And I certainly wasn’t the first ballet dancer with a visual impairment, but I was the first in a five-hundred-mile radius. I held out hope. Someone had to start the phenomenon in other parts of the world. Why couldn’t we have it here, too? The only major problem was finding a company and a coach to take on the work.
I slowed with the music as the song ended and finished, bringing my arms down, wrists crossed in front of me, and fingers displayed gracefully. At least I hoped they looked graceful.
“Here,” Tara said. “Stay like that.”
Walking over, she ran her chilly fingers over the bend in my wrist.
“Straighten them,” she instructed. “Like this.”
And she took my hands and placed them on hers, which were in my ending pose. I ran my hands lightly over hers, feeling the bends in the joints of her fingers, the tendons on the backs of her hands, and the smooth line down her wrist to her arm, so I could emulate it.
“Thanks,” I told her, breathing hard.
I put my hands on my waist, my light, billowy top falling off one shoulder and baring some skin to the welcome cool air of the old, drafty building.
“Again?” she asked.
“What time is it?”
She paused a moment. “Almost five.”
I nodded. I had a half hour, so may as well soak it up before the money ran out.
I heard her steps as she walked over to restart the music, and I counted my own steps from the sandpaper glued to the floor to the center, finding my starting mark.
“You don’t have to stay,” I told her. “I have the driver. I’ll be fine.”
The Torrances insisted on our own personal drivers, and while we sporadically hired them for certain occasions growing up, we never kept any on the payroll. My sister loved the new perk. The new perk that came with her new name.
But I knew the ulterior motives behind the gesture. A driver reported our comings and goings to the one who paid them, so Gabriel and Damon were aware of our every move.
The driver was my leash.
“You know,” she started as the music began, “they offered to pay…for you to continue classes.”
I stopped. “What do you mean? Who?”
“Gabriel Torrance’s assistant called and said to have your classes billed to him,” she told me. “In case you’d like to get on the schedule again.”
She had guided me and offered feedback sporadically since my father left and I could no longer afford her. Bits here and there when she was on her way in or after a class had ended. Or like tonight when she was on her way out.
But this news of Gabriel’s offer was like a slap in the face. Another reminder that I was destitute and couldn’t have the things I’d been accustomed to.
Because of them.
Because of him. This was Damon’s idea.
No one else cared if I continued my dancing except him. He liked it. I was probably the only person who knew that he loved it, in fact. He’d watched me. I’d danced for him a lot before.
Fuck him.
I got back into position, lifting my chin, and craning my neck. “Can you restart the music?” I asked her, ending our conversation.
After a moment, the music cut off and restarted, and I began again, letting the volume of the song drown out everything else. The world swayed around me, and even though I couldn’t see it, I sensed everything.
The space. The scent of pine needles from last year’s Christmas tree. The cold bricks around me that I knew were there. The barre with chalk crusting the wood and the way the ceiling felt torn away and there were miles of sky above my head. I could reach and feel endless.
I was flying.
The singer’s voice burrowed into my stomach, and I broke away from my classical moves and let my hand fall down my body as I slowed, feeling every inch of my skin come alive. My feet ached in the pointe shoes, but my body was alive.
I closed my eyes, the strands of my hair spilling around me and tickling my face. My stomach flipped as I spun, and a smile twitched at the corners of my lips. God, I loved this. I was free here.
I wanted to see if you’d dance for me.
I slowed in my steps, hearing his voice in my head.
But then I picked up the pace again and slid into a closed position doing several échappés in a row as I moved my arms.
You’ll hate me.
I’ll love you.
We have to stop. Make me stop.
I can’t. I won’t.
And pressure hit down low, between my legs and making my stomach dip. I opened my mouth, filling it with the same, silent cry as that morning he was arrested as I twirled and twirled, tears stinging my eyes and hoping to spin the world so fast I’d lose sight of him in my head.
But then I lost my footing, hitting a piece of furniture as my leg slammed into wood and a sharp pain shot up my shin.
“Shit!” I exclaimed.
“Winter!” Tara called out.
I snapped my eyes open and growled, stumbling as my hand came down on the piano to steady myself.
The bench. The damn piano bench. Did I miss the markers on the floor?
“Whoa, I gotcha,” a male voice suddenly shouted. “I’m coming.”
Ethan? When did he get here?
The music cut off, and I hunched over, squeezing my leg as the shooting pain throbbed harder and harder. I winced, blowing out a long breath as footsteps scurried across the wooden floor.
“You’re bleeding,” he said, steadying me under my arm, while Tara took my hand. “Come here.”
“It’s okay,” I blurted out, shaking my head and pissed at myself. “I haven’t done that in ages. What the hell?”’
Distracted. That’s what I’d been.
“Sit her down,” Tara told Ethan. “I’ll go find the first aid kit.”
I limped, but pulled myself up straight. “It’s in the bathroom. I’ll be fine.”
“But you’re bleeding.”
“And I know how to operate a Band-Aid.” I laughed through the pain. “Go home. Ethan will help me. See you in a couple days.”
I heard a little sigh as she debated on whether or not to make sure I was okay, but she knew this wasn’t new for me. I’d gone through my fair share of Band-Aids.
“Thanks for your help tonight,” I told her, slipping out of Ethan’s hand to grab hold of his arm instead. “Later.”
After a moment, I heard the shuffle of her feet and belongings as she picked up her jacket and bag. “Well, have a good night, then. I’ll text you later, okay?”
I nodded, guiding Ethan toward the direction of her voice to follow her out the door and toward the bathroom. He tried to put an arm around me, but I waved him off.
We pushed through the doors—Tara veering left to the exit and us heading right, toward the stairs.
“How long have you been here?” I asked him as we descended to the lower level.
“Just arrived,” he said. “I had a study group that went late, but I knew this might be the only chance to see you.”
Yeah. With the trouble on the road the other night, who knew if he’d be admitted to the house. And if he were, how would it play out once Damon came home.
Home. I held onto the railing as we took the stairs two flights down, still holding onto Ethan with my other hand. Damon—or his family—owned my home now, and while he’d been clearly sleeping elsewhere all the nights since the wedding, he could still come and go whenever he liked. Without knocking. Without permission. Without an invitation.
He controlled every key in the house. The realization curdled my stomach.
“Are you okay?” Ethan asked. “I mean…not just the leg.”
“Yes, I’m fine.”
I knew what he was worried about, and I was grateful for his concern, but he couldn’t help. And I wasn’t sure I would tell him if there was something to worry about.
“Don’t worry,” I assured.
I may not be able to handle Damon, but Ethan definitely couldn’t.
He led me to the women’s bathroom, knocking and calling out before we entered to make sure it was empty, and I walked in, releasing him and reaching for the wall to the left I knew was there. Coming around the corner, I found the sink counter and hopped up on it, immediately reaching for the paper towel holder.
Ethan reached for it, too, trying to help.
“I got it,” I told him. “Can you grab the first aid kit? It should be inside the box on the wall.”
While he walked over and lifted the lid, I wetted a couple paper towels and dabbed at the skin where it hurt. They said I was bleeding, but I had no idea how much.
I groaned as the cool water stung my cut. It was always the smallest things that hurt the most. Forming a little circle of claws, I dug my nails lightly into the skin surrounding the pain to deflect it a little. A trick my dad taught me when I was about six. The sharp ache eased a little, and I stayed like that for a moment, enjoying the slight reprieve.
“Hey, there’s nothing here,” Ethan called out. “Let me run upstairs and see if the girl at the desk has it.”
I nodded, not sure if he saw. The bathroom door creaked open and closed as he left, and I pulled the paper towels off, folded them, and re-applied them to my leg, leaning back on the mirror and closing my eyes.
What the hell was I going to do? I was twenty-one, no job prospects, and I was scared. I would never be free while he was alive, and there was still so much he could take from me. He was already heavily at work on my peace of mind.
He’d been out of prison for over a year before he made contact, and two years before he set his plan into motion. I’d gotten complacent in my sense of security, thinking he might’ve moved on. I was wrong.
My eyelids grew heavy, and my head started to float as the pain in my leg subsided. I yawned, letting the sleepiness take over. At least when I was tired, I couldn’t worry.
Just as I was about to nod off, propped up against the mirror, I heard the whine of the unoiled hinges on the bathroom door. That was quick.
“Did you get it?” I asked, keeping my eyes closed and breaking into another yawn.