Page 4 of Teach Me to Fly

After a pause, he gently adds, “But I hope at some point you’ll tell me what really happened. I didn’t even know you left The Big Apple Ballet until I saw the company’s post thanking you for your ‘years of contribution.’” He lifts abrow. “What the hell does that even mean? You were their star.”

My throat tightens again, but this time for a different reason. I look out the window, unsure how to answer. I’m grateful when he doesn’t press further, letting out a soft sigh.

We start the drive in silence, except for the radio playing mellow indie music while the world blurs past my window. The further we get from London, the more my shoulders drop, as if the air in the city was too heavy to breathe properly, as if every inch further from New York brings back a sense of safety.

I've always preferred the countryside over the city. Out here, in the open stretch of land leading to Marlow, I feel the ache of tiredness settle deep into my bones. Lando glances at me every so often, his knuckles tight on the steering wheel. I know he wants to ask what happened, and I can feel the questions pushing at his teeth, but he waits.

"Do you remember this road?" he asks, as we pass a curve in the road lined with tall sycamores that lean like they're listening in.

I nod. "Yeah, my dad used to let me ride in the front seat when we'd come back from the city. He always said the curves make it more fun."

Lando hums. "I remember. He used to call them 'the ballerina bends' and always said they reminded him of you."

The ache that rushes up my throat is sharp and immediate. I stare straight ahead, blinking fast, the weight of his memory pressing into my chest like a knife. I remember sitting in the front seat, balanced on the edge of the armrest, arms stretched out like wings. My dad would laugh and tell me to hold on or I'd fly rightout the window. He never once told me to sit properly or to be careful. He always wanted me to feel free.

When ballet started consuming my life, he was the one who grounded me, and after rehearsals, regardless of if I did well or not, he'd drive me to the little ice cream shop on Main and let me get the biggest cone they had. He'd always joked that ice cream had special powers and that maybe I'd grow wings if I ate enough of it. My dad never cared if I was the best, not the way my mom does. He only cared that I was happy.

I always thought I'd have more time, more drives, more laughter, more ice cream trips. Maybe I would have appreciated all those moments more if I'd known that one morning he'd be there—standing in the kitchen, humming under his breath while making coffee—and then by nightfall, he'd be gone.

A major heart attack,the doctors had said.Quick and mostly painless.As if that was supposed to be some kind of mercy. But it hadn't felt merciful. Instead, it had felt like the ground had cracked open and swallowed me whole. Like the entire world had gone deaf to the sound of my heart breaking.

I stopped dancing after he died, because for months I couldn't even look at my pointe shoes without feeling like a fraud. Moving forward felt like a betrayal, and I didn't know how to exist without him rooting for me, without him believing in me even when I didn't believe in myself.

Despite that, life moved on, and the seasons shifted. My mom flew me to New York City shortly after his funeral, and after months of pressuring me to join the company she worked at, The Big Apple Ballet, I started dancing again. But every plié and every pirouette felt hollow in a wayI couldn’t fix.

My mom didn’t comfort me while I mourned his death, she just threw herself deeper into her career instead. Sometimes I wonder if she had been relieved to have one less soft thing in the world to slow her down after the divorce, and there I was uprooting her new life with my softness. With my feelings.

I press my forehead lightly to the cool window glass as we drive on in silence until we finally reach the edge of Marlow. The town hasn't changed much; red brick buildings with ivy-covered facades, little shops with hand-painted signs, the quiet, postcard charm of a place that seems suspended in time. My childhood lives in these streets—in every tree-lined path, and in every cobblestone crack.

By the time we pull up the long gravel driveway of the Harrington estate, the sky is tinted navy, and the air has cooled into evening. The main house looms ahead, ivy creeping along the white stone. To the right, tucked behind a low hedge and a cluster of peony bushes, is the guesthouse. Smaller, yes, but still cozy and beautiful.

Lando parks and turns to me with that same quiet, worried look that he's been wearing since he picked me up.

"Are you okay?" he asks, voice low. "You got quiet on me there."

I manage a nod, though it feels like a lie. "I'm fine."

He doesn't press. Instead, popping the trunk and retrieving my suitcase for me.

The guesthouse is almost exactly as I remember. Same open concept living room with soft, worn couches and white curtains that billow slightly with the breeze. The same gallery wall of framed ballet photos that Lando's mother insisted on hanging before she abandoned his family.

One of them is of me and him, age thirteen, mid-lift during a summer recital. My smile was wide and bright, causing an intense sadness to flood in at the sight of that version of me, forcing me to look away. Lando notices and quietly flips the frames around.

"I thought you might want to stay in the guesthouse instead of in the main house since you have more privacy here."

"Thank you," I whisper.

I don't know how to tell him I'm terrified of being alone in the quiet, but more terrified of not having the option.

"I had the staff prep some chamomile tea before we arrived," he says, trying hard to sound casual. "It's on the counter with honey, because you're a honey girl, not a sugar baby."

I want to smile, and the effort is there, but it doesn't quite land. Thankfully, he doesn't seem to mind. I drop my bag next to the suitcase by the entryway. My body is screaming for a hot bath or shower, for rest, for time to rewind and undo everything that's happened. I drag myself to the kitchen, hands trembling as I wrap them around the mug set out for me.

He doesn't ask me anything, not right away, he just moves through the kitchen like we both belong here.

"Do you want to talk?" he finally asks, leaning against the kitchen island. His voice is soft, careful. "Because I can be the'talk it out'bestie or the 'let's drink wine and watch trash TV in our pyjamas'bestie. I'm adaptable."

I shake my head, lowering the mug. "I don't even know where to start."

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