Page 29 of Endless Love

FIFTEEN

Willow

Following the movie, I didn’t see Ryan all weekend. Having given him my cell phone number, he texted me on Saturday, but I told him I was still feeling ill. I lied saying it was some kind of bug, but I knew better. The movie had aroused in me my great need to dance, something I’d managed to suppress since I’d come back home. It also rekindled my great fear of going back to the thing I loved most. The world of ballet. The all-consuming world that had made every molecule of my being feel alive but had almost destroyed me. My insides felt shredded, my crippling anxiety gnawing at me. My father, God bless him, let me stay in bed all weekend, and believed I actually had come down with something since I spent a good deal of time in the bathroom on account of my upset stomach. The homemade chicken soup he kept bringing me did nothing for my aching soul. Though he was getting stronger every day, he was the last person with whom I wanted to share my condition. There was only one person I wanted to talk to.

Dr. Goodman. On Monday, I had my standing appointment with him and dragged myself out of bed, trying to make myself look as presentable as possible. Even after a hot shower, my reflection in the bathroom mirror looked gaunt and haggard. Dark circles orbited my eyes and my complexion was pasty. Tossing and turning at night, I hadn’t slept much and the sleep deprivation only added to my malaise.

“So, what’s been going on?” asked my therapist as I fidgeted in a chair facing him. I’d decided to sit in a chair rather than lay down on the couch because I feared I might conk out.

“I think I had a set back.” My voice was small and uncertain.

His brows rose slightly. “Tell me about it.”

“I went to see a movie—The Red Shoes.”

A smile flashed on his kind face. “Ah, that’s one of my wife’s favorite movies. Moira Shearer, right?”

I nodded.

“What made you see it?”

“Ryan took me. We went on a date.”

Stroking his beard, he nodded approvingly. “That’s good.”

“No, it wasn’t good.” My voice grew stronger. “It made me really upset. I burst into tears. Uncontrollable tears. I was sick to my stomach all weekend.”

He listened intently. “I see. And why do you think the movie had that effect on you?”

Of course, he knew why. He’d treated me for almost ten years. He just wanted to hear me articulate the reason.

“It made me feel sad.”

“It’s a sad movie,” he commented. “But that’s not really why it had that effect.”

My stomach crunched. Dr. Goodman was so damn smart and somehow he was going to get me to face the truth.

“Did you tell Ryan why the movie affected you?

I shook my head again. “No, I simply told him I was sick. I made him take me home.”

“Does Ryan know anything about your recent past?”

I shook my head again. “Not really.”

“Why haven’t you told him?”

“I hardly know him. I don’t feel comfortable yet confiding in him.”

Dr. Goodman refocused on the movie. “Willow, let’s backtrack. Why do you really think the movie had that profound effect on you?”

I spewed the answer. “I identified with the heroine. Her burning need to dance. It made me miss ballet, but at the same time it made me feel very afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Afraid of falling.” I meant that literally and figuratively. Of falling flat down on my face. And of letting myself fall for him.

“Willow, do you want to dance professionally again?”

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