Ery looked up at me as she unwound the ribbons. She gave me a nervous nod and then gestured to the back wall. “You can sit there, if you like.”
Nodding, I sat with my back against the wall, my knees drawn up, my hawklike gaze on Ery. At the first sign she was too upset to do this, I would get her out of here.
I waited, fascinated by her every move, as she did warm-up exercises. Her flexibility didn’t surprise me in the least after the things we’d gotten up to in the bedroom. Plus, flexibility was kind of in her job description as a yoga and Pilates instructor.
After a while, she seemed to take a deep breath before she pulled the first worn shoe on with its flat toe. I held my breath as she paused a second. Then she wound the ribbons around her slim ankle and calf with nimble precision, as though she’d done it a million times before.
And she had. In another life.
Once both shoes were on, she pulled her phone out of her bag and tapped the screen twice; a classical piece soared from the speaker. Then she got up, and everything about her posture seemed to change as she walked toward the room’s middle, the shoes loud against the hardwood floor. Her whole spine seemed to elongate as she took up position.
Ery drew in another deep breath and did a few gentle squats, except they were too graceful for mere squats. Her arms floated in a routine pattern. Every inch of her, down to her fingers, formed pure elegance. “These are pliés and much easier to do with a ballet barre,” she informed me quietly.
“Right,” I managed through the sudden lump in my throat.
Abruptly, she pushed out her right leg, up on pointe, and spun, her calf muscles flexing as she balanced on her dominant leg. Ery stumbled out of the spin, wincing. Frustration crossed her pretty face, and I forced myself to stay quiet.
Over and over, she repeated this until she was spinning on one foot, spin after spin around the studio. My pulse raced even harder as I witnessed her transform into a dancer before my eyes.
I didn’t know how long I sat there, mesmerized, as Ery grew more and more confident. Then I knew the moment she slipped into a routine, some performance buried in her memories. Emotion glimmered in her eyes, joy and relief emanating from her very soul.
Fuck, she was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen in my life.
That lump in my throat grew bigger. My skin felt too tight and too hot as tears slipped down Eredine’s cheeks. She danced as if she were an extension of the music.
Finally, she slowed to a stop, chest heaving, sweat gleaming on her skin. Her T-shirt was stuck to her. She looked at me and whispered, “Thank you.”
And I knew in that moment that I loved her.
I was in love with Eredine Willows.
Pushing to my feet, I bridged the distance between us and pulled her into my arms. She held on so tight, sobbing against me. I’d have been worried if I didn’t understand her so completely. These were good tears. Cathartic.
Her feet were red and blistering when she took off the dance shoes, but she told me that was normal, that her feet would bleed and shred before they were strong enough again for dancing on pointe. I didn’t like the thought of that, but it wasn’t my place. If dancing made Ery happy, then it was worth the pain.
I held her hand as we walked in silence back to the car a little while later. It wasn’t until we were out of the gates and heading through the village when I said, “You’re a beautiful dancer. Thank you for letting me be with you for that.”
She reached over and squeezed my knee. “Thank you.” Then she gave a huff of dry laughter. “And my technique is all over the place. I don’t know if I’ll ever get that back.”
I frowned. “You looked good to me.”
“It can look pretty to someone who doesn’t know ballet so well, but trust me, no dance company would ever take me on in this condition. I’m too old now, anyway.”
“At thirty-two?” I scoffed.
“Yeah. Thirty-two is old in the dance world. I don’t want to join a company. I just … I wanted to see if it still felt like it used to.”
“How did it used to feel?”
She considered this and then replied, “I imagine how it feels to be an actor or even a storyteller. Pure escapism into another person, into another story. It sparks my imagination like a beautiful piece of music does, or my favorite book. I’ve missed that feeling.”
“So then dance for yourself. You don’t need to dance for anyone else.”