Page 34 of Teach Me to Fly

I shrug. “I didn’t want it to.”

This building is the only part of the estate untouched by my father’s endless renovations. Either he forgot it existed when he laid out the floor plans for the construction crew, or he didn’t care enough to gut it like everything else.

It still feels like my mom in here. She used to teachprivate lessons, long before the rest of the house turned cold. I miss her, as stupid as that sounds, and this studio is the only thing she didn’t take with her, the only part of her that I have left.

Angelique moves toward the barre, trailing her fingers along the worn wood, and when she turns back to face me, I take my time looking at her. She’s beautiful. She’s always been beautiful, but now it’s different, older. There's a softness in her that calls to something brutal in me. I want to touch her, wreck her, just to see if she'd let me put her back together again. That thought alone should scare me, but it doesn’t. It excites me.

I make my way to the piano in the corner of the room, flip the lid open, and let my fingers fall over the keys. A few scattered notes ring out, steadying me. Music has always made more sense than people. It doesn’t lie, and it doesn’t leave. It just exists—pure and exact, the way I wish life worked.

“I thought we’d start with the lakeside scene in Act Two,” I say, pulling out my phone and connecting it to the Bluetooth speakers.

She nods, moving to stand in fourth position, but I can tell she’s trying her hardest to look brave. I hit play and set the phone down on the piano before turning to face her.

"Already warmed up?"

Angelique nods again, so I step toward her. She doesn't run, but I see how her body braces for my touch in the way her spine subtly stiffens and how her shoulders lift just a fraction too high. She inhales and holds it like she's waiting for me to hurt her, and it pisses me off how automatic that reaction is; like it's muscle memory; like being touched means pain to her now.

What the fuck happened to you, Angel?

“We’ll take it slow,” I whisper. “No lifts unless you want to try them.”

She gives another small nod, still avoiding my gaze.

I step behind her, hands hovering just off her hips. “You ready?”

She exhales. “As I’ll ever be.”

The first few steps feel mechanical. Her body knows the motions — the sweep of her arms, the angle of her chin — but there’s no emotion in it, no connection. It’s like she’s trying to keep herself out of her own skin and disappear mid-performance. Maybe telling her she said his name was a bad idea after all.

“I can feel you thinking,” I murmur as we turn, my palm grazing the small of her back. “Stop it.”

“I’m not thinking,” she lies.

I catch her waist more firmly this time, anchoring her. “Yes, you are." She stiffens but doesn’t pull away.

“The audience won’t need perfection,” I say. “But they’ll expect honesty in our dancing.”

The music swells as I guide her into a slow pivot that lands her back against my chest. I don’t move, choosing to let her stay there and feel the steady rise and fall of my breath. I should step back, but I don’t. I like her close.

She smells like lilies, her curls brushing against my jaw as the heat of her body bleeds through the cotton of her top.

Her voice is small. “What if I don’t know how to show that in my dancing anymore?”

“Then we learn how," I pause, "together.”

I ease her into the next set of steps, slower than the tempo. I want her to feel safe in the movement, not pressured by it. When my hand glides over her rib cage to catch her underarm, I feel the shiver that ripples through her, but she still doesn’t flinchor step away.

Progress.

We reach the part of the duet where the lift would begin and I stop, letting my hands fall away as I step back.

“Do you want to try it?” I ask, already knowing the answer, but asking anyway.

She hesitates and I watch her throat work as she swallows. “I… not today.”

If she were anyone else, I’d already have them in the air, whether they were ready or not. I’ve done it before; tossed dancers higher than they could handle and let the chips fall where they may. But I want her trust more than I want her in the air, and that pisses me off because the part of me that craves control, that wants to own every inch of her skin and breath and movement, hates being gentle.

I nod. “Okay.”

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