Asher and I never figured out a new strategy for telling Vincent. At this point, we were winging it and hoping the right moment would come up in conversation, which wasn’t really a strategy at all, but it was all we had.
Thankfully, Vincent didn’t suspect a thing. After his Angry Boar outing with Asher, the two developed a wary but burgeoning…well, friendship might be too strong a word. It was more like a friendly acquaintanceship.
Whatever it was, it meant the rest of our training sessions passed by smoothly. I’d hyped up the drama of Vincent’s return so much in my mind that the ease with which he transitioned back into our lives was almost unsettling.
However, as the days wound down toward the start of the season, my anxiety took flight again.
Everyone would be back in London, which meant more eyes on us and more opportunities to get caught. I understood and even agreed with Asher’s reasoning for postponing our Big Talk with my brother, but my mind couldn’t stop chasing down every scenario where things might go wrong.
What if someone captured a photo of us on the street and uploaded it online the way they did with Clive and me?
What if Vincent ran into Clive himself and the rugby player exposed us? I hadn’t talked to him since I told him we wouldn’t work after our double date, but I knew he and Asher didn’t get along.
What if Vincent found out about the private ballet studio or our trip to Japan? I managed to keep the Asia trip a secret from my brother because it was so short, and I’d blamed my delayed replies to his texts on my busy schedule. But all it took was one slip-up or errant picture on the internet to blow our cover.
Part of me wished Asher and I had been honest from the start, but it was too late. We were stuck in a web of our own design.
My worries and disjointed thoughts jumbled in my head. I was so distracted that I missed two counts and stumbled when I tried to correct myself.
“Dammit!” The curse slipped out on a bed of frustration.
I stopped, rested my forearms on the barre, and placed my head on them as I tried to reorient myself.
I couldn’t tack on my extra practices to Asher and Vincent’s training for obvious reasons, so I’d rehearsed alone since my brother’s return. Asher offered the use of his private studio in the evenings anyway, but I was too paranoid to sneak over to his house.
I’d been doing so well over the summer. However, without Asher there, I was making more mistakes. Losing focus. Questioning myself.
The noticeable change in the quality of my rehearsals added another layer of anxiety.
What if he was the secret ingredient? Could I perform in front of a crowd without him next to me, encouraging me?
My stomach cramped.
No. As much as I lov—liked Asher, I refused to make my success dependent on another person.
I didn’t care if I was practicing as an understudy and that I’d probably never get the chance to perform onstage. I was going to nail this bloody dance on my own.
I gritted my teeth against the slow creep of exhaustion and forced myself to stand again. I had ten minutes left in the ballet’s final act. I could finish it.
My body might hate me for it later, but I would hate myself more if I gave up now. It was easier to soothe physical pains than it was emotional ones, especially if they were self-inflicted.
My old therapist and doctors said my determination to push myself to my limits was toxic and unhealthy. They were right; it was, which was why I didn’t advocate my choices to others. I wouldn’t want anyone else to override their body’s warning signs the way I did mine.
But that was them and this was me. I was hard-wired for competition, which included competing against myself.
I had to win, so I pushed.
And it worked.
I restarted from where I’d stumbled and made it through to the end without botching the choreography.
I held the final position for two beats before my legs gave out and I half sank, half collapsed on the floor. Bile rose in my throat; I was either going to throw up, pass out, or both.
My muscles trembled as I tried to breathe through a white-hot blaze of pain. It engulfed my body, scalding my arms, shoulders, and legs and sinking so deep into my bones that every joint ached. A migraine pounded behind my temple, and the room seemed to tilt as I struggled to get my bearings.
Tears prickled my eyes.
I hadn’t had this terrible of a flare-up in a long, long time. I knew it was a likely outcome given how hard I’d exerted myself over the past few weeks, but I hadn’t expected to crumple so suddenly and viciously.
My emergency packet of pain pills beckoned from my bag. They were just out of arm’s reach.
I pulled my legs up to my chest and rested my head on my knees. It helped with the dizziness, but not the pain.
Every muscle screamed, but…but.
I’d finished the choreography. And I’d nailed it the second time around.
Inhale, exhale.
One, two, three, four…
By the time I reached a hundred, my tears had dried. When I reached two hundred, the needle-sharp pain had dulled into a steady ache.
Thank God I didn’t have classes for the rest of the afternoon. I didn’t want my students to walk in and find me curled up on the floor, crying.
I’d purposely scheduled my rehearsals for the end of the day, when I was supposed to be working on my lesson plans, but I could do that at home.
Eventually, the pain and nausea faded enough for me to raise my head. The world returned in bits and pieces, starting with the intermittent buzz of my phone.
