“You mean how you stupidly fell in love with me and I broke your little heart.”
It shouldn’t hurt this much.
What he just said.
The wound inside my chest shouldn’t flare up and pulsate as if it’s new, freshly inflicted. But it does.
Maybe because he said it without flinching.
Maybe because he can talk about breaking my heart as if it’s so inconsequential that it doesn’t even warrant a change of tone or a ripple in his features.
And maybe that’s why my eyes sting. “Yes. So unless you’re trying to use me again, I suggest you leave.”
“I’m not trying to use you,” he says, studying my face. “You don’t have anything that I need.”
I want to laugh at myself then.
I want to laugh at my own stupid self that his statement made me flinch. That the fact that I’m now useless to him makes something contract in my chest.
“Well then, there you go,” I say with clenched fists. “I’m useless to you. So staying away shouldn’t be so hard, right? I don’t have anything you need and I don’t want you around either. Besides, you don’t even live here anymore, do you? You live in New York and I’ve heard it’s amazing. I mean, my brothers are crazy about that city. I bet you have a wonderful life at college. I bet you have great friends. People must be crazy about your soccer skills and you must be the campus stud and soccer superstar or whatever. So what are you even doing here, wasting your time? Who cares what bus I take or how I get to my studio? I really think you should leave and resume your awesome life and —”
“That’s different,” he says, cutting me off.
“What?”
He motions with his jaw, his gaze dipping down to my lips. “Your lipstick.”
My hand goes up and I touch my lips.
It’s so bizarre that he noticed. So strange and unexpected, his observation and his interruption, that all I can do is say, “Uh, yeah.”
His eyes come up. “So?”
“So what?”
“What’s this one called?”
I lower my hand and automatically reply, as if I’m still in a fog, “Train Wreck Princess.”
It’s blue with subtle notes of green and is overall lighter than Heartbreak Juju, which I wore the night of the bar.
“Why, because you’re a princess?”
“I’m —”
“But you’re not, are you?”
You’re a fairy…
His long-ago words flutter through my mind and probably in his mind too. Because his wolf eyes glint. They sparkle and so does his vampire skin.
And for a second, the studio vanishes, the polished hardwood floors, the barre, the mirrored wall, and all of that gets replaced by those woods.
The woods that we used to go to.
That lonely dark place where I used to dance for him.
Where I danced for him for the first time and he called me a fairy. Where…
“You’re a fairy,” he finishes his earlier spoken statement, his eyes grave and his lips tipping up.
I believed him.
Back then, I believed that I was a fairy.
Not anymore though.
Even though the wings at my back flutter and rustle against my spine as if coming alive now that he’s here. “No, I’m not.”
“You’re fucking up your développé écarté devant,” he says. “Isn’t that what it is?”
I watch him a beat. “Yes.”
“And you’re supposed to hold it? For eight counts.”
I remain speechless, motionless. He remembers.
He keeps going though. “And if you can’t hold a position in ballet, it’s supposed to be a big fucking crime.”
How does he remember everything like I do?
When I always thought that all this time he’s been living his glamorous life in New York, I probably never even crossed his mind.
He straightens up and moves away from the wall.
Keeping his eyes on me, he starts to walk. Toward me.
And when he does that, again all I can do is stand in my spot, all frozen and immobile. Like I used to two years ago, whenever he decided to prowl toward me.
I used to stand glued to my spot, my traitor legs refusing to move.
My traitor heart refusing to slow down, and I’m about to stop him. I’m about to tell him to not come anywhere close to me.
Because I don’t know what’s happening.
I don’t know what he’s doing.
I don’t know how and why he remembers everything from two years ago. And neither do I know why he saved me.
But my wayward, confused thoughts break when I realize that he wasn’t.
Coming near me, I mean.
He was going somewhere else.
He was going to the black stereo off to the side. And when he reaches it, he bends down on his knees and starts fiddling with the buttons.
I finally string some words together as I watch him. “What are you doing?”
“Helping you with your routine.”
“My routine.”
When he’s done with it, he comes back to his feet. “You want to go to Juilliard, don’t you? Well, you’re not going with the way you’re dancing. Because it sucks.”