He drives me to the Blue Madonna and helps me practice. He helps me with my stretches and warm-ups. With my lifts and turns.
He watches me dance like he did two years ago.
With bright, intense eyes. With an eager, excited body that turns every time I do, that spins when I spin to keep me in sight.
But I don’t dance for him.
I don’t.
I promised myself that I wouldn’t. And so I don’t.
I’m only letting him drive me to my studio and help me with my routine because it’s smart.
In the sense that my routine really sucked and the deadline to submit the audition video is approaching fast. And I need all the help that I can get. I’m not jeopardizing my dream because of him again.
If he wants to help me — for whatever reason — I’ll take it.
Although it’s surreal.
So freaking surreal that he’s back in my life.
And I see him every week.
But I’m trying not to dwell on those things. I’m trying not to dwell on the fact that what I thought to be true for two years, turned out to be a lie.
It turned out that he saved me. From his father, no less.
I’m trying not to think about it, about what he must’ve done to make that happen.
Because he’s right.
I’m not really free, am I?
I’m still caged. I’m still sneaking out. My dream is still hanging in the balance.
It’s difficult though. To not wonder about things.
Especially when one day, I get an email from my old ballet teacher, and I mention it to Reed while he drives me to the studio that very night.
“So,” I say, glancing over at him. “I got a very interesting email today. Would you like to hear about it, Reed?”
“Do I have a choice, Fae?” he asks mockingly, without looking away from the road.
I narrow my eyes at him and I know he can’t see it but his lips twitch in amusement anyway.
“It was from my old ballet teacher,” I tell him and his fingers tighten on the wheel. “Apparently, she’s super guilty about kicking me out. She apologized about it. And in order to make up for her mistake, she will give me a recommendation letter. Not only that, she also put me in touch with one of the faculty members at Juilliard who also happens to be on the admissions committee. Juilliard, Reed. My dream school. Out of the blue, Miss Petrova decides to help me out because she thinks it might help me with my application. Out of the blue. Two years later. Can you believe that? How interesting, isn’t it?”
Reed shrugs all casually. “It is interesting.”
“Right?”
“Yeah, it’s interesting how you find completely uninteresting things, interesting.”
I fist my hands in my lap. “You did this.”
“Did what?”
“You made her do this, didn’t you? You forced her to send that email.”
“I wouldn’t call it force,” he replies, still keeping his eyes on the road.
I turn toward him then. “Oh my God, you did. Did you blackmail her, Reed?”
At this, he glances over at me, his wolf eyes all cool and pretty. “What do you think I am, Fae? A villain.”
“Yes. And you do that. You blackmail people. You lie to them. You use them. That’s what you do.”
His jaw clenches for a long second before he says, “I didn’t blackmail. I didn’t have to. I asked her nicely and she agreed.”
“But you —”
“Look, she had no right to kick you out, understand? What you do on your time is your fucking business. And besides, it was her loss. She lost the best ballerina she ever had or will ever have. So I just showed her the light.”
And then I have to grit my teeth and curl my toes.
I have to keep sitting in his Mustang, all still, as if nothing happened, as if he didn’t pay me a compliment and as if my stupid heart isn’t spinning in my chest.
But then the next week he comes to pick me up, things get even worse.
Because there’s something waiting for me in his Mustang.
A pale pink box with a pink satin ribbon around it.
I don’t have to open the box to know what’s inside of it.
I stare at it with my throat tight, holding on to the open door of his car. “I don’t eat those.”
From the corner of my eye, I see his chest move sharply. “Why’s that?”
I swallow, glancing at him. “Because I don’t. Because I’m a dancer and I need to watch my weight.”
His own hand on the door flexes. “I can still carry you with one hand. So I think you’re fine.”
He can.
He can carry me with one hand and I try not to shift my gaze over to his arms. His sculpted biceps. His strong, graceful fingers.
He was built before, when he was the soccer god of Bardstown High, the Wild Mustang. But he’s something else now. He’s strength itself. It drips off his body like a thick syrup. It wafts off his body like a delicious scent.
“Do they still call you that?” I ask, because I can’t stop myself. “The Wild Mustang.”
“What?”
“At your college. Do your soccer groupies still call you that? By your nickname.”
His gorgeous face is blank, inscrutable as he watches me. “Yes.”
It shouldn’t bother me.
It should not bother me at all.
He was always popular and a player. Why wouldn’t he still be the same now?
Still though something contracts in my chest and I can’t help but say, “You must be very popular then. Not that there was any doubt whatsoever. I mean, everyone knew you were going to go pro, be all famous and whatnot and —”
“Yeah, I’m a regular stud,” he says, bites out almost, cutting me off. “Are you going to get in the car or not?”
“I’m not going to eat the cupcakes,” I tell him again.
And he asks me, again, “Why?”
“Because I just told you. Because I’m watching my weight and because it was…”
Because it was our thing.
Because it was something that he brought me. And even though every time he did that, I told him not to bother because I was getting fat and yet, I waited for him to do just that.
To bring me Peanut Butter Blossoms.
I don’t say that though. And I don’t have to.
Because he gets it.
Because for some reason, he remembers everything about our time together. Even though it was inconsequential and insignificant to him.
Or rather, significant only in the sense that he used me to win against my brother.
With sharp features turned even sharper, he says, “Because I brought you cupcakes two years ago. To fool you. And you did get fooled. So now you’re punishing yourself for falling into my trap. Because that’s what you do, don’t you?”
“I don’t…” I trail off because I’m lying.
Of course I do that.