Page 7 of You're the Reason

Grace spooned the last of her vegetable soup into her mouth letting the perfect blend of flavors linger on her tongue before she swallowed. Then again, maybe home cooking was worth the long quiet meal.She reached for the ladle.

“Seconds, Grace?” Her father looked up from the paper for the first time. “You didn’t dance today and therefore don’t require the same amount of calories as usual. Maybe sit with that and see how you feel in twenty minutes.”

Grace let go of the ladle and sat back. “And of course, I need to save room fordessert.”

Both parents’ spoons dropped to their bowls as they stared at her. Only in the Howell family did refined sugar bring the same reaction as if she’d just announced she was getting a face tattoo.

“I’m kidding.” She lifted the napkin from her lap and wiped her mouth. “Stop looking at me that way. I haven’t had sugar since I was thirteen.”

It had been cake at a friend’s birthday party. Chocolate with chocolate frosting. She still dreamed about that cake. The reality couldn’t be as good as what she had built up the memory to be, but she kept it tucked away for cold nights. Or for when she was denied a second bowl of soup.

Her father wiped his mouth with his napkin and then set it beside his plate. “Are we going to talk about why you’re here and not taking the stage in Chicago as Giselle in ten minutes?”

“The scar tissue has built up in my knee again. The orthopedist the company uses wants to do surgery to clean it out.”

“But that would take you out for the season—or longer.” Her mom crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re already twenty-three, can you afford that in your career?”

“Madame Laurent agreed and decided I should move to the role of Myrtha.”

“Myrtha?” her father spoke up. “But you’re Giselle.”

“Madame Laurent hopes that if we reduce the strain on my leg, it could extend my career by a couple of years.”

“We’ll get a second opinion. That’s not an acceptable spot for you.” Of course her father wouldn’t think so. After all, he hadn’t bothered to attend any of her performances unless she was the star. He pulled out his phone and started tapping at it as fast as he could.

And this was why she hadn’t called her parents when this first came up a week ago. “I agree, and I told them I needed to get a second opinion before I would make a decision. And if you remember, Dr. Medler helped me with the scar tissue problem I had in early high school. I already made an appointment with him.”

“What did he have to say?” Her dad paused his typing and looked up. Was that a tinge of respect she saw in his eyes?

“The appointment got moved to tomorrow morning.”

Any light in his eyes dimmed as his mouth pressed into a line. “Maybe we should try to get you into Dr. Simmons. He did your mother’s knee replacement and?—”

“No.” She tried to make the word kind but firm. “I have an appointment tomorrow morning. I will let you know what?—”

“You will let us know, like you let us know about the appointment you had today with him?” Her mother tapped her finger on the table to punctuate her words. “Tell me, would you have even called us had he not had to move the appointment until tomorrow?”

No. But it wasn’t because she didn’t want to talk about it with them. She wanted their opinion. She wanted to talk through this with them, walk through this with them, but they didn’t give opinions, they gave demands.

“I am sorry I didn’t call before. But?—”

“But nothing.” Her mother stood and carried her bowl to the sink a few feet away. “You didn’t call. See how that turned out? Now you can let your father call Dr. Simmons?—”

“No, I won’t.” Because not only did she believe Dr. Medler would have a solution, but letting her dad step in wouldn’t just be one appointment. “I plan to head back to Chicago right after the appointment tomorrow. I will call you and let you know how it goes. I promise.”

“Head back to Chicago?” Her dad’s eyes narrowed. “Didn’t you turn down the part of Myrtha?”

“I told them I would give them an answer after talking to Dr. Medler.”

“Taking time off for recovery isn’t a good idea.” Her mother folded her arms across her chest again. “You have invested too much, done too much, to consider it.”

“But taking a lesser role isn’t okay either.” Her father carried his bowl to the sink, letting it drop a little too hard with a loud clatter, but nothing seemed to have cracked. “You have built a reputation in the industry. Don’t tarnish it. Another company would pick you up.”

And they wondered why she hadn’t called them a week ago. Grace added her bowl to the sink, then began clearing the rest of the dishes. “I’m not deciding until I talk to Dr. Medler.”

Her mom lifted her hand in the air in frustration. “I won’t let you throw away everything?—”

She spun to face her mother, some of the water splashing on the floor. “This isn’t yourdecision.”

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