It made me want to yell, but I knew it wouldn’t do any good. Stomach hurting, I stood and ignored the food and growing headache pounding in my skull. “I think I should get going.”
Lydia frowned. “You didn’t eat.”
“Not hungry.”
Sophie glanced at me with worry etched in her eyes. “Adele, you should really try eating something. There’s plenty of food.”
I knew why she was pushing. “I’m not going to relapse,” I told them both firmly. “So, you can drop the act.”
Sophie looked doubtful, but Lydia gave me an encouraging smile and head nod. That was another difference between them. Lydia cared. It was in her nature to. But Sophie? She only cared if it benefited her.
“Perhaps you should call one of your friends,” Lydia suggested. “Or Theo? You’re still close, aren’t you?”
I licked my lips. “He’s been busy. But maybe I’ll call Ren.”
Sophie spoke up again. “What about one of the girls you used to be close with? Katrina and you were nearly inseparable once upon a time. Remember that?”
“We’re not anymore.”
“I heard—”
“You hear a lot of things,” I snapped. “It doesn’t make it true. Kat and I aren’t friends anymore. She isn’t…” Lifting a shoulder, I pushed my chair in and exhaled slowly. “Kat isn’t who she used to be, and I don’t want to be part of what she and the others are into.”
“They’ve gone through a lot too,” Sophie pointed out as if I didn’t already know.
I did something I never had before. I let go of my anger that’d been boiling up inside me that’d been ready to blow for a long time. “Well, none of their fathers went to prison where they got beaten to death, now did they?”
Sophie gasped.
Lydia winced.
I walked out.
It was bad enough remembering that the girl I’d been close with, the one who I’d shared secrets with and planned a future with like we’d still be best friends when we were older, had changed. She didn’t care that her father had almost gone to prison because he didn’t. Mine did. Mine took the brunt of the fall and all the blame. Did Katrina care? Did she even reach out when news of his death went viral? No. She was too busy escaping into a world of drugs and men to be a friend. A real friend. So, I wanted nothing to with her, Samantha, or Gina because they were all the same.
Fake.
Every single one of them was fake.
My fingernails were non-existent from biting them the following day, waiting for the news to break. Sophie had called, I’d ignored it. Lydia called too, and I almost considered taking it. When Theo had come by my apartment, I finally did what I kept getting scolded for—checked the peephole…then pretended I wasn’t home.
I’d felt a little bad because I knew Ramsay was with him, but Theo did perfectly fine taking care of him. Ramsay preferred it. Plus, Theo couldn’t come to my rescue every time I needed him. That wasn’t fair to him.
I’d been confused when the rest of the week passed, and nothing happened. No online article. No breaking news alerts. The breath I’d been holding had released when Saturday came around. I knew I couldn’t keep hiding in fear of what the media would say. If they weren’t swarming my building, it meant something happened to the story. Maybe Lydia had been wrong. Maybe the reporter just wanted to scare us, which worked.
I showed up at the address Tiffany gave me around eight-thirty. My body was clothed in leggings and a loose workout shirt, the sleeveless gap under my arms showing off the bright sports bra underneath. I knocked on the door and waited with my leg bouncing, not sure what to expect.
Today would be the first day I danced, really danced, in way too long. I wasn’t expecting Tiffany to go easy on me either, even if she promised to. Her version of easy and mine were two completely different things. So, I’d only eaten half a protein bar after I woke up early following another poor night’s sleep. The bags under my eyes were a dead giveaway of the insomnia I’d been experiencing since my anxiety decided to come back in full swing since Sunday brunch.
When the door opened, I was greeted by Tiffany and not somebody who worked for her family like I expected. I remembered Sophie telling me that the Anderson’s used to have staff around the house often—a cook, housekeeper, and a caterer for the events they hosted. I didn’t remember coming to any here, though I was sure my parents had at some point given Tiffany’s father’s role as a well-known judge in the city. If memory served, my father had hoped that he’d be given his case, but I was sure that would have been a conflict of interest which was why he had nothing to do with the trial.
“Are you going to come in or what?” Tiffany asked, gesturing behind her. “I can give you a tour if you want, but there’s nothing exciting to see besides the basics.”
I followed her inside and looked around the huge foyer. It was all neutral tones but nothing extravagant. It was…pretty. Something I could picture myself in someday, just maybe in a smaller version, this looked like it was a three-story home.
“That’s okay,” I told her, walking into the kitchen where she had two refillable water bottles ready on the counter.
After she passed me one, she nodded toward the back door.
“It’s just us here right now, so nobody should bother us.” When she pushed open the door of a much smaller building, my eyes widened. The hardwood floor was gorgeous, but it was the wall of mirrors across from us that had my full attention. “My parents agreed to renovate this place into my private studio if I kept out of trouble. It’s not that hard to do considering I usually avoid most people anyway.”
She set her water down by the wall and turned to me. I was still staring at the massive wall of mirrors that reflected my shell-shocked expression. Tiffany snapped her fingers in front of my face, gaining my attention back.
“We’ll start easy. You look like crap today anyway.” Pointing toward the center of the floor she waved me over and dropped down on the hardwood to begin stretching her legs.
Hesitating, I sat beside her and started mimicking the familiar warmup. We did it in silence for a few minutes, my eyes glancing around the white room that had a lot of natural light from the large windows. There were speakers in each corner and an expensive looking stereo off to the side.
When she said she was ready, she hopped up and rolled her neck before producing a remote from who knew where and turned some music on. It wasn’t what I expected though.
“Hip hop?”
She grinned. “I never said we’d do ballet, did I? This is way more fun. Don’t tell my mother I said that though.”
I made a face. “Do you do this often?”
She snorted. “Yes. Now, quit stalling and watch my feet.” Before I could say anything else, she did an eight-count sidestep, her knees bouncing through each move matching the instrumental in the background until she transferred to a step and tap where her feet went out to the sides on another eight count. I studied her carefully, noticing the slide of her feet in the third move as her hands went out like she was pushing something away.
Shoulders tightening, I got beside her and watched her feet work the moves again. There were three, all on the same count, which made it easier considering I’d been used to the measure. But the moves I used to do were slower, based more on balance and flexibility. I should probably be happy she wasn’t making me do ballet considering I’d barely gotten my balance back from yoga.