Page 78 of Just One Bite
“It’s not with you. I just like you. I like the way your brain works and the cute way you get embarrassed when you open up about something. The competitiveness you try to hide, but I know how good it felt for you to beat Darien in chess. And you listen to me … and that’s nice because … for a long time, not many people did. I had Zant and Gavin, but it’s not the same thing. I like … that you look for me. That you definitely don’t need me but you get excited to see me like you do.”
“You just like me,” I repeat his words.
There’s nothing to do about that. He says it like it’s a fact I can’t deny. There’s no way I can run away from it or make it better. My baseline of existing is good enough.
My shoulders fall from my ears as I surrender to the sense of relief it brings. I lay my head on his shoulder, then tilt my head to kiss him on the cheek.
He beams, taking a monster bite of his burrito before setting it aside.
“Now, that being said, let’s get you up and try again.”
“Maybe I should just stop for tonight.”
“No, don’t end practice on a bad note. Can I help?” He hauls me from the ground and helps me brush off my practice tutu.
“Well, you could hold my waist while I practice the second act.”
“Got it. Tell me what to do.”
I run him through it all. It’s clumsy, but I’m more sure. I do know this ballet. And all that practice comes back. The heat of his hands through my leotard accompanies our lifts. He has no trouble lifting me, but we laugh through his lack of grace.
“My feet are trashed.” I groan, moving to take off my pointe shoes.
“Come on, I’ll take you to the ice tub.” In seconds, his arms are around me and I’m being cradled as he ushers me down the hallway. His heavy steps sound on the wooden floor.
He walks me into a large room, where a hexagon stone tub sits in the center. Arched windows surround the tub, with the tops of the trees outside scratching at the glass.
He starts the ice bath while I sit on the edge, then he kneels at my feet.
“Let me do it.” He motions to my shoes.
“No way. I don’t let anyone see my feet.”
“I’m not afraid of feet. I share a locker room with a bunch of men that regularly tear into each other’s flesh for fun. I’m not easily disgusted.”
I shake my head, mortified. “No, seriously I’ve had these on for hours, and I have a bruised toenail.”
He taps my thigh. “It’s okay. Come on. Give me your foot.”
I cringe at letting him grab my calf and watch him remove the elastics. I can’t look at his face. There’s real fear pumping through my veins at the thought of his disgust.
“Oh. Wow,” he says.
“Parker.”
“I’m kidding. I promise.”
I peek at him. His brow is bent as he surveys my feet, but it’s not in disgust. He looks … worried.
“It won’t hurt if I take this off?”
He’s pulling at the tape on my toes like a sticker he’s afraid to destroy.
“No, I’m used to the pain.”
I guess ballet wear and tear is similar to his sport in that way: continued pain over time that your senses eventually start to ignore.
He carefully removes the tape on both of my feet. It’s disgusting. It’s terrible. I’m mortified and feel like dying, but he’s not reacting. His large hand squeezes my heel, and I groan from the relief.
