Total pages in book: 55
Estimated words: 54899 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 220(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54899 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 220(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
I rest my head on his shoulder. He kisses the top of my head, not wavering in his song.
We linger in that space for long, painful minutes. With each note, the walls around my heart crumble a little bit more, until I’m raw and exposed and aching.
He flows into a second song, more powerful and passionate.
Nothing has diminished his fierce spirit, his bold tenacity. Not the cruel abuse, and not the horrific years that separated us.
I’ve been a coward. All this time, I’ve let Shirley win. I let her take something I loved from me.
Brandon is so much stronger than I am.
He keeps saying he’s not worthy of me, but I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve him. He seems to have forgiven me for leaving him for dead.
I don’t think I’ll ever be able to atone for what I did to him, but I can try to match his strength.
He wants me to dance. It’s the least I can do for him.
And I’ll do it for myself, too.
My cruel foster parents won’t take one more thing from me. They’re dead.
Brandon made sure they can never victimize another child.
They can never harm us.
I’m done shuddering at memories of my tormentors.
They’re nothing but ghosts now, and I don’t have to let them haunt me.
I place my hand over his, stilling his fingers on the keys.
“I want to dance,” I say when the music stops.
He kisses me deeply. “That’s my brave girl.”
I flush at the praise.
I want to be brave for him.
And for me.
He reaches beneath the piano and retrieves a white box wrapped in a black ribbon. I know what it is before I open it with trembling fingers.
I part the delicate layers of paper inside the box to reveal soft pink pointe shoes.
“I’m out of practice,” I equivocate, even as I stroke the familiar satin material.
“That’s why I built this studio for you,” he says. “You’ll remember how. You can dance as often as you want.”
The magnitude of his gift is overwhelming. Not only did he buy this estate for me, but he made sure to convert one of the rooms into a dance studio so we could share this space. He’ll play, and I’ll dance.
Just like we used to.
Like we were always meant to.
The lump in my throat prevents me from thanking him, so I simply slide on the pointe shoes to silently convey my acceptance and gratitude.
He watches with open hunger as I wrap the soft ribbons around my ankles, securing them in place with delicate bows. He’s looking at me like he’s waited a lifetime for this.
And in a way, he has.
He’s not the boy he used to be.
He’s a new man, and it’s more than just his reconstructed face. He’s harder now. More demanding.
More possessive.
Obsessed.
And when he returns his long fingers to the piano, I watch him with matching obsession.
His steady blue gaze is fixed on me as he plays from memory; no need to look at sheet music or his hands.
He nods in silent encouragement.
I force myself to put distance between us so I can go to the barre.
I’m wearing black leggings and a periwinkle blue sweater rather than a leotard and fluffy tutu, but I’ll be able to dance comfortably.
Brandon provided me with this outfit when we got dressed this morning.
He planned for this.
Looking into his awestruck features, I know he yearned for it.
My soul swells with my own yearning, and I start to dance. With each tentative step, my muscles remember how to move with grace and precision. Running has kept me fit, even if I’m not in the same physical condition I used to be when I practiced ballet daily.
But my desire to join with Brandon in our shared passion lends me the strength I need to go en pointe.
I dance until my feet ache, and I’m slightly dizzy with breathless rapture. All the while, he watches me like he’s been slowly dying without our connection, and our reunion is reviving him as though I’m breathing air back into his lungs.
Finally, he finishes a song and closes the distance between us. He has to hook an arm around my waist to stop me from spinning.
I never want this moment to end.
“You’ll strain yourself,” he admonishes gently.
“I don’t care,” I pant. “I want more.”
“Greedy little thing. I do care. Your feet must be aching.”
He carries me the short distance to the piano and sets me down on the bench before dropping to his knees before me. His big hands trace the outline of my shaking calves with reverence, and he plucks at the bows that bind my dance shoes to my ankles.
I watch in rapt fascination as he slowly unwinds the ribbons and eases the shoes from my feet. They are aching, but I’m barely aware of the discomfort; my whole focus is on him.