Scarlett’s face closed, her eyes shuttering and her mouth flattening into a stubborn line. The openness that had brightened our conversation earlier dimmed, leaving an awkward tension in its wake.
Her reasons for not participating were none of my business (even though I hadn’t bought the “I’m too busy” excuse she gave me when I’d first asked her about it. Everyone at RAB was busy). The aftermath of her accident was a rightfully sensitive subject; if I were in her shoes, I’d be livid at me for prying.
Nevertheless, the longing in her eyes when I’d mentioned dancing again had imprinted itself on my consciousness, and I couldn’t let it go.
I’m perfectly happy locking my fears in the closet and pretending they don’t exist.
“What are you afraid of, Scarlett?” The question slipped out, quiet yet filled with certainty.
Her physical limitations weren’t her biggest obstacles; her fears were.
I’d known someone who’d let his fears control him. I couldn’t get through to him, and he took those fears to his grave.
There were nights when I’d lie awake and wonder what would’ve happened had I pushed him more. Tried harder instead of being caught up in the dreams of my own success. Would it have made a difference? Would he still be alive?
Those regrets kept me from backing down even as Scarlett turned rigid.
I didn’t care if she was livid with me. I’d let someone I cared about down once; I wasn’t going to do it again.
Scarlett wasn’t my best friend, girlfriend, or family, but I didn’t need a label to know that I did care about her.
I’d expected her to lash out after my question. Instead, the stoniness slowly fizzled from her face, and her shoulders sagged with a resigned sigh.
“The last time I performed, I was in my prime,” she said. “The next great prima ballerina. That was what the press called me. I opened
Swan Lake at the Westbury and killed it. Standing ovation, rave reviews. But I’m not that dancer anymore, and I want people to remember me as I was. Healthy. Talented.” Her voice cracked on the next word. “Whole.”
“Bullshit.” My response cracked like a whip through the air.
Scarlett startled, her face creasing with equal parts shock and affront.
“You’re not broken, so don’t give me that ‘whole’ BS,” I said. “And I bet you can still run circles around the majority of the general population when it comes to ballet, so don’t try to feed me that untalented line either.” I paused, replaying my words.
“Okay, maybe ‘run’ wasn’t the right verb to use, but you know what I mean.”
The faintest curve touched her lips.
“The point is, your injuries don’t define who you are. Maybe you’re not the same dancer anymore, but who says you have to be? Growth isn’t always linear, and I’ve seen you in the studio. I think you’re still pretty damn incredible.”
Scarlett’s mouth parted. She stared at me, her eyes wide, as my mini motivational speech settled between us.
I wasn’t a big speech person, but I had to get that out there. Sometimes, we needed someone else to point out what was right in front of us.
“Where the hell did that come from?” she asked. There was an odd note in her voice, but I couldn’t pinpoint what it was.
“It’s the truth. I didn’t have to look too hard for it.”
Scarlett closed her mouth, opened it, then closed it again. A full minute passed before she spoke. “What if I flop? It’s been five years. I’m out of practice, and I’ve never performed
Lorena before. I know a staff showcase isn’t the same as a Royal Opera ballet, but those are my colleagues. My students. If I screw up, I’ll have to face them every day afterward, and I don’t know if I can do it.”
By the time she finished, her words were nearly inaudible.
A raw, unfamiliar ache settled in my chest. I hated how despondent she looked, but I understood how she felt.
Ballet, football. Both careers that came with preset expiration dates.
We weren’t like writers or lawyers who could theoretically keep their job until they died. We entered our fields knowing that one day, no matter how hard we tried, our bodies would simply be incapable of performing at the level necessary to sustain our dreams.
Our careers burned brief yet bright, and they were subject to the whims of the universe-one accident, one stroke of bad luck could end everything earlier than we’d expected.
I recognized it; Scarlett had lived it.
So maybe I was stepping over the line with what I had to say next, but I wouldn’t be a friend if I didn’t point it out-and I did consider her a friend, even if that sentiment wasn’t reciprocated.
“I think you’re capable of more than you give yourself credit for,” I said. “But at the end of the day, you have to ask yourself what you’d regret more-trying and failing, or not trying at all?”
SCARLETT
The storm continued to rage outside. Rain pounded against the windows, and flashes of lightning chased away the shadows on the ceilings every other minute.
It was a white-noise dream. People paid for this kind of bedtime ambiance, yet I couldn’t sleep a wink.
Instead, I’d been lying in bed for two hours, replaying the day’s events on an endless loop.
The weight of Asher’s body on mine.
The chase for the pap.
The moment we realized I’d have to stay the night.
And most of all, our conversation in the theatre, which had unearthed insecurities that I would rather have kept buried.
I hadn’t meant to unload them on Asher. I’d always kept my deepest (and shallowest) fears locked inside me, hidden from even Vincent and Carina. Because what was more shallow than refusing to step onstage in case I looked like a fool, like a has-been desperately clinging to her former glory?
Yet there was something about Asher that made me want to confide in him. He’d listened without a trace of judgment, and as an athlete, he probably understood my dilemma as much as any non-dancer could.
I should be angrier about him pushing me so hard, but maybe he was right. Was trying and failing better than not trying at all? Twenty, forty, sixty years from now, would I regret not reaching for a second chance when I could?
Ugh. Late-night existential crises were the worst.
I closed my eyes, listening to the claps of thunder roll through the room. My body was exhausted after the day’s exertion, but my mind was wide awake.
Asher had placed me down the hall, as far from his room as possible, despite the many empty guest suites between us.
I didn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted. Did he think I was going to break into his room and ravish him or something? Either that, or he was worried about what he’d do if I was too close.
Orrrr…hear me out…maybe it was a random assignment and you’re overthinking things. Not everything is about you, Scarlett.
Fine. My inner consciousness got me there. Thinking Asher Donovan was so attracted to me, he’d lose control if we slept across the hall from each other was the height of arrogance.
Still, an ember of heat flickered to life at the mental image of him in bed. Was he awake? If so, what was he thinking about? Did he sleep in boxers or a T-shirt and sweats or nothing at all?
I groaned and buried my face in the pillow. Why was I suddenly picturing him naked? What was wrong with me?
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.