Page 47 of Off Balance

I won't go out like he did.

CHAPTER 13

CAMERON

Mom and Dwayne are laughing about something to do with mom jeans making a comeback when I walk into the kitchen. Both of them are so surprised to see me, it makes me feel guilty for avoiding everyone. Especially since neither of them have anything to do with my issues with Emile or Dom. It's not their fault I can barely look anyone in the eye for fear they'll see the guilt on my face.

Mom rushes to hug me, and Dwayne automatically begins making me a cup of tea. "Thanks, Dwayne, but I think I'll go for the hard stuff today," I say, pouring myself a cup of black coffee and wincing at the bitterness.

"We've got some of that non-dairy creamer you like," Dwayne says with a laugh. "The sweet cream coconut one."

I'm mentally calculating the calories in however much creamer it'll take to make the strong coffee palatable. Dwayne basically drinks tar as far as I'm concerned, but I need the caffeine desperately, so I nod and plan to make up for it. An extra twenty minutes in the studio this morning should do the trick.

The coffee is at least drinkable now. I sip it gingerly while I get a pan out to make myself some breakfast. Mom points out the mini muffins and cut fruit they're eating. I take some berries from the bowl of fruit but pass on the muffins.

"Are you eating enough?" My mother asks cautiously. Either she can sense my exhaustion or is predicting that I'll have a poor reaction to her trying to question my dietary choices. It’s a hard limit for me and she knows it.

"Yes," I assure her, trying and failing to keep the exasperation out of my voice. "I'm working on a calorie deficit, but I'm eating enough." I gesture pointedly to the ingredients I've pulled out of the fridge.

Her eyebrows raise, and she looks at Dwayne with concern etched across her forehead. He scrutinizes me from top to bottom, and I wish I was wearing more than dance shorts and a crop top. I'm feeling sensitive about my body right now. Emile suggested I was looking a bit bulky, and after trying on my costume, I know he’s right. I've been trying to slim down without losing too much muscle mass or cutting too many calories from my already strict diet.

My egg white and spinach omelet is flavorless, but I haven't been able to taste much more than a persistent metallic tang and the salt of my own sweat. Even the bitterness of the strong coffee only masks it for as long as it takes to gulp it down. Regardless of what it tastes like, I hope it can wake me up a little and bring me out of the fog I've been in.

The production starts in three days. The choreography is grueling, and instead of getting easier with practice, it feels like it's getting more difficult by the day. My partner for this production is our new principal ballerina, Daphne. I'm notsure if Marissa was right that she'd take her place, but Emile promoted her to fill the position the moment she was gone, much to the chagrin of the other company dancers. At least I have someone to commiserate with over being ostracized by the rest of the dancers. Although, since she isn't sleeping with Emile, and is quite talented, they might eventually come around. I hope they do, because she's actually very sweet. Talented, too. And easily the tiniest woman I've ever danced with, which is saying something for ballet dancers. Despite her small frame, I'm still feeling the strain of lifting her more than I should.

After the production ends, I'll have the rest of the spring and summer to rest and recover in between teaching and rehearsing my own piece. It'll be hard not to keep pushing myself.

I haven't told anyone yet, but I've decided to apply to the World Ballet Competition. I have my application all ready, I just have to record a video of a rehearsal or performance. The solo piece I have for the new show is perfect, especially because of how complicated the choreography is. I just have to get someone to record it for me, which might be difficult since there are no cameras allowed in the theater ofDe Pointe Elite. We will be performing the final show in the huge theater of the Performing Arts Center downtown less than a month before the application deadline. It's risky to wait until the last performance on an unfamiliar stage, but for some reason I don't want to tell Emile about the application, at least not until I find out if I'll be accepted. It'd be embarrassing if I made a big deal out of it and was denied.That, and I’m starting to think I might need an exit plan in case my relationship with Emile goes south. It’s been tense between us, and he’s been colder than ever.

I have a secret dream of dancing with the Los Angeles Ballet. It might be a lofty goal, but I’d settle for a smaller company in LAand work my way up. My cousin Antoni has been living there for the past year and he always has the most amazing things to say about it. Then again, he’s a sought-after fashion model, so he’s living the high life. A life he says he’d share with me if I decided to chase my dreams to California.

As I'm packing up a lunch to take to the studio with me—cold grilled chicken and spinach salad with pecans, dried cherries, and balsamic vinegar—I notice a photo album sitting on the kitchen table between my mom and stepdad.

"What's this?" I ask.

"I found some old albums from when Dom and I were kids. We've been reminiscing." He gestures his permission for me to look at the photos.

The first couple of pages are baby pictures of both boys. I smile at a photo of what must be Dwayne as a toddler, wearing denim overalls and a printed knit sweater, sitting on the floor with an infant propped up in his lap. Considering the baby is almost the size of the older kid, that has to be Dom. Sure enough, the neatly scrawled inscription under the photo says, "Dwayne and Domenick, November 1982.".

The next page of photos shows a large, muscular man with dark skin wearing Army fatigues walking across a small, well-kept lawn. He's got his arms wide open and a huge smile on his young, handsome face. In the next photo, a beautiful woman with light brown skin and a short, teased haircut has her arms wrapped around him—their parents. They look so happy. And very young, probably in their early twenties. I stare at the photo of their dad on his knees, being tackled by two little boys. There's a homemade"Welcome Home"sign and balloons in the background.

"Holy shit. If there weren't a time stamp on these pictures, I'd ask when Dom joined the Army."

"I know, right?" Dwayne laughs. "He's a lot like him in more than just looks. Dad was a boxer, too." He flips to the next page, where there are a few folded up posters for boxing matches and pictures of their dad in the ring.

"You didn't want to follow in his footsteps, too?"

"Nah. I was kind of a nerd. I liked training with my dad and brother, and going to matches, but I had no interest in fighting."

"He's a lover, not a fighter," my mom says, bending to kiss his cheek.

"Something like that." Dwayne laughs, but it doesn't quite sound sincere.

"I'm off to work. Y'all have a good day." She kisses my cheek. "Love you, baby," she whispers.

"Love you, too."

I turn back to the photo album after she leaves, noting the sad smile on Dwayne’s face as I flip through the next few pages. The boys get older, have birthdays, and move to a new neighborhood. There are a ton of pictures during this stretch of time, but no inscriptions. When she makes an appearance, their mom is always smiling in the photos, but it doesn't reach her eyes. She looks tired. Mr. Connor eventually shows back up in the pictures, but it's like the happiness and energy of the earlier photos was leached out of him.

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