Leaps & Lies

Chapter Sixteen

T he thing about being dropped from a partner lift is that it comes with a multitude of dilemmas.

Not only does it come with the agonizing itch of being forced to the sidelines while she heals— Just wait, there’s more! —her injury also comes with an unprecedented anxiety that Vivian’s never experienced before. It’s not stage fright, normal nerves, or anything mundane. It’s a cold, hollow sensation in the pit of her stomach at the thought of Alex’s clammy hands lifting her anywhere.

Vivian’s shoulder injury forces her to miss a week and a half of rehearsals. After Julian catches her flinching while putting on a jacket one afternoon, he modifies his original declaration of one week. When she’s finally allowed back at rehearsal, she learns that she’s only permitted to mark the choreography for the next week. Using only a fraction of her energy and skills frustrates her worse than a racehorse forced to be tempered for a young rider. Holding back is miserable.

The final blow lands when she’s finally, finally , allowed to rehearse as normal, and she finds that she can’t. Well, not that she can’t dance—never that—but that everything that had been going right in her duet is now broken. Every assisted turn, leap, or lift now has her flinching away from Alex. The memory of his sweaty hands wrenching her shoulder as she fell is a dark specter that haunts every studio space they use.

It comes to head on a Wednesday afternoon. It’s Vivian’s third day back at full capacity, but the frustration coursing through her body has her nervous as if it’s her first day at the barre. Despite usually being her strength, her turns have been sloppy and off-balance all day.

“Okay, enough!” Julian claps his hands as his strong voice rings out from his usual spot near the corner.

Vivian freezes, knees bent and arms prepared to execute another ugly pirouette.

“That will be all, thank you.”

Julian’s dismissal is precise and final. Vivian’s heart sinks into her stomach, an ugly sensation in her chest. She can land clean turns, she knows she can. Her whole body deflates when Julian stares at his notebook without further words. Alex is quick to head to the cubbies, gathering his belongings and changing back into his street shoes. But Vivian is rooted in place by the weight of anger and frustration.

“I can step in if you’d like!” Kelsey volunteers from the corner of the room. Julian blinks at her with a vacant expression until she sighs, gathering up her belongings and practically stomping out.

When Julian finally glances up and finds Vivian still standing in the center of Studio C, he blinks at her. Alex and Kelsey have both left, and she’s been waiting for several minutes, trying to find the will and courage to spit the words out.

“Your turns are a disaster because you jump out of your skin every time he reaches for you. How is he supposed to assist your turns if he can’t touch you, Sugar Plum?”

The words bubble up, the unwanted truth spilling onto the hardwood. “I’m scared.”

Julian huffs at her, an airy noise.

“I mean, I know it was an accident. I know he didn’t mean to drop me and that even if he lets go while I’m spinning, I’ll just land the turn. But I can’t help it. It’s not a conscious choice. My body remembers his sweaty hands and the pain in my shoulder, and it just reacts. I don’t want to flinch away,” Vivian rambles out, words tumbling across the room before she can bite her lip and force them back down.

“Do you think he can’t lift you? That he shouldn’t be cast in his role?” Julian’s sharp gaze and penetrating questions feel like a trick.

She’s careful with her reply. “That’s not up to me. I’m the dancer, not the casting director.”

“That you are, Sugar.” Julian stands, leaving his notebook on his stool.

“I’ll work with you—and Timmer—individually. But if I can’t get you over the flinching, we’ll need to recast. We don’t have months to work this out.”

“Why?” The surprise of his offer leaves her with little hesitation.

“Because I want to see you on that stage, Sugar Plum.”

When they meet the following day during what would typically be her duet rehearsal slot, Julian spends forever drilling her turns. Over and over she spins, spotting her own eyes in the mirror. Her blonde ponytail slices through the air as she whips her head around to meet her own gaze. She keeps her legs tight, core strong, arms poised but loose.

“Good, but drop your shoulders.”

“Meh, you had another in you.”

“What the hell are you doing with your fingers?”

“One more time.”

“One more.”

“One more time.”

“One last time.”

When he finally relents, Vivian’s legs are burning with fatigue, her arms are shaky, and she’s not sure if she even has toes anymore.

“Okay, now with me.”

The words float in and back out of Vivian’s awareness as she huffs between tiny sips of water. Too much water, and she’ll be spitting it back out in a nauseous fit during the next drill. She learned that the hard way from Ms. Lorraine in high school.

Vivian returns to her spot and awaits further instructions.

Let it be something simple. Please let it be simple.

And then Julian moves toward her until he’s standing directly behind her. When he’s across the room barking orders or huffing criticisms, it’s easy to forget his bulk. Despite lean, graceful limbs, he’s tall and strong—easily standing a head above Vivian. As he moves behind her, his silhouette encompasses hers entirely in the mirror. If he were to stand in front of her instead of behind, she’d be invisible.

He left his hat behind on his stool and his brown curls are dented slightly. Vivian wonders if she could remove the dent with her fingers.

“What are you doing?” It’s another stupid question. He must bring those out in her.

He quirks an eyebrow when their eyes meet in the mirror.

“How else did you think we were going to practice partnering?”

Clearly, she didn’t think through accepting his offer of help at all .

When she doesn’t reply, Julian continues, “Let’s start with assisted pirouettes. Once those are solid, we’ll move on.”

Vivian nods but it’s an automatic gesture, similar to smiling at a waitress or cooing at a puppy. She’s sweeping her arms through the air from first when large, warm hands settle on her waist. Every atom of her body stills.

“Let’s start with the actual assist. It’s what needs the most work, not your turns.”

The glance Vivian shoots Julian is sly. “Does that count as a compliment?”

“Did it feel like a compliment?”

She doesn’t know. She can’t feel anything beyond his fingers and palms, so warm they must be searing holes through her leotard.

“Prep?” she asks.

“Start from a passé. Open front and let me turn you.”

“You won’t drop me?”

“I promise I won’t drop you, Sugar.”

It takes a dozen tries to get right.

In reality, Vivian could’ve counted attempt number eight as a win if she hadn’t been too distracted by the warm hold of Julian’s hands wrapped around her waist, palms and fingers skating over the nylon of her leotard. His grip is a brand, leaving burning skin and wreckage in its wake. Surely, Alex’s grip never feels so . . . proprietary?

Attempts nine through eleven go okay but not amazing. Vivian catches a glance of Julian’s stupid, dented curls in the mirror at the beginning of attempt nine and she teeters away from his grip instinctively. If anything, the quality of attempts nine through eleven is his fault for being so distracting.

But attempt twelve . . . is something else entirely.

When Vivian finishes it, she sinks into fourth position, and Julian’s grip slides up from her waist to wrap around her rib cage, immediately below her breasts.

He squeezes, gently enough she could’ve imagined it. His touch is electric. She hates the way she craves more of it before he’s even released her.

“Good.”

This praise must count as a compliment.