Authors: Emma Hart
Abbi’s head snaps up.
“As much as I want to know, you’ll tell me when you’re ready. I won’t push you into it.”
She looks at me earnestly for a moment before getting up and climbing onto the sofa next to me. I put my arm out, and she snuggles into my side, laying her head against my chest.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “For not judging me because of the scars.”
“I would never judge you for marks of your strength.”
“We see them very differently.”
I take her hand in mine, linking our fingers together, and stroke my thumb across the back of her hand. “One day I hope you’ll look in the mirror and see what I see.”
“I’ll be happy if one day I can look in the mirror and not see a broken girl,” she says sadly and tilts her head back to look at me. “What if it’s too much, Blake? What if everything in my past and yours is too much? What if you see Tori whenever you look at me, or if what I’m dealing with is too close to what she did? What if…” She swallows. “What if we both have so much pain inside of us we end up breaking each other’s hearts?”
“Hey.” I lean my head back on the sofa, taking her with me, and squeeze her. “That’s a lot of what ifs right there, Abs. You don’t know any of that will happen, and if it does, then we’ll have to cross that bridge when we get to it. There’s no point in dwelling on things that might be, ‘cause they could just as easily
not
be. Besides, you can’t break something that’s already broken. If we both just stay a little broken, we should be just fine.”
She smiles through the hesitance in her eyes, and it’s one that lights up her whole face. “I guess that’s one way to look at it.”
I smile back at her, releasing her hand and trailing mine up her arm to cup the back of her head. “No,” I mutter, pulling her into me. “It’s the
only way to look at it.”
I bring her lips to mine and kiss her gently. She curls her fingers into the blanket wrinkled at my waist, and sighs into my mouth.
“By all accounts, I should be running away from any guy that tries to touch me,” Abbi muses. “But I don’t feel like I need to. I’m not scared of us at all.”
“Were you ever scared of us?”
“Of a relationship. Not of you. I don’t think I’ve ever felt like I needed to be scared of you.”
“Well, that’s reassuring.” I laugh.
“Oh, shush.” She laughs with me.
I brush some hair from her face and think about the second time we met. “I guess I was right after all.”
“What?”
“My supposed pick-up line.”
“Oh, god.”
“Oi.” I run my thumb across her bottom lip. “You don’t argue with fate.”
She closes her eyes for a second and runs a finger along her thigh, tracing the place I’d imagine her scar is. When she opens her eyes, she looks directly into mine, emotion shining through in them.
“No. I guess you definitely don’t.”
~
Two days without my mother has been bliss. When this morning rolled around, I almost thought she wouldn’t call – for the first time ever, I hoped she wouldn’t call. Listening to her talk about Dad trying to push Jase into working with him although she knows it isn’t what he wants to do made me realize how stifling my life in London was. I never really got that until I tasted freedom. Hopefully, Jase will get the same chance.
For now, though, my freedom is on hold as Mum did call. And demanded I get my ass round to her hotel room right now.
Okay. So she didn’t quite say it like that, but she may as well have. The disappointment in her tone was enough of an indicator of how fun this conversation is going to be.
I knock on her hotel room door, shoving my hands in my pockets while I wait for her to answer. She does after a few minutes, a glass of white wine in hand.
“I’m glad you could find the time to come here,” Mum says, walking into her room.
“You honestly made it sound like I didn’t have much of a choice.” I nudge the door shut behind me. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, Blake, but I think you should come home.”
I stare at her, unmoving, for a long moment before I speak. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you correctly.”
Mum sighs, putting her glass on the side. “I think it would be better if you came home and moved back in with us. I spoke to Yvette this morning – she said there’s a job open for you if you want it.”
“No way.” I shake my head, folding my arms across my chest. “I
live
here, Mum. You never cared where I lived before – why does it matter so much now?”
“That isn’t true,” she protests. “You know I’m busy with work. I didn’t think you’d stay here as long as you have, I’ll be honest, son. I thought you’d be back in a couple of weeks.”
“You do realize I’m an adult, therefore perfectly capable of taking care of myself?”
“Yes, yes, I know you are.” She sighs heavily and rubs her temples, like this conversation is wearing her down already. “I just don’t know if New York is right for you.”
It clicks.
“This is about Abbi isn’t it?”
Mum says nothing, busying herself with packing her suitcase.
“Isn’t it?” I raise my voice. She hesitates long enough for me to catch it. “Unreal. Even for you, Mum, this is bloody unreal.”
“She’s not exactly who I pictured my son ending up with. Then again, I didn’t expect him to be a dancer either.”
“I get it – I do. I’m the disappointment and all that, but I don’t get what Abbi has to do with this.”
“She’s not good enough for you.”
“What?” I half-yell, half-laugh. “What the hell makes you think that? Doesn’t she have enough money? Enough connections in your social circle?”
“It’s not that at all.”
“Then what is it?!”
“She’s…” Mum slams her suitcase shut, turning and facing me. “She’s
ill
, Blake. It’s not fair for you to take on that burden. You know what happens with people like her-”
““People like her?”” I shake my head slowly, throwing my arms up. “Exactly what does that mean?”
“You know what it means.”
“So because my sister killed herself, and Abbi has depression it means she will too? God, Mum. Talk about tarring people with the same brush.”
Mum breathes in sharply. “This is not about your sister.”
“It never is, is it?”
“Blake.”
“No, Mum. It is about Tori, otherwise you wouldn’t have a problem with a girl you’ve met
once.
You know nothing about Abbi yet you feel like you can judge her just because she has depression. Why? Because she doesn’t hide it? Because she accepts the fact she has it? What is it that bothers you, really?”
“I find it very hard to believe you have any interest in this girl other than trying to save her because none of us saved Tori,” she spits.
“And she stars again,” I mutter, rubbing my hands down my face. “It’s not because of Tori. Maybe that’s what drew me to her in the first place, but when I look at Abbi all I see is Abbi. Not Tori, not the past. I see Abbi and the goddamn future. Do you understand that, Mum? I don’t see the weakness Tori had, or the way she gave up. I see a girl who accepts the shit she’s been thrown and gets the hell on with it – I see someone with a dream and a fight for life Tori never had. Abbi wants to live, and I want to help her do that. For her. No one else.”
Mum is quiet for a long second. “You came here for Tori.”
“Wrong. I came here for me. I won’t leave because of the promise I made her, but I came here for me.”
“You are making a
mistake,
Blake.”
“I think I’m old enough to decide that for myself,” I reply coldly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t interested enough in law to work with Dad, or attracted enough to the stuck-up girls you shoved in my face for years. I’m sorry I never played football like Jase does, but mostly I’m sorry you and Dad have never been able to accept me for who I am. And I’m not coming home. I’m making a life here in New York for myself. I have a job, a place to live, a route to my dream, and despite what you say, I have a girl I’d move heaven and Earth for if I had to. If me being happy is disappointing to you, then that’s your problem, Mum.” I glance at my watch. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go. I have a job to get to.”
I ignore her shocked calls of my name, pull the room door open, and disappear down the hall to the lift. The doors shut in front of me, and I breathe out, relaxing my shoulders.
Good God.
I should have done that bloody years ago.
I run my fingers down the seam of the short sleeved leotard I haven’t worn for two years. I have no idea if it’ll even fit me now.
I breathe deeply and step out of my clothes, ready to pull it on. Even if I only ever wear it at home when I dance in the garage, it’s something, and it’s more than I would have done before.
I catch my reflection in the mirror as I straighten, the leotard still in my hand. I close my eyes. My number one rule is not to get changed in front of the mirror, not to see the marks that cover my body, but this time it feels different. I feel like I can open my eyes and look at them for the first time ever.
So I do.
My eyes crawl across my slender frame, toned from dancing, and they take in every spot, blemish and scar marring my skin. I look at every one, examining them like I can remember when each one happened. The last ones are the easiest to see – they’re whiter, thicker, and more raised than the others.
Each one has a story to tell, each one a scene in a horrifying chapter of my life I can’t delete.
I scrutinize them all from my arms to my legs. And finally, I accept them for what they are.
Battle scars.
No matter how unsightly they are or how ashamed of them I am, no matter how I might try to hide them or forget about their existence, that’s the bottom line. That’s the basic truth I will never be able to escape from.
They’re my battle scars, earned over a time when I was honestly fighting for my life. They’re the things that remind me that even in the face of true pain, I was able to stay strong and keep fighting. I was able to face each day head on, albeit with fears and worries, but I still did it.
And that’s all my depression is now. Another battle scar. A silent one that will never be shown, a scar just for me, but a scar all the same. And just like the others, this too will fade.
Depression: the name given to people who are strong enough to face the outside world when their own is crashing down around them.
I put my legs into the leotard and pull it up my body. It rolls up my stomach, and my arms go in, tugging it all the way up. And it fits. It fits just as snugly as it did two years ago, and the black lycra against my pale skin is more striking than I remember. I step backwards slowly, my eyes on my reflection, and stop. My hair flows over one shoulder, and if it wasn’t for the darkened color of it, I’d almost think I was looking at the Abbi I was before.
But I’m not, and I never will again. I’m looking at me, the new me, the me I was supposed to be all along. The broken, damaged me that is somehow still holding onto life.
Somehow.
There is no somehow, I realize as I touch my finger to my cheek. I’m not holding onto life itself – merely the smaller things that make it up.
My parents. Maddie. Dance. Juilliard.
Blake
.
I don’t have to hold onto all of them, only a little part. As long as I’m holding onto a small part of them, then I have a hold on life. I just need to remember what makes life worth living, and that’s the center of it. They are the things my world revolves around, even if Blake did sneak his way in smoother than a ninja could.
If I can keep a hold on them, I can keep a hold on life. And faced with the honesty of my scars, I know I can.
Because I’m strong.
I’m not a shadow of the person I was.
She is a shadow of me.
~
Blake’s hands are warm on my waist as he lifts me from my
plié
and onto his shoulder. My arms are in fifth position, raised and curved above my head, and my back is poker straight. There’s nothing comfortable about this position – I think sitting on hot coals would be more comfortable, to be completely honest, but it’s vital to our dance.
I take a deep breath as I feel Blake’s body shift, and he drops me into a fish dive. His fingers curve around my thigh and he holds me steady as we spin, my body stretched out. He lowers me gradually, spinning at an almost glacial pace, and I move into
arabesque
, one leg out behind me. I bring it down and straighten my body up, Blake’s hands moving to my stomach and my hand to
promenade.
I count his turns, and on five, he releases me, leaving me to
fouette
until I drill my way through the floor.
I still, finishing the
adage
section of our dance, and turn my eyes to him. It’s the first time I’ve truly watched him dance. The first time I’ve truly let myself watch him, and I’m spellbound. My eyes follow his every move, fluid and precise as he dances across the floor. Every step, arm position, turn, leap, every single thing about his dance is beautiful. It’s a struggle to stay standing as I watch him. All I want to do is sink to the floor and stare at him dancing the way a child stares at the television.
And he doesn’t even know. He’s so lost in his moves, so focused on what he’s doing, I’d bet anything he can’t feel my gaze searing into him and burning holes in his back.
He stops, his variation over, and his eyes slowly open. A smirk graces his lips when he sees me staring at him, and I drop my eyes to the floor.
At least I’m still standing and not on my ass.
I step into my dance with the ease of someone that’s done these steps their whole life. In reality, I made them up last night. I walked into the garage after Blake went to work, dressed in my short leotard, and let myself go completely. And this dance, filled with
bourreés
,
coupés,
and one of my favorite steps, an
échappe sauté,
is a dance from the heart. It tells a story from despair to fleeting moments of true happiness, starting off slowly and building in speed until the
coda
section of our dance
,
when Blake comes back into it.
This dance is easy. True. Real. Free.
This dance is everything I feel when I dance.
Everything I want to be.
Blake’s hand clasping mine and pulling me to him signals the start of the
coda,
and I don’t bat an eyelid as we dance alongside each other. It’s only been mere weeks we’ve danced together but it feels so much longer. I know, after this weekend, what we have is so much more than just a
pas de deux.
What we have away from the studio strengthens what we have inside.
He knows my every move and adjusts to it without thinking, even when I make a split second decision and change out a step for something else. He doesn’t stop, he doesn’t say a word, and he doesn’t get annoyed. He simply changes direction, falling in with me.
And when his hands rest on my waist again, strong and determined, I push off as he lifts. The explosive motion results in a perfect
grande jeté,
my legs completely straight in their split as Blake lifts me through the air. I feel weightless, like I’m flying, and my drop back down is easy. My feet touch the ground and my knees bend. Blake’s hands travel from my waist down my arms to my hands and I push up
en pointe,
arching my back and dropping my head behind me. My arms are stretched to the sides, and the only thing stopping me falling backward is Blake’s grip on my fingers.
His lips touch mine, a barely there brush, and he flicks me back up.
That wasn’t in the original dance.
I spin away from him, pausing a few meters away, and turn. His arms are stretched toward me, his eyes intent on mine, and I spring to him. Like that time in the garage, my hands hit his shoulders, his hands grip my waist, and he propels me into the air above him, my legs going instinctively into
arabesque.
Our faces are so close I can feel his breath across my lips, and I smile, moving my legs. They do a split sideways, and I hold them for a long beat, then wrap them around Blake’s waist.
He laughs quietly, sliding his hands around my back and splaying his fingers. I smile, dropping my face down to his, and wrap my arms around his neck.
“This isn’t part of the dance,” he whispers, still laughing.
I shake my head, smiling, and touch my lips to his.
Three weeks ago, I couldn’t take the closeness of dancing with him. It scared me. It was too much to deal with. Three weeks ago, I ran out of class because everything felt wrong.
Now, with my body wrapped around his, and him holding me for all it’s worth, everything feels right.
~
“You didn’t tell me you were changing the dance.”
“You didn’t tell me
you
were.”
Blake turns, grinning. “For the record, I like the new ending.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course you do.”
“What?” He puts a large plastic bowl filled with popcorn on his coffee table and drops himself backward onto the sofa. “What do you expect from a guy?”
“Honestly, I don’t know.” A sad tinge works its way into my voice.
He leans his head back and looks at me. “I want to ask why that sounds like an honest answer instead of a sarcastic one.”
“It sounds like it because it is.” I smile sadly and look down at my jeans, picking some lint off them. “I really don’t know what to expect. He… Pearce… He gave a new meaning to the words “Always expect the unexpected.” He took everything I expected and made me think I was wrong.”
“I’m not gonna like this, am I?” Blake mutters, taking my hand and threading his fingers through mine.
“Probably not,” I admit. “But… I want you to know… If any of what I’m about to say makes you feel any differently, I won’t be offended if-”
He cups my chin and raises my face so we’re eye-to-eye. “Abbi, there is nothing you could say to me that would make me feel any differently. Whatever’s happened to you in the past is just that. In the past. None of that will make a blind bit of difference to how I feel about you right now.”
I nod, silence falling as I try to gather my words. With Dr. Hausen it was easier. My brain had blocked out most of the memories, locking them away and letting them out gradually. Now they’re all out. They’re ready to haunt me the second I let them.
If
I let them.
“I guess I should start at the beginning and tell you Pearce is Maddie’s brother. Yep.” I hold my hand up to stop him talking. “The Maddie you met. Their mom was killed in a drive-by shooting a few years ago. She wasn’t the target – she was just an innocent bystander caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. Maddie was there when it happened, and her death all but tore her family apart. Her dad isn’t the guy he was, and Pearce did what most grieving people did; he looked for an outlet for his emotions, a way to ease his pain. In high school it was easy enough, so he started staying out at weekends and partying. Alcohol soon turned to drugs, and casual usage became a full-blown addiction. By mine and Maddie’s senior year, he was hooked on heroin, but it wasn’t so bad there was no Pearce left in him. Or so we thought, and for some goddamn stupid reason, he and I ended up in a relationship.
“I thought I could help him. I loved their mom almost as much as they did – her death killed me, too – but I was wrong. I didn’t know it then. I wouldn’t know it for a while. Our relationship started as any other did, until he started talking me into going to parties with him. Maddie came too, and it wasn’t until then we realized Pearce needed heroin to survive. He was one hundred percent addicted, needing an almost constant high, and if he didn’t get that high, he would turn.
“On his comedown or his craving stages, he was volatile. He was almost evil, possessed with nothing but the need for more of the drug that put him like that. God forbid you got in his way during those times. If you did, it didn’t end well for you. He had a barrage of verbal abuse he’d throw at you, and he knew how to throw a good punch.” I close my eyes and whisper, “And he didn’t care who you were. His friend, a stranger… His girlfriend.”
Blake’s hand tightens around mine.
“As his girlfriend, I got the worst end of the deal. He was paranoid from using the drugs and he was obsessed with the idea his friends were trying to take me from him. I don’t know why it bothered him – he didn’t really want me himself. I was more an accessory for him, something to look pretty on his arm. Something to hide the reality of what he was.
“Anyway, the paranoia meant I was barely allowed to leave his side at a party. The few times I was, Maddie had to be there, and then she was lecturing me about leaving him, so I ended up just staying with him. Which meant I was there for every stage of his addiction. His craving, his high, and his comedown. I took the brunt of it all. Verbal and physical. He didn’t care who I was in that state. All he wanted was the drug, and it’s like he thought I was the one keeping him from it. I was, at first, then I learnt it was pointless because he was going to get it anyway. But I still thought I could save him. I always thought I could save him from himself.”
I breathe in deeply, images playing behind my eyes in quick succession, and I open them to stop them. I need to stop the box of memories opening and flooding into me, taking me under, drowning me in pain. I need to pause it, let the words come as I want them to, not as the past does.