Page 32 of Sweet (Chicago Underground 7)
The girls preferred to wait in the courtyard for their parents to pick them up, and I couldn’t really blame them. The fall weather was crisp and lovely, piling dry, orange-hued leaves onto the cobblestones.
Those leaves were inevitably tracked into the studio, so I had grown accustomed to sweeping the springy marley floors while I considered the day, like a line drawn and new balance tallied. We’d had two new signups that day. A good thing for a brand-new business.
Parents could sign up for month-to-month contracts, but so far everyone had chosen the discounted six-month rates. A very good thing, considering the guaranteed cash flow for me and the commitment it showed on their part.
After three weeks of renovations, To the Pointe had opened with a single class of five girls made up of friends of friends through my dance troupe. Since then, I’d had five more signups, and I was currently looking at the best schedule for splitting the girls into two classes.
I threw myself into the studio, but there was one indulgence I allowed myself. The same outlet that had kept me grounded for years: dance. Some people danced to be seen, a beautiful flame casting shadows as it moved—others just needed to burn.
The final strains of “Clair de Lune” filtered through the speaker in the corner. I flicked half the lights off, setting the studio in shadows. This wasn’t for me to be seen, not by an audience or an instructor. It was to feel.
The allure of ballet wasn’t about the melody or the art—it was the form. My body was fluid with the music and yet held rigidly within the bounds of predetermined movements.
Thoughts of the studio or worry over Drew’s recovery blew away, replaced by the thick clouds of physical strain. I felt free running through the pas de basque I’d done a thousand times.
When the music ended, I continued for a few minutes more, invigorated by the slight ache in my calves and accompanied only by my breath and the shudders of the mat.
I moved into gentle stretches, slowly loosening the tension of the day. I’d found a lovely tension in my hamstring when the phone rang. Easing out of the position, I circled the small glass merchandise counter that held shoes and leotards for sale and picked up the cordless office phone.
“To the Pointe. Can I help you?”
A brief silence on the other end. “Hi, I heard you’d just opened in my neighborhood.”
My breath caught in my throat at that low, familiar voice. It raised the hairs on my neck, that lovely tenor, and a longing ran so deep I feared it would split right through me.
When I didn’t respond, he continued with a casualness that didn’t disguise his uncertainty. “I was wondering if I could take a tour of the place.”
My heart was beating too fast, and the light sweat from my workout had turned to ice. Stalling, I said, “We’re closed.”
“It so happens I know the owner. I was hoping she might make an exception. You see, I was supposed to come by sooner, but I got a bit…detained.”
My vision blurred at the wry humor in his voice. He was always like that—able to make a joke out of anything, but not mocking. Not cruel. He found humor in the irony of life, found a way to be gentle and quiet in a city teeming with random violence. Even his rejection in the hospital had been painfully kind.
Only later, in his apartment, had it stung.
I swallowed back the excess emotion—the sorrow I’d felt for his injuries and my hope at what this phone call might mean. The place of hurt and waiting where my heart had lived these past four weeks. I wanted to stay angry at him, but all I could think was: how much have you hurt? How alone have you been?
My voice came out wobbly, falling short of the casual self-possession that came so naturally to him. “She understands that accidents happen. She was just worried about you. And…she missed you.”
“Ah, Rose.” A small crack in his voice, a husky declaration of intent. “I missed you too.”
I wiped at the tear on my cheek. “Are you better? Are you well?”
“Almost. I’m almost healed, but I walk with a limp. Like an old man now. Is that going to be okay with you?”
A watery laugh was his answer. “We can match, then, because you know my knees are ruined anyway. We can hobble around together.”
“Hobbling? I don’t know about that. The spinning thing you just did looked graceful to me.”
I straightened. “Where are you?”
“Picking up where I left off.”
Breathless, I ran to the window. Sure enough, he was standing across the street. My heart lurched at the sight of him through the glass, so similar to that horrible night. The sky was clear and unusually bright, casting a milky glow across his face.
Chapter Fourteen
He leaned against his car, one arm slung across the roof of the Lexus, the other holding his cell to his ear. The picture of casual nonchalance and not a car in sight, yet I had to stop the words in my throat. Look out. Be safe. I love you.
