“Right,” I muttered. I actually hadn’t been to a football game yet. I wasn’t exactly bursting with school pride, and sports had never been my thing.
We stared at each other in silence for a long moment—long enough for my neck to start getting uncomfortable, bent at an odd angle. Finally, Finn nodded, stepping back. “All right. Just remember, if you open your big mouth, we can make you wish you hadn’t.”
Irritation sizzled under my skin. My big mouth? I haven’t reported any of the shit you and your asshole friends have pulled, you dick.
Finn must’ve picked up a hint of what I was thinking from my expression, because his lips tilted up in a grin that would’ve been sexy if I hadn’t wanted to slap it off his face.
“Then again, maybe I should give you credit. You’re not stupid, are you, Idaho?”
He left the word trash off the end of the sentence, but I heard it anyway. I pulled my gaze away from his eyes, focusing on his knees as I shook my head.
“Nope. I’m not.”
“Good.”
He huffed a sound that was almost a laugh and then sauntered off down the hall and out of sight. As soon as he was gone, I scrambled to my feet, hefting my bag over my shoulder and darting around the corner. I yanked open the door to the studio and stepped inside.
Part of me didn’t want to be in here at all, could still smell sex in the air and hated the thought of it. But there was half a period left, and I’d be damned if I let a manwhore like Finn take this away from me.
I flipped on the lights, and that helped. It made the space seem more like the dance studios I knew, the bright overheads reflecting off the polished light wood floor.
Quickly, I tugged off my tennis shoes and laced up my ballet slippers. Then I pulled the sweatshirt over my head, gathered my hair up into a loose bun, and approached the mirrors. With every step I took, the strange, unsettled feeling in my stomach faded. The sight of myself in the black leotard and pale slippers was comforting, familiar.
My body had softened some in the months since I’d been able to practice regularly—I hadn’t put on weight, but I’d lost muscle tone—and I knew it would be a long slog to get back to where I’d been before the fall.
After my legs healed, I’d done as much physical therapy as I could afford. My dad had even worked extra shifts at the plant to help pay for them, and even though I knew it was motivated purely by guilt, I took it. I would’ve done anything to get better.
But after I’d cleared physical therapy and dealt with the worst of the stiffness and weakness, his interest had faded back to zero. He’d had no desire to help me dance again, he’d just wanted to make sure he wasn’t the guy who put his daughter in a wheelchair for life.
I reached out and gripped the barre, and a feeling like home grew in my chest. Standing parallel to the mirrors, I ran through a series of stretches and warm-ups. Even these, which used to be so easy, were more difficult now, and occasional aches made me wince, but I kept running through them until the motions smoothed out, becoming graceful and light.
The movement soothed me, and I got lost in the rhythmic patterns of breath and extension. But when I heard the door open and close, all the ease evaporated from my body. When I glanced up, Finn had slipped into the room.
Motherfucker. I knew that was too damn easy.
My breath tried to come faster, but I refused to let it, inhaling through my nose as I grabbed the barre with my other hand and switched sides. After a few minutes of silence, I peeked out of the corner of my eye, but he was still there. Still staring, with an unreadable expression on his face.
“I use this room too sometimes,” he said finally.
“Yeah?” I asked as I straightened up and raised my arms above my head. “For practice?”
Finn laughed dryly, his lips curling up on one side, making his dimple pop. He strolled toward me with his hands in his pockets, tilting his head to the side as he examined me, watching me point and flex my foot.
“I think we both know I don’t need practice, Idaho,” he said evenly. “You know what I use the room for.”
I glanced at him and grimaced. Is it rude to vomit right on rich boy shoes? Yeah, I knew exactly what he meant. He brought girls here and let them suck his dick. Maybe more than that, for all I knew.
Fuck. My stomach churned. Is he going to try to throw me out?
I knew he could if he wanted to, but I didn’t want to go. I needed the quiet, the empty space, the chance to do one thing that brought me joy.
“So, what’s your point?” I asked when he wouldn’t stop staring, making my skin flush.
“My point is that if you’re going to be doing all that”—he waved a hand toward the barre and the mirrors—“we’ll have to learn to share it.”
I blinked, too stunned to reply.
He didn’t seem to think a response was necessary though. He turned away and sat against the wall before he pulled out his phone and started scrolling on it. My heart sped up, watching him sit there so casually, like there was nothing at all odd about this situation.