Page 66 of Teach Me to Fly

I shake my head again, a small smile tugging at my mouth. “Not joking.”

She side-eyes me, skeptical. “What does falling backwards into your arms have to do with ballet?”

“Everything,” I say, turning to face her fully. “Trust is the foundation of every partnership. You might not flinch when I touch you anymore, but I still felt you bracing like you expected to be dropped.”

She’s quiet for a moment, looking back out at the swans. One dips its head beneath the surface, then emerges, droplets trailing down its long neck.

“So, you want me to fall into your arms repeatedly, until I fully trust that you’ll catch me?” she asks, a dry note in her voice.

“Yup.”

Her face scrunches like she wants to roll her eyes but doesn’t have the energy. “You’re serious?”

“I’m always serious,” I say, starting toward a levelled spot in the grass. I hear her sigh behind me, and then her footsteps follow.

I stop and gesture for her to stand with her back to me. “Feet shoulder-width apart. Arms loose at your sides.”

She stares ahead. “If you drop me?—”

“I won’t.”

She breathes out, her shoulders tense like she’s bracing for pain, and she begins to fall but doesn’t go far—barely leans, really—before catching herself and stepping forward.

She glances back. “I just—I thought I heard something.”

She looks like she’s ready to run, but I pretend like I don’t notice. “Try again.”

This time, she leans further, and I catch her easily. Her body is warm and soft in my arms for just a second before she pulls away, fast, and I let her go.

“What’s wrong?”

She clears her throat. “I don’t know.” She rubs her palms down her thighs. “I feel stupid.”

“Don’t,” I say. “In the pas de deux, you need to fall into me like that. Vulnerability isn’t just emotion, it’s physical, too. It lives in the way you move; in the tension you hold.”

Her gaze flicks to mine. “Is this your way of calling me a terrible partner?”

I hold her stare. “No. It’s my way of saying I want to be a better one. But I can’t do that if you don’t let me fully in.”

Her throat moves as she swallows, and her eyes drop to the grass, then back to the water again. “I’m trying.”

“I know.” I step forward, just enough that she can feel me there. “One more?”

She nods slowly before she closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and falls. I catch her and hold on a little longer than I should, but she doesn’t pull away this time.

“Again?” I whisper, and she nods.

We do it over and over until her body stops locking up mid-fall. Until her breath doesn’t hitch every time I catch her. Until she lets her weight drop into mine without resistance. But the last time, when I hold her a second too long, she finally speaks.

“What did Wendy mean earlier?” Her voice is quiet. “When she called me your damage control project?”

I let out a slow breath, jaw tensing because I knew that line would stick with her. Of course it would.

I nod toward the nearby bench under the old willow tree. “Come sit.”

She follows without a word, and we settle into the quiet. She sits perched at the edge; her hands tucked under her thighs like she’s trying to ground herself. I stare out at the river as I try to find the right words.

“It was last year,” I say finally. “The lasttime I danced.”

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