Page 42 of Off Balance

That escalated quickly.

I just wanted a kiss. Something short and sweet and simple. It's stupid, but I thought it would help me put this behind us. I thought maybe it would tie up the growing attraction between us with a nice little bow, so we could say we did it and move on. Or maybe I thought it would be awkward or unsatisfying, that I wouldn't want him enough if I had a taste of reality. I thought I was thinking clearly, although my reasons make little sense to me now. Hindsight is twenty/twenty and all that. Because I was wrong.

Sowrong. Monumentally wrong.

It took less than a second for me to realize just how wrong I was. He kissed me like he'd die if he didn't have me, like he could consume me in one bite. And before I knew it, I was on my back and so close to begging him to fuck me, I almost cried. Instead, I apologized, because that really wasn't what I planned. Not that I wanted it to stop.

Now I've come all over myself twice in one morning and my lips are so swollen and raw that I'm afraid to leave the studio for fear of being found out. Of course, no one would ever suspect that it was Dom who wrecked me so thoroughly.

After putting myself together and dressing in some dance tights and a tank top, I head out onto the studio floor. I stand in a beam of sunlight pouring in from the huge windows and let the warmth soak into my bones. There's still a slight lingering headache from last night, and my muscles are sore from not stretching or working out after a strenuous day yesterday.

I spread my yoga mat out in the sun and leisurely work through my yoga routine, holding each pose for longer than usual. The tension melts from my body, my limbs loosen, and head clears enough to think more clearly.

Now that I've experienced what it's like to kiss Dom, to be consumed by him, I don't know that I can walk away. I don't want to pretend it's not happening, because whatever is happening is something different. It’s something more than anything I've ever experienced before, but I don't know what to do about it.

Can I risk the bond that's grown between us to chase what might be a fleeting feeling? What would my mother and stepfather say? Would they chalk it up to my past destructive behavior and decide I'm not worth the effort anymore? Or would they blame Dom and make me the victim of an older man's advances? It wouldn't be the first time my damaged heart did something stupid for the attention of a man that would ultimately hurt me.

Will Dom hurt me? Does he even have a chance not to?

My eyes fall on the blue box he gave me last night at the ballet. He must have left the gift in here for me to find and use at my leisure. I open the box, unfolding the tissue to reveal the pristine satin pointe shoes. Underneath them are ribbons, elastic, needle and thread, a small pair of scissors, and a lighter. Dom either did his research, or the person who sold him the shoes was very thorough and made sure he knew what was needed for a first pair of new pointe shoes.

I've seen and helped countless peers prepare a new pair of shoes, so the process isn't foreign to me. It's exciting and weirdly soothing to be preparing my own pair. Once I've bent and broken them enough to be somewhat flexible, I sit back to put my foot inside the shoe. My heart beats frantically with excitement as I lace them up, bending and arching my foot to feel them out. I start by walking around in them flat-footed before standing at the barre and moving through basic positions. Once I'm feeling a bit more comfortable with the shape and feel of the shoes, I test standing on my toes. I know it isn't as easy as it looks, and that's considering that it doesn't look easy at all. I'm careful to balance my weight carefully and move slowly.

Finally, I work up to standing completely en pointe, building confidence until I'm able to do each position completely on my toes. I hold fifth position, one foot placed in front of the other, and lengthen my spine, extending my arms upwards. I stare at myself in the mirror, and I feel every bit as strong and graceful and capable as Dom says I am.

Maybe I can do this.

Slowly and carefully, I attempt a few basic steps of the dance I've been working on. The one I do for him at night. The one I started because I needed an outlet to pour all of this confused emotion and energy into. The pointe shoes give the routine something itdidn't have before, even if I'm not perfectly steady on them just yet. I know in my bones they'll be perfect for my vision of the dance. Just wearing them makes me feel different—like magic sunglasses.

When I was little, my mother wore a pair of huge sunglasses that covered most of her face. She told me they were her armor, that when she was scared, she could put on her sunglasses and pretend no one else could see her. She gave me a pair to wear to school when I first started kindergarten. I hid behind them until the day one of my classmates wore a tutu to class and showed us what she'd learned at her first ballet class.

These shoes are my magic sunglasses, only with a less tragic backstory.

It took me several years to understand that she was hiding behind them, so no one could see the bruises or the sadness that pulled at her constantly. Sometimes I witnessed him put her down, make jokes or passive remarks about her housekeeping or how I was turning out. But my father never hit her in front of me until I was eleven years old. For the most part, he ignored me. I spent most of my childhood trying to get his attention when he was home from leave. He acted like I didn't exist, because, in his words, "No son of his would be a sissy." Then the day came that he found out mom was letting me take dance classes at the local community center while he was overseas. He tore me out of that class so fast I had whiplash. Then he backhanded my mom across the face right there in the parking lot where anyone could see. Only there was no one around to help us.

I tried every sport our little town rec center offered, but I was terrible at all of them. I'd end up injured, or with my face shoved in the dirt. After it seemed I'd never stop coming home bloody, my mother managed to talk him into letting me try non-teamsports. Swimming ended up being a good compromise, because my aunt could take me to and from practice and meets since my older cousin Antoni was on the swim team. And it just so happened the community pool was in the same building as the theater, where my aunt would mysteriously push me in the opposite direction while she followed Antoni to the pool. Before we left each evening, I'd jump into the pool so I could make sure to arrive home smelling like chlorine whenever we knew my father would be home.

"If only you could see me now, dad," I say to the mirror, examining my pose before pushing into a slow attempt at pirouette.

"Merde, what would he say, indeed?"

Emile's voice catches me off guard, and I stumble ungracefully. I stare at him for a moment, surprised to find him in my space. Then I look pointedly away and resume my correct positioning.

"I don't actually care," I say flippantly, lifting my chin defiantly. "He was an asshole." I spare him a glance in the mirror that says I don't think much better of him.

"Oh, comemon cheri, don't be cross with me."

I spin to look at him, fisting my hands at my waist to avoid throwing them in his pompous face.

"What happened last night?"

"Ah," he says, flicking a hand dismissively. "You were very drunk and embarrassing the entire company. I am surprised you are upright even this late in the morning. Your mamá told me you were most likely here. Why did you not tell me you had your own studio?"

"So you were there," I say, ignoring his question and getting back to the point. I have a vague memory of him in the hallway where I fell.

"Of course I was there. It was I who made sure you got home safely."

"By dumping me outside? Alone? Where were you? Why weren’t you with me until I was picked up?”

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