Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 115577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
And her eyes said it all.
You can keep trying to ignore me, Braden Lock.
But don’t count on me to help you.
Emily
September slipped away like a fever dream.
There were times in my life I thought I was busy — like when I was balancing college with being on the dance team and having a part-time job bartending, or when I decided to backpack through ten countries in one month, or the very stupid time I thought it would be fun to train for a marathon amidst attempting to launch a candle company.
But I’d never been busy like this.
The season was in full swing after that first game. If I wasn’t performing at a game, I was learning a new routine for the next one or posing for photos at a community event. There were early morning workouts to maintain our physique, evening rehearsals that stretched for hours under fluorescent lights, and game day call times that started before sunrise and didn’t end until long after the stadium had emptied. Appearances blurred together — charity events, sponsor shoots, calendar signings — all of it wrapped in glitter and a permanent smile. When I wasn’t required to be at the stadium for practice or games, I was working on routines in the apartment I shared with Darcy; she, Marcus and I doing our best to nail a routine perfectly only to perform it maybe two times before it was on to learning the next one.
I couldn’t imagine doing it all and balancing another job like so many of the dancers did. God knew our dancer salary alone wouldn’t cut it in a city as expensive as Seattle.
It was times like this I was thankful for my parents. Not that I wasn’t always, but the fact that I could focus on the team and the dance routines I had to learn because they supported me financially meant more to me than I could express in words.
In fact, I really couldn’t express in words. I knew I should pick up the phone and call them. I should invite them out to a game. I should do something to bridge the gap that had grown into a massive canyon between us.
But any time I tried, my hands would shake, my heart pounding in my throat, and in the end, a text was all I could manage.
Thanks for loving me through my finding myself era, I’d say. Or It’s pretty cool to have groceries. Thank you. I’d even occasionally send I love you, though those words made my chest ache every time.
Their response was always the same — a string of emojis, Mom telling me how proud they were of me, Dad saying they loved me and couldn’t wait to see me. Neither of us ever made any official plans, but the intention was there.
Even if it was half-assed.
I knew the truth none of us could say. I’d shot off to Braden that I didn’t care what anyone thought of me, but the one exception to that rule was my parents. And I was embarrassed when it came to them.
I didn’t want them to see that the one thing that brought me joy and gave me purpose was dancing around in a sequin skirt with pompoms. I didn’t want to see their faces when they tried to pretend it was enough for them, that they saw value in my career choice just as much as they did in their own.
I knew I’d have to witness the Huxley Pause, that they’d be thinking things like surely she knows she won’t be young forever and this isn’t sustainable, it isn’t stable and oh, our sweet little Emily, always going to be a little bird floating on the wind.
And they avoided making concrete plans for the same reason.
They didn’t want to have to pretend. They didn’t want to witness the chaotic lifestyle they were funding in real life.
This was better for all of us — the sporadic texts, the empty promises, the sweet words of well wishes from afar.
Dysfunctional or not, it kept the peace. And lately, that felt like the closest thing we’d ever have to being a “normal” family.
As dizzying as the first month of the regular season had been, I felt like I’d found a routine as October greeted Seattle with a kiss of crisp, wet air. And on a quiet Tuesday morning, I listened to the sound of my sneakers against the concrete floor of the stadium as I headed for Claire’s office.
I knocked, smiling when Claire waved me in.
“Get it all fixed up?”
I nodded, holding up my brand-new pair of navy blue bedazzled dance leggings. “Good as new. With a reinforced seam,” I joked, pulling at the stitching over the ass of the pants to illustrate.
Claire smirked, shaking her head before she was typing away at something on her computer. “Only you would split your leggings in a drop split with that perfect ass of yours.”