It’s my audition for Juilliard.
It’s what got me my dream before it was taken away from me.
My toes extend and my arms move effortlessly through the air. I push through the pain and each position is delicate as it leads me into the next. The rhythm takes over and I leap across the floor. Extending my toe, I fan out my leg and fall to the floor dramatically before getting back up. The tempo of the song changes and I push myself, arching my back into an arabesque. It’s near the end, so I lift up as I set up for the fouette spin. I’m rusty and my ankle wobbles as I try to balance myself. But I fight through the pain and let the rhythm of the music guide me across the floor. With one final spin, I imagine myself being lifted into the air. I hold my breath and let my body float off the ground effortlessly, even if only in my mind.
It was how Ethan and I practiced it that entire summer. We had spent countless afternoons under the massive tree in my back yard doing the routine until it was perfect. It was how I envisioned the piece. Ballet was my life and when I was down, he was there to lift me up. He was my foundation. The one who built me up when my mother tried to tear me down. It was only right that the routine end with a lift. It was how I imagined it. Through every hour of torturous practice, the blood, sweat, and tears, I would rise up like the lotus flower.
I gasp and open my eyes when I feel myself being lifted from the ground. His hands are at my waist, extending me over his head. I lose my balance and screech with fear. Slowly, Ethan lowers me back to the floor. My body brushes against his and I take a few steps back.
Stunned.
Breathless.
Consumed by his presence.
He’s here. Standing before me as if nothing ever happened. As if eight years never passed. As though the last time I spoke to him, I wasn’t begging him to come to me.
We don’t say anything to each other as the song comes to an end and the studio is silent. My heart races in my chest and I can’t seem to catch my breath. His presence is unbearable, and for a moment I think I’m imagining it.
It’s a mirage. He’s not really here. It’s the fumes from the wax.
“Hey, Freckles.” His voice is more masculine than I remember. The way my nickname slips off his tongue causes me to bite back a sob. The man before me looks nothing like the boy I left behind.
“Ethan,” I manage even though every fiber in my body is telling me to run away.
His gaze scans my body and I take a moment to do the same. He is older, more handsome, stronger, and the scruff growing on his cheeks makes him look delectable. Every single emotion crashes through me.
Hatred.
Love.
Pain.
Longing.
Repulsion.
Desperation.
I want to run into his arms. I want him to kiss away the pain like he always did. But I stop myself. The pain radiating up my leg keeps me grounded to the floor.
“I heard about your dad. How is he?” He tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans and shifts his weight from one leg to the other. My eyes are fixated on his arms when I catch a glimpse of a tattoo peeking out from under his sleeve, but I can’t see what it is.
“He’s fine.” I clear my throat and hope my voice sounds less shaken than I feel. “How’s yours?” I cock an eyebrow at him.
“Still breathing.”
I huff. “How unfortunate.”
“You’re still dancing?” A small grin curls up on his face and for a split second he again looks like that boy who made me fall madly in love with him.
“No.” I shake my head. “Not since . . .” My words fail me and I lift my ankle to crack it. I inhale and push the thoughts out of my mind. “How did you know I was here?”
“It’s a small town, Leslie. People talk. And when they see you, they tell me.”
“My mother said you left.”
“I keep to myself. I moved across town and I don’t go to that house anymore. Not to mention your mother rarely leaves the house anymore.”
My eyes trail down his body and I notice his shirt. It’s from a business his father once owned. The anger rises, heating my blood.
He’d become his father’s son.
“You’re picking up your daddy’s slack, I see.” I shake my head in disgust. Anger erupts through my body and I can’t hold back anymore. “You’re working in his shady business! What the hell happened to you?” I grind my teeth and try to keep my voice calm but fail. “You hated everything he stood for. You hated how he ran this town. You wanted to leave this godawful place, and yet here you are as his fucking replica?”
“Leslie—” He takes a step forward and I step back.
“Don’t touch me!” I can’t stop the tears that pool in my eyes. “You’re just like him, aren’t you? Did you earn your spot by killing an innocent person? Sorry I missed your initiation.” I begin to tremble so I walk to where my phone is plugged into the sound system.
“I’m nothing like him,” he claims.
My feet fail me. I’m paralyzed. Rooted to the spot. “Oh yeah?” I don’t look back at him. “Tell me you don’t own this town.” I wait a few seconds before looking back at him.
“It’s not what you think.” His eyes are hooded.
“Really?” I cross my arms over my chest. “You know what I think? I think you’re a coward. Growing up, all you wanted was to leave this fucking horrible town. And yet here you are running shit like your father once did.”
“I didn’t have a choice.” His voice rises. “After that night in the garage-”
“Get out!” I scream. The pain in my ankle is unbearable. “Get. Out. Now.”
“Let me explain.”
“Explain? You want to fucking explain? Too little, too late, buddy. I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to be anywhere near you.”
“I’m sorry . . . for everything.” he says softly before turning around and walking out the door. I wait until I hear the revving of his car before I break down and cry.
I arrive home from the studio drained. My muscles ache with a familiar pain they haven’t felt in years. I find my mother in the living room sitting in my father's recliner.
“Hi,” I say, surprised to see her. “You’re home already? I thought I was going to pick you up after his dinner? How was he today?” My father was transferred to the rehab center on the other side of the hospital a few days ago once the new insurance kicked in. My mother usually spends her entire day with him.
She looks over at me and I realize she has been crying. Her eyes are puffy and the tip of her nose is red. “Mom, what is it?” I crouch down and grab her hand.
“It's just painful to watch, Leslie.” She sniffles back. “Your father isn’t the man he once was. And I know he's on the road to recovery, but to see him like this . . . It breaks my heart. I couldn't wait for you to come and get me. I needed to leave.”
I rub my hands over hers to soothe away her pain. “He's going to get better, Mom. The doctors are very hopeful that he can make a full recovery.”
“I hope you're right.” She slides a tissue under her eyes and wipes away the tears.
I give her a small smile. My eyes scan her face. I can see that her cheeks are sunken in and I can’t remember the last time I saw her eat. “I'm gonna make us some dinner.” I stand and let go of her hand. “If we’re going to help Dad, we need to be healthy ourselves, and that means we need to eat.”
“I'm not hungry,” she mutters.
“Mom, we need to nourish our bodies. You can't live off coffee.” I walk out of the living room and toward the kitchen.
“You seem to be living off tequila just fine.”
I look back at her and can't help but laugh. She's right, I have consumed copious amounts of it since I arrived. “Fine, no more coffee for you, and no more tequila for me.” She nods her head in agreement.
In the kitchen, I cut up vegetables and defrost some chicken. Tossing it into a pot, I add some chicken stock, and just like that we have chicken soup.
My mother is sitting at the kitchen table when I bring her a bowl. Without saying a word we consume our dinner. It's the first time in what feels like a lifetime that my mother and I have shared a meal. It seems odd yet comforting.
“That was delicious.” My mother wipes the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “I don't remember teaching you to cook.”
I feel the corners of my mouth curl up in a grin. “I worked for a catering company through my last year of college. I can make phenomenal whipped cream, but I don't think you’d approve of the fat and calories.”
She laughs. “No, you're right. I would not approve, but the soup was splendid.” The puffiness around her eyes has vanished and some color has returned to her cheeks. “I'm going to head up.” She stands, taking her empty bowl with her. As she passes me, her hand lands on my shoulder and she grips it firmly. It’s only for a split second but I know it means so much more. It’s an olive branch to a potential relationship between us.
10
PRESENT
My mother approved the changes I made, and the dance studio is ready for re-opening. She has been so preoccupied waiting on my father hand and foot that she didn't even question what genre of dance I would be teaching. Prior to my accident our dance studio primarily taught ballet, but it has been closed for years and there have been many changes in professional dancing. I want to bring that change and revamp the studio. I want to make it my own.
We’re in the car on our way to the hospital, when my mother spots the flyers in the back seat of the car. “What are those?” she asks.
“I want to hang up a few flyers around town.” I shrug. “I figured parents would see the ads I have running in the local paper, but if the little girls see it, they might ask their moms to sign them up for dance.”
“I guess that fancy education your father paid for is paying off after all.”
“Can't you just say ‘I'm proud of you’ or ‘Smart thinking’?” I grip the steering wheel firmly as I stop at a red light. “Do you always have to make a backhanded comment?” I glance over at her.
Her lips purse together and she pulls her gaze away from mine and focuses out the window. A few miles pass before she opens her mouth to speak again. “You haven't stopped by to see your father.”
“I haven't had time, Mother,” I lie. I want to stay far away from that place, and she should know why better than anyone.
“He's going to know that you haven't been visiting him.”
“I’ve been busy with the studio. Once that is up and running again, I will go visit him. I think Dad understands that.” I have my own reasons for not wanting to go into that place that holds painful memories. I lived there for an entire summer as doctors told me I would never dance again, as my mother was too unstable to have me home, as Ethan never came to visit.
After dropping my mother off, I make my way back to the center of town. I’m on a mission to get these flyers hung up. I stop by the school and greet some of the teachers who are still there from when I was in school and I ask if I could hang a flyer in their classroom. Everyone seems happy to help.
By late afternoon I’ve made my way through the entire town. With no flyers left, I decide to stop for lunch. There’s so much variety, but I finally settle for a pub. An ice-cold beer will definitely help with the exhaustion. The pub is dark, and the smell of stale peanuts and old cigarettes linger in the air. There are big wooden booths that line each side of the bar and a few high top tables scattered around. An oval bar is the center of the room.
“Can I help you?” the bartender asks.
Hesitantly, I step further inside and my eyes squint due to the darkness. It’s empty, so I assume the lunch rush has died down. “Um, I’d like to order some lunch.”
“Do you want a table or are you taking it to go?”
“I can eat at the bar.” I walk up to pull a stool back.
She places a menu in front of me and walks over to grab me a glass of water. Her hair is platinum blonde and her dark eye shadow makes it impossible to recognize her. But as soon as she slouches to one side, I know exactly who she is.
“You’re Erica, right?” I say with a hint of excitement in my voice. “We were in school together.” She stops and looks at me like I have two heads. “I'm Leslie. Leslie Sutton.”
Erica sighs and cocks her head to the side. “I know exactly who you are. Now what do you want to eat?”
Ouch. I don't remember her being that much of a bitch. I curse myself mentally for not befriending more people and being so caught up with Ethan’s ass. “Can I just have a cheeseburger and a Stella, please?” I close my menu and do my best to ignore her as she walks around the bar mumbling under her breath. I pull out my cell phone and check my messages. I smile at the new picture of my niece Lyra that her dad sent me. She’s not my blood relative, but I am her TiTi. After I reply, I check my mailbox. I have two new emails regarding potential new students for the studio.
Dear Leslie,
I’m inquiring about the ad I saw in the Tribune News this morning. I have three girls who don't really care much for physical activity but they love to dance. I would love to come by the studio and chat more. Please email me back with your availability so we can set something up. Thank you in advance,
Margie
Dear Leslie,
I caught a glimpse of your flyer outside of Al's Bakeshop and I was wondering what kind of dance programs you offer. We're new to town and my daughter loved taking hip-hop/jazz at our previous community center. Let me know when I can swing by the studio so we can talk some more.
Best regards,
Jackie.
I can’t help the excitement I’m feeling. Not only did someone see the ads in the paper but the flyers I posted are working, too. My fingers click on the third email but I don’t read it. My attention is pulled away due to a banging on the bar top. My head pops up immediately and on the other side of the bar, Erica stands with her back facing me. Two men surround her, and a sinking feeling takes over when one of them looks directly at me, and a sly grin grows on his face.
Michael.
I try to smile but I can’t, there is a look in his eyes that terrifies me. It’s like he’s almost pissed to see me here.
Erica hands him my beer and he walks it over to me. “Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in.” The stench of old cigarettes and liquor permeates from his pores.
“Hi, Michael.” I reach for my beer. It’s been years since I’ve seen him, but he still looks like the same boy who asked me on my first date so many years ago.
“I'm surprised you even remember my name.” He steps closer, invading my personal space. His voice is low and terrifying when he speaks again. “I'm surprised you know anybody, really, since when you did live in this town, you only focused on one thing. One person, really. Ethan.”
I lean back and hop off the stool. There’s something about the way he is looking at me that makes a chill run up my spine. “It’s good to see you too, Michael. Now if you’ll excuse me. . . .” My gaze pulls away from his as I notice the other guy heading toward us. It all brings back memories I’ve spent years pushing away. Never will I ever let a man invade my space again. Everything in me tells me to get the hell out of here.
Erica appears on the other side of the bar, holding a white plate with my food. My hunger has long vanished as my heart is racing and I want to run.
“For someone who won't be here long, it looks like you've been very busy.” Erica pulls a flyer from her back pocket and tosses it at me. “Will you make me chase you out of here like last time, Les?”
“Last time?” I can’t help but look at her as if she’s an idiot. I refuse to let them know the affect they are having on me. “I don’t know what delusional world you live in, but I left for school. Unlike you, I didn’t stay in this minuscule town and become a nobody. I got a degree, I got a job, I moved on with my life. No one chased me away.”
The other guy chuckles and it seems to fuel her r
age. Crossing her arms over her chest, she squints at me. “Sure you did. I suppose you’re also over Ethan, which is why, out of all the restaurants in town, you came to his place.”
I close my eyes for a brief moment. “Fuck,” I mutter under my breath. Reaching inside my purse, I pull out a twenty and toss it on the bar before I throw my purse over my shoulder. “It won't happen again,” I say, hoping my voice sounds as condescending as I mean it to be.
When I turn to leave, Michael and his friend block my path. “You’re not welcome here,” Michael hisses in my direction.
“Excuse me?” My shoulders tighten and he takes a step forward.
“The only person you cared about was Ethan, the only friend you had was Ethan. You’ve caused him enough damage that we don’t need you around him anymore.” He grabs my forearm. “Do I make myself clear?”
“Don't touch me!” I snap.
Erica giggles. I glare at her. “Me and Ethan are together now. I keep him happy, if you know what I mean. Stay away from him. Go back to where you came from. No one wants you here.”
My fists clench at my sides. There’s a bottle of mace inside my purse but I know I won’t be quick enough to grab it. It’s of no use to me. Bile rises in my throat. “Oh, it looks like we’ve made the dance queen mad.” Erica laughs.
“Back the fuck off,” Ethan's voice bellows through the quiet pub. My knees wobble and I glance in his direction. He is in dark jeans with a black T-shirt and his strides are powerful and calculated. His gaze never meets mine.
Michael and his friend take a step back, and I find myself finally able to breathe again. “Come on, E, we were just having a little fun; some friendly hazing. You know we were just messing with her,” Michael says with a squeaky voice. I can see the fear in his eyes.
Broken Dreams (Fatal Series Book 3) Page 7