Page 41 of 1 Last Shot

She continues, her gaze holding mine as she gestures wildly in the air as she talks.

"I never thought of my life in New York as scary, but I was so sure Philly would be way easier to deal with. I thought, it's a smaller city, easy to navigate, easy to figure out, easy to find a new life here. It couldn'tpossiblybe scarier or harder than the insane life I had in New York: every minute of my day planned, everything provided for me, everything taken care of by others so I could focus completely on dance. I thought… that's what my life is going to be. There's nothing new, so nothing is scary. And then—" She sucks in a breath, hesitating, but then she forces herself to keep going. "And then my injury happened, and it was like everything became terrifying. I had no idea who I was—no oneknew who I was without dance—and suddenlyallI had was new: a new schedule, new hobbies, new ways to interact with people. And I thought, if everything is going to change, I might as well do it in a new place where I can fumble through it on my own without anyone watching."

She finally jerks her gaze away from mine, unable to meet my eyes.

"I don't know why it didn't occur to me that I might not be able to do it. I've been the privileged rich girl for as long as I can remember, and everything'salwaysbeen taken care of for me. Why did I think living on my own wouldn't be the scariest thing ever? Why did I thinkanothernew thing—something that's huge, and risky, and clearly even dangerous—was the answer to my problems? And of course I get mugged onlyfour weeksinto my lease. If that isn't a sign, I don't know what is. I'm such an idiot for moving here, this was the biggest, stupidest mistake—”

"Stop," I finally growl, cutting her off.

She's not saying these things in a self-deprecating way, she honestly believes them.

And they're so laughably wrong that I can't stand it.

"Look, obviously today sucked," I tell her. She's still startled at my gruff reprimand, sitting frozen in her chair. "Anyone would be scared and questioning their new home after what happened today. But, Isabella, you couldn't be further from the truth with the rest of that bullshit. You'remorethan capable of living on your own. You've been here a month, and it took you, what, two weeks to get settled? To find a place to live, a job, a new dance studio? Not to mention, you made friends instantly. None of that shit is easy, and I'm assuming you did it without any trouble. Even without the added stress of your entire life changing because of your injury, that's not nothing. Far from it."

She ducks her head as she cradles the now-warm cup of tea, but I see the blush that lights her face at my words. She looks like she doesn't know how to respond, so she lifts the mug to her lips and takes a sip instead.

And again, I feel the urge to lighten the mood and make her laugh.

I narrow my eyes and force a fake frown onto my face as I say, "And I'm never going to admit this again, but you actually have one of the best teaching styles I've ever seen—even though you are a pain in my ass during class."

It works. Another laugh sounds from her lips, and I ingest it like it's air I need to breathe.

"You're just sobadat it," she says, still laughing softly. But the look she gives me is thankful.

I ignore the tight feeling in my chest when it hits me that I actually made another person feel better.She deserves that. She deserves to feel good about herself.

We settle into another comfortable silence, and she continues to sip on her tea. The air has become serious again, and I can't stop myself from adding, "Today was just a blip, Isabella. I promise."

She studies me for a moment, then nods, her entire posture relaxing. I sense her hesitation with whatever she wants to say next.

"Is what happened today a normal part of your life?" she asks softly.

For a few seconds, I battle the urge to shut her down. The last thing I want to do is expose any part of my life—especially the parts before Philly—but when I see how much she's hanging on my response, and I realize my answer might actually help her recover from today, I deflate.

"Short answer is yes," I admit in a tight voice. I clear my throat and force myself to keep talking. "I grew up in a bad part of Baltimore, and I’ve been jumped more times than I can remember. You asked why I was calm today—that’s why. I'm used to it."

She absorbs my answer with a thoughtful nod. Then, with nerves trembling in her voice, she asks, "Is that why you started training? You wanted to learn how to fight?"

My answer comes immediately and without thought. "I already knew how to fight," I say in a flat tone. "MMA was just an outlet."

I watch as Isabella accepts my answer, as she visibly decides not to push me anymore.

For some reason, I find myself adding to my answer anyway.

"I had a… hard childhood," I admit in that same tight voice. "I had to become a fighter to survive. Training just keeps the anger at bay for a little while."

Her gaze softens at my comment. I automatically tense, expecting the usual reaction of pity—I fucking hate pitying looks—but I see none of that in Isabella's eyes. Nothing but normal, human empathy.

My muscles only relax an inch, but it's everything. I haven't admitted that part of my life to anyone in years.

"I got tired of always having to fight,” I add. “I needed to get away from it all."

"Or maybe you were tired of surviving," she says absentmindedly, her gaze on where she's twirling her empty mug. "Maybe you wanted to learn how to live, instead."

For a moment, all I can do is stare at her. It’s obvious she said it without thinking, and even now, she doesn't realize that what she said might've been monumental.

Her words ring on repeat in my brain, so much so that it takes me a second to realize Isabella is swaying in her seat. She's clearly exhausted, and crashing from everything that happened today, and I notice with a start that it's well past midnight.

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