself a super private person, but I’m not one to vent to strangers either. Or practically strangers, I suppose.
“Miss Stevens.”
Our eyes meet, but I’m already on my feet with no plans to sit back down. “I’m sorry. I understand, ah, everything you said. Eighteen months. I won’t put any unnecessary pressure on my ankle. Thank you. I’ll see you tomorrow, Dr. Simmons.”
“Our session isn’t—”
“I’m sorry, but I really need to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Later, when I get my free pass to cry in the shower, I’ll think about how I’m going to face him in our next session. Right now, though, I need to get out of here if I want to keep bringing oxygen to my lungs.
I won’t be able to dance professionally for eighteen months. Maybe never again, if he thinks my ankle could be compromised.
The cold morning air caresses my face as I exit the clinic, and I wait for the pain to hit me. The frustration, the anxiety, the guilt. But nothing comes.
My chest is a void, and I feel…
Nothing.
