Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 157273 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157273 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
“When Mom wasn’t looking.” Being in this house brought it all back with startling clarity, as though this place was a honing stone for the memories. If I wasn’t careful, they’d sharpen themselves into knives. I stretched my arms as the typical midday lethargy stole over me.
“When Mom wasn’t looking,” she agreed. “Man, she and Gavin snuck around for months that summer before she got bored and dumped him.” Her head cocked to the side. “Was that the summer before she joined San Francisco? Or MBC?”
“A little of both, but mostly MBC,” I answered, since neither of us was going to say the summer before she died. My jaw practically unhinged as I fought the yawn and lost. “Swimming must have tired me out.”
“Hmm.” She set the knife down. “You call Kenna back? She’s tried you at least three times this week.”
“I’ll call her later,” I lied. Did I feel guilty about dodging her calls? Yes. Was I going to remedy that by speaking to her? No.
“She’s your closest friend, Allie,” Anne lectured, but it was the note of worry in her tone that kept me from sniping back.
“And the Company’s orthopedic specialist,” I reminded her, grabbing the empty water bottle and starting toward the recycling bin inside the pantry. “And we both know I’m not making the progress she’ll want, and she’ll have to report that to Vasily. He’ll scrap my ballet with Isaac for the fall, and I can’t risk it. I’m not slacking. I’m doing it all. The Pilates, the strength training, the resistance bands—but I’m not strong enough to get on demi-pointe.”
“Did it occur to you that maybe she just wants to talk to her friend?” Anne countered as I leaned against the doorframe to her left, taking some weight off my ankle. “No one thinks you’re slacking. I don’t think you comprehend how to slack. Everyone at the Company knows you’re working yourself to the bone to get back in the studio. It’s the only thing you’re doing. I thought being out here might help you relax or maybe at least smile—”
“You stop and see Mom on your way back?”
“Don’t change the subject.” She stared at me.
I stared back.
If there had been a contest in our house for who could hold an awkward silence the longest, I would have a crown and we both knew it.
“Yes, I stopped in at the school and saw Mom.” Her sigh was a white flag.
“Not sure I’d call it a school.” It was more like an institution.
“Do you want to take a walk once I have this put together?”
“Smooth segue, but I think I’ll take a nap.” Fatigue won. Seems like it always does. “Sleep equals healing and all that.”
“How about we go out for a movie after dinner? They’re running a Brat Pack marathon, and nothing perks you up like John Hughes.” She offered a soft smile.
Just the idea of putting on real clothes, of putting forth enough energy to play the role of Alessandra Rousseau in public, had me stifling another yawn. “Maybe tomorrow.”
“Maybe tomorrow,” Anne agreed, her smile slipping. “Get some rest. I’ll make sure you don’t sleep through dinner.”
“Thanks.” I walked out of the kitchen and up the front stairs, glancing at the gallery of candid photos along the wall and pausing at the last one. Dad had captured the four of us sitting side by side at the end of the pier, our backs to him in a rare moment where even Eva was still.
She lounged farthest to the right, her hands braced behind her, her fifteen-year-old head thrown back to embrace the sun. Lina and Anne held the center, nineteen and eighteen respectively, their faces turned toward each other in laughter, no doubt over some private joke, while seventeen-year-old me sat with Lina’s arm wrapped around my shoulders, my head resting on hers as I stared off into the water.
God, I missed that feeling, that comforting peace and certainty of the future. We’d been as steady as the pylons of the pier as long as we were together, weathering the storm that was our mother, leaning on each other to balance the load when the waves of her expectations threatened to pull any one of us under.
The brief sensation of peace faded quickly as I remembered that Lina had died only a couple weeks after Dad framed the shot. Life was so fucking unfair. She should’ve been here, or on a stage in New York dancing Giselle, or wherever she wanted to be.
She should’ve been alive.
She would have known how to make Anne feel better, and whether to push or rest my ankle. She would have known how to guide Eva and deal with Mom. She would have shown us all how it was done—this business of being an adult.
I walked into my room and crashed onto the bed, then crawled beneath the familiar, comforting weight of the rose-blush quilt. At some point maybe my body would catch up on all the rest I’d denied it over the years. Until then, I’d give it the sleep it seemed hell bent on taking with or without my consent.