“Vi,” he tries.
“Do you ever want to say something so fucking bad,” I whisper, my attention fixed on my shoes, “but you know that no one will give as big a fuck about it as you?”
He nods slowly, then reaches out and pulls the lace of my boot. I watch in silence as he completely undoes it and gently slides it off my foot. Then my sock.
My feet are… dancer feet. They’ve improved since I haven’t been training, but the remnants are there. My toenails are chipped and short. My toes are crooked from years in pointe shoes. My feet and ankles are still flexible. I stretch every morning and crack my joints. My foot is still pretty by ballet standards, but to the naked, untrained eye…
I pull my leg in, but he grasps my ankle.
“Stop.” I know the power it holds, and I say it anyway.
He stills.
It’s the word. The magic word that ends everything between us. A wall slams down into place—that wall is his guard and my own defense against him. It’s going to save both of us.
I exhale. I can deal with him choking me, chasing me through a forest, fucking me into a different stratosphere, bullying me—but I can’t bear this kindness.
Not when I don’t believe it to be true.
“If we’re sharing a room, fine. I can live with that,” I tell him. “But I’m not doing… whatever you were about to do.” I rise and snatch my toiletries. “I need a shower.”
And he’d better believe I’m locking the door behind me.
31
GREYSON
Iconsider Violet Reece.Before. The girl who seemed to have everything together.
Outward appearances can be deceiving. I know that better than anyone.
While she hides in the bathroom, I pull up a video of the Crown Point Ballet. One of their shows that stars my girl as the lead. I keep the screen close to my face, trying to analyze her every expression when she dances.
There’s another video in the suggested list on the side—an interview with Mia Germain and Violet. I don’t know who Mia is, but I’m curious toseeViolet. Not just dancing, but her demeanor.
It’s different in front of a camera, that much is immediately obvious. Her and an older woman sit in cushioned chairs side by side. Violet on screen is thinner than she is now. She wears a t-shirt, leggings, and a wraparound cardigan cinched tight to her waist. It gapes at the top. Her hair is slicked back in a bun. Even her face has a sharpness to it that isn’t present nowadays.
The date on the video is from a year ago.
I hit play.
“Mia,” an off-camera woman says, “you’ve created a stunning company, and this latest show is probably your best work to date. Was it a hard decision choosing your next ballet?”
Mia Germain, director. Her name and title appear under her in blocky letters, hovering there for a moment and then vanishing. I skip through her answer.
“And Violet,” the interviewer says. “You’re nineteen, with the world ahead of you, and you’ve just been cast as the principal in Mia’s upcoming production ofSwan Lake. Can you tell us what went through your head when you found out?”
Violet rubs her hands together and leans forward. Her smile is enigmatic. “It’s a dream come true. Mia called me and told me just a few days ago, actually. There were some tears… After this show wraps up, we’re beginning rehearsals for it. I couldn’t be more thankful to Mia for giving me this opportunity.”
“Violet has enormous potential,” Mia interjects, patting Violet’s leg. “She has a unique ability to portray both the innocence of the white swan and the darker side of our black swan.”
“Did you draw inspiration from any other ballerinas, Violet?”
“Turn that off.”
I drop my phone. It falls off the bed and across the floor, coming to a stop under the desk. It still plays as I stare at the real Violet. The girl in the flesh.
How different she is now. Her skin flushes, her hair is shiny. She’s got a body that I don’t think I’m going to break when I sink into her.