Don't Promise (Don't 3)

“For the ballet?” I picked up my fork.

“Yes. When do you start preparing? Are you ready?”

“It’s not until March. And I hope that by January my leg will be strong enough that I can complete my routine.” I took a bite of salad.

“What did you injure? Maybe I could help.” He waggled his eyebrows and I didn’t know whether to take him seriously or not.

“It’s my hamstring. It’s not bad enough that I can’t jump around for a few hours cheering. It’s actually gotten much stronger since last year. But I’m worried it won’t support me on my pointe shoes.”

“And those are?”

“You know the shoes ballerinas wear? The ones with the flat toes so we can stand up on our feet. It’s a lot of pressure on the foot, but it takes a tremendous amount of strength in the supporting leg. I’m afraid to try.” I couldn’t believe I had told him that. I hadn’t shared it with anyone.

“I think I know what shoes you’re talking about. Why haven’t you tried it yet if you’re out dancing for the Warriors every week? Your legs seem in good shape to me.”

I was tempted to poke him with my fork. “Because if I put on those shoes and I’m not ready then what was all this for?” I took a deep breath. “Why have I joined a dance squad? Why did I try to get my strength back if it was all going to be for nothing?”

“Hey, you don’t know that.” He put his plate on the coffee table. “You need to put the shoes on and see where you are. That’s the only way you can plan the rest of your rehab.”

I blinked. “You’re talking like you know how I’m going to get back on stage.”

“I don’t know shit about ballet, but I know injuries and I know hamstrings. Do you have a trainer? Are you working with a therapist to get you where you need to be?”

“I can’t afford it right now.” I didn’t want to admit how broke I was. The Warriors didn’t exactly pay a lot and Austin was expensive.

“Then let me help you. I can do that. I know the best physical therapists in the country. I can find someone to get you ready.”

“That’s football. This is ballet,” I stated.

“Hamstrings are hamstrings.” He picked up his wine glass and took a big gulp. “If you need help, let me help you.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. It’s not like we’re a…”

“A couple?”

“What is this? What are we?” The questions popped out before I could pull them back in.

“Do we have to label it?”

“No, I guess not.” I reached for my glass.

“I’m not saying it’s not something. It’s just… Damn it,” he huffed. “Why can’t we see what happens?”

“We can. We definitely can.”

“This is everything I said I wouldn’t do. And I’m everything you said you can’t do. But I’m here in Austin and I’m thinking that it’s going to suck when I have to drive back to San Antonio tomorrow.”

“You are?” I felt little slivers of happiness dancing in my stomach.

“God, yes. I don’t want to leave you. I want to take you with me. Can’t you quit the Goddesses?”

“I need the paycheck, Sam. I make money doing what I’m doing. And I can’t take charity from you. I wouldn’t feel good about that. It would feel like I belonged to you or something.” I scrunched my nose.

His eyes locked on mine. “Don’t you feel like you belong to me?”

And it hit me—I did. I did every time I went to bed with him. Every time he kissed me. When I saw our reflection in the mirror, and saw my handprint on the shower wall. He owned me with his body and I gave it to him freely, willingly.

“That’s not the same.” I tried to back out of his argument.