Leaps & Lies

Chapter Eighteen

I t’s embarrassing in the way that only Vivian can be, apparently.

Do things like this even happen to other people, or does the universe just collect all potentially humiliating events to dispense on her at its will?

There’s a second knock on her apartment door, firm and solid. Apparently, her intruder doesn’t want to leave her to the peace of icing her aching, blistered feet. It wouldn’t be an issue except that she’s been exhausted lately. Between extra rehearsals with Alex to drill their lifts and duets, every company rehearsal she’s called to attend, and spending her nights desperately trying to fall asleep without thinking about Julian, she’s hardly had time to herself. As soon as she slumped on the edge of the stained yellow bathtub in her apartment with her feet in an ice bath, she decided not to move until sleep or hunger forced her. The firm knocks are neither.

And the knocks wouldn’t be troublesome except that she’s spent so long aimlessly scrolling her phone while seated on the side of the tub, feet slipping into blissful numbness, that it’s officially been too long. The welcome reprieve from pain that the ice brought has morphed into the sharp prickles of true numbness. Vivian’s facing a hellish blend of pins and needles and hypothermia as she tries to stand from the tub without breaking an ankle.

Wouldn’t that be an ironic fate? The fastest principal ballerina career to be ended after a dislocated shoulder and a broken ankle. Surely, the universe doesn’t hate her that much.

It must hate her at least a little when she exits the bathroom and promptly stumbles down the short hallway to her apartment door. She’s wearing a threadbare cardigan thrown over a ratty sports bra and her bleach-stained yoga pants are rolled up to end above her knees. Her feet are unnatural shades of pink and purple better suited to a sunset than human skin. If they weren’t feet, they’d make a beautiful sunset. She can just barely feel her legs below the calf. Walking is similar to controlling limbs that don’t belong to her—as though she’s pulling the strings of a broken marionette, willing it to take even, balanced steps.

Vivian yanks the door open, leaning heavily on the frame to compensate for her inability to stand and wills herself to appear at least infinitesimally more composed than she feels.

From the subsequent snort that Julian releases on the threshold, she fails spectacularly.

“I know you’re new as principal, but surely someone has told you that walking is a standard requirement?” he teases. In a heather-blue sweatshirt, a signature black ball cap, and dark gray joggers, he looks far more composed than Vivian. Despite the casual clothes, he’s not baring any unnecessary skin nor struggling to stand upright.

Vivian rolls her eyes, unimpressed with his snark. “Are you here to laugh at your own jokes or did you get lost looking for your ego?”

Since he found out—about her age and apartment—and since their private rehearsals, everything has been different. They still needle each other at every opportunity, exchanging barbs and sass as though they’re on opposing sides of a tennis match. But everything is cut with an edge now. A heightened tension of what if ?

There’s a certain kinship in sharing secrets. The heady, intoxicating rush of being known. It’s electric in her veins. Electric in every brush of his hand on her back or click of his tongue in rehearsal. It’s novel to share intimacy with a colleague. A superior.

Vivian can’t help but wonder if their . . . moment last week after rehearsal is simply another secret they’ll never speak of. Unless Julian is here to let her down gently? Anxiety bubbles in her stomach at the thought. Only she would get rejected by her older ballet instructor in the precise moment that she’s iced her feet for so long that she can barely stand.

“Why are you limping?” He practically barks the words at her, a firm demand for answers.

“It’s fine. I just spent a little too long in the ice. What are you doing here?” she replies quickly. If they’re going to have an uncomfortable conversation, she’d prefer to get it over with. Rip the bandage off and all that.

“Come on.” And then he’s herding her through the door and over to her ugly futon.

She’s barely settled onto it when he’s grabbing one of her bright pink feet in his warm hands and kneading. “Shit! Your feet are freezing. How long did you ice them for?”

He kneels at her feet again, startlingly similar to that day merely a week ago, when he returned her car after the accident. Seeing a man of his size and demeanor kneeling at her feet—her red frozen toes and splotchy purple ankles—is drastically unsettling. It’s counterintuitive to everything she thought she knew about him. And yet he keeps doing this. He pushes and pushes but when it comes down to it, he’s kneeling at her frozen feet. If it was a movie scene, she’d call it poetic.

“It’s fine. They’ll warm up. Why are you here?”

“I wanted to talk about Friday.”

Friday, when she managed to recreate the lift that’s been haunting her since her injury. Friday, when she cried into his chest in relief and elation. Friday, when he cradled her in his lap, and she gripped his hair with violence and need.

Friday.

Her confidence and bluster disappear with that single word. “Ahh, okay. If it’s about rehearsals with Alex, you could have emailed me. You didn’t have to deliver the schedule in person. Not on a weekend.”

His fingers skate over the arch of her left foot, and it sends sharp needles up her calf, nerves sparking with electricity and the growing awareness of sensation.

“You know it’s not about the schedule,” he replies.

Julian sighs, hands stilling on her feet. She can’t believe he’s touching her again. Can’t believe his fingers aren’t numb yet from the chill of her skin.

“It was one thing when I thought you were too young. I mean, you’re still too young—”

Vivian is quick to interrupt, as if the speed of her argument will be enough to sway him. As if saying you aren’t that young does anything but sound self-proving.

“Twenty-four is not the same as fifteen.”

Julian nods, brown curls bouncing. “It’s not. But I’m thirty-five, Sugar Plum.”

She’d guessed his age after their trip to the ER, but she hadn’t known it exactly until now. Vivian can’t help but remember that Kelsey is only seventeen.

“Fifteen is not twenty-four, but neither is thirty-five. And number games aside, I’m still your instructor.”

“You’re technically an artist-in-residence. Ms. Renee handles casting.”

“With my input.”

Vivian huffs, tired of this game. “What do you want me to say? Okay, you’re my instructor. You’re old. Congratulations, Old Man! You win.” She wiggles the fingers of both hands at him in a mockery of celebration.

A sharp flick to her slowly warming foot leaves her wincing.

“Watch it, Sugar. I’m not trying to fight with you.”

“Then what are you trying to do?” Vivian tries to stand on her wobbly feet, tries to escape his kneading grip and his sharp hazel eyes, but he’s quick to wrap strong hands around her ankles.

“I’m trying to make sure you understand what you’re getting yourself into.”

Everything is electric, bubbles and little shocks that thicken the air of her studio. Breathing through the haze, she asks, “And what am I getting myself into?”