by A. R. Breck
After I left Julliard, I stopped to the next place on my mom's list. A small shop with dance uniforms, specifically ballet. I picked out a black leotard. Classy, delicate, feminine. The fabric is stretchy, light, and reminds me a lot of the leotard I had when I was little. That one was a baby pink, though. This one is black. Black as the night. It reminded me a lot of the night sky on the beach all those years ago. The moment I saw it, my finger clutching the soft fabric, I knew it was the one for me. This one has a tutu combined to it, a stark black lace that looks like ink. I bought a plain pink leotard too, for practice. The black one will be for my routine.
In one year.
At Julliard.
I also found my shoes. A light pink pointed shoe. I bought some ribbon to sew into them. It gives me the added stability as it wraps around my ankle. Trying them on at the store, my toes instantly felt sore from the pointed top. It's going to be hell getting back into it, but the constant heavy beat in my chest tells me this is the right choice.
What I'm doing is what I'm meant to do.
After I bought my ballet shoes, I went to a small studio between Roman's apartment and Julliard. The owner was friendly, and after I told her a shortened version of my story, she was more than happy to lend me some studio time to practice. I don't need classes; I don't need a teacher. I need a place to practice, and music to practice with. Everything else will fall into place.
I bring my bags to the living room, setting them on the couch. Heading back to the kitchen, I open the drawers, looking for a pair of scissors. The counters are littered with dishes, the garbage bin overflowing with trash that Roman tossed in there yesterday in a rush.
I open every drawer, before I find them in the last one, right next to the tin foil.
Really, Roman?
His kitchen is nice, yet small. White cabinets and a creamy laminate countertop. I can tell when Roman moved in, he threw dishes in any which cupboard was the closest to him. That's definitely something I will be remedying soon.
Like, really soon.
With the scissors in hand, I head back to the couch. It's dark green, soft, and the moment I sit down on it, I sink into the cushions. The fabric is like a blanket, and I run my fingers across it, making the color turn from a dark green to a light green.
I open the plastic bag on the couch, sliding out the miniature sewing kit that I bought at a convenience store, and I get to work on my shoes. It's a long process, and not something a lot of people do. But to ensure there aren't injuries to your feet, I always make sure my shoes are perfect. I break them, hearing the shoes crack as I crack the soles. Sewing the ribbon into the insides of the shoes, I make sure the length is right, snipping the ends and letting the excess flutter to the floor. Picking up a slipper, I start scoring the pointe of the shoe. I've learned the hard way the difficulty of dancing with new, slippery pointed shoes. If they're scored, there's more traction while you dance.
Once the other shoe is done, I slip out of my clothes and try on my black leotard. It's tight. Tighter than anything I've worn in a long time, but it's perfect, molding to my waist and ribs in a tight hug. Grabbing my slippers, I slide the first one onto my foot. My toes cram into the top, and I wince as I snuggle them inside. I wrap the soft ribbon around my ankle, creating a small bow at the back of my calf. I repeat the same with my other foot, my heart beating out of my chest once I'm finished.
Standing up, my eyes fill with tears as I see my reflection on the patio window. My tall, slender form looks perfect, the black leotard making me look taller and even more slender than I really am. The sleeves are long and tight as they hug my thin arms. The back is a deep U, revealing most of my pale back. The shoes are stiff; it'll take a bit of practice to loosen them to my feet, but my prep helped. With a deep breath, I curl my foot, balancing up on my toes. My feet scream, the nails on my toes begging for mercy. Tears spring to my eyes, and I hold my breath as I hold my stance.
My hands go up above my head, stretching to the sky. The points of my fingers touch, and I stretch, feeling muscles awaken that haven't been moved in a long time.
I hear the lock on the door click, and the door swings open. I fall back to the soles of my feet, turning around and coming face to face with Roman. He has yellow and black heavy uniform pants on with suspenders over his shoulders. His white shirt is wet, damp with sweat and streaked in black. His face is streaked, too, with soot, or ash, I'm not sure. His fingers wrap around his matching coat, heavy as it drags on the ground. His fingers tighten around the neck of his jacket, his knuckles turning white as he watches me. There's a tiredness on his face, pure exhaustion lining his forehead. But his eyes…
His eyes are alit with a fire. So much determination in his gaze as he looks at me. Shock, happiness, love, heat, everything combined into his milk chocolate irises.
"Hi," I whisper.
He stands where he is, his dirty shoes cemented in the entryway. He looks amazed, zoned in on my outfit. He barely has enough focus in him as he tosses his keys on the kitchen table. I wince, hoping he didn't scratch the rich wood.
"What's… are you… you're doing it again? You're going to dance?" Shock and hope light up his eyes. He still hasn't moved from his spot.
I nod. "I have an audition at Julliard."
His eyes flare, his jaw going slack. "When?"
"One year. I have one year to prepare." I bite my lip, nerves creating huge, hawk-like butterflies in my stomach. I press my hand against my stomach, my leotard doing nothing to quell the flapping wings.
He steps forward, his dirty boots going straight onto his cream carpet. "Baby…" His voice is hoarse, emotion clogging him. He looks me up and down, the memories in his eyes going one million miles a minute. I can see it with every blink. Me as a child, me as a teenager, me now. Always the same. My leotard, my shoes.
I curl my feet, going up on my toes. My hands go up, creating a pose above my head. My fingers lay delicately upon one another. Tears flood my eyes, his face turning blurry as I look at him. I smile, my voice full of emotion as I ask, "How do I look?"
He blinks at me, his nostrils flaring. And suddenly, I hear his coat drop to the ground, and he's in front of me, his body slamming against mine. His large hands go around my waist, clutching my hip bones as he lifts me off my feet. Like I'm a feather, I'm suspended in his arms, pressed above his head, just as we've done one million times before. A part of me is nervous, the ceiling not that tall in here. But I still do my pose, arching my back, pointing my toes, tears streaming down my cheeks.
"I love you, Luna, so fucking much," he says from below me, his voice a low rasp.
A sob breaks from my chest, and I curl into a ball. He lowers me, clutching me against him as he sits us on the couch. His hands circle my waist, going to my naked back. "I love you, too," I whisper.
My bare legs are scratchy against his rough-textured pants, the thickness making them bulky between my thighs. His body is sweaty, the shirt sticking to him. Even in the fall, the air is warm outside. "How did it go today?"
He shakes his head, a darkness passing his eyes. "It was fine."
I run my fingers along his face, passing underneath his darkened eyes, wiping away a greasy dark smudge. "Doesn't sound fine to me."
He looks up into my eyes with a vulnerability in his that I haven't seen since we were younger. "It's just hard, you know? Working in a job like this. I see a lot of shit. I never thought this would be my life."
I grab the hair falling over his ears, tucking them back, playing with the ends. "Why don't you start music again? Is that something you want to do?"
He shakes his head. "No. I'm done with music. I love what I do. It just… it takes a lot out of me." He looks up at me, a softness in his eyes. "Having you here makes it so much better."
I lean forward, capturing his lips with mine. I dive my tongue in, kissing him with all my love, all my gratitude. I love this man with all my heart, with my entire soul. He fills me, completes every inch of me.
He
kisses me back, his hands going to the back of my head, curling in my long, dark hair. I settle into his lap, my body fitting perfectly against his. I rub against him, and he grunts, lifting his hips against mine.
Leaning back, I look him in his dark eyes, wanting him so badly. Wanting him to fill me, to fix me, to heal me.
I need him more than I need air.
My finger goes up, curling underneath the fabric on my shoulder, I lower it down my arm, showing him my naked skin. Showing him how much I want him.
His hand goes to the fabric, stopping my movements. My eyes snap up to his, and there's a hesitation lingering there, one that makes me frown.
"No, Luna." He pushes my fabric back up, sliding it back in its place.
My eyes fill with tears, my jaw trembling. "Why?" I knew I shouldn't have told him about Willie. I knew I shouldn't have told him how ruined I was.
"I can't. You aren't ready."
"I am." I lean forward, my hands pressing against his pecs. "I want this."
"Maybe you want it, but you aren't ready." His hands attempt to soothe me, running up and down my arms, but it does the opposite. I try to crawl off him, but his hands go to my waist, pinning me on his lap. "If you don't want me, let me go," I cry.
His hand goes to my jaw, and he pulls me close, bringing me against his lips. He doesn't kiss me, just breathes. "There are scars in your eyes. Scars so deep I can see all the way to your soul, Luna. You try to hide them in your gray eyes, with your kisses and your smiles, but I see them. You're in pain, Luna. Your soul is in pain. I can feel it, Luna. I feel your fucking pain." His hand presses against my chest, right over my heart. "You're bleeding on the inside, Luna. You can't hide it from me."
I sob, breaking my walls down and showing him my hurt, my regrets, the pain that he sees, that I've been foolish to hide. He sees it all. He always has. "Heal me, then. Heal me, Roman." I clutch his shirt, needing him. I want him. All of him, yet he won't give me the piece of him that will heal me completely.
"Sex isn't going to heal you, Luna. You think it will, but it won't." He smiles at me, his thumb wiping a tear from my cheek.
"What will heal me then? I just want you, but you won't even have me. Is it because you think I'm ruined?"
He laughs, "You aren't ruined, Luna. You're mine."
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
ROMAN
"Dude, are you sure about this?" Dylan, one of my friends from the station, asks as we hop out of the cab.
"I've never been more sure about anything in my life," I say, stepping out onto the curb. We walk toward the doors in front of us, and Dylan grabs the handle, pulling the glass panel open for the both of us.
He shakes his head at me. "It's just hard to believe you went from being chronically single, almost celibate, to…" he steps inside, the noise nonexistent, "this."
I look around, seeing the diamonds all around me. "I told you, you wouldn't understand," I murmur, walking up to the first case of diamonds.
"So, tell me." He places the tips of his fingers on the glass top, instantly inciting a heavy frown from one of the workers. He shifts to a stand instantly, attempting to wipe his prints off the glass. All that does is create a smear, and he cringes, taking a heavy step back. "Why so soon?"
I shake my head. "It isn't too soon. I've known Luna since I was a child. I'm surprised it's taken this long, to be honest."
"When can I meet her?" He looks over at me.
I laugh. "Never." Dylan is one of the single guys at FDNY. This guy is and always will be a bachelor. He’s like the guys from the band when we just started, although I don’t think Dylan will ever change.
A man in a pressed suit walks up to me, looking as slick and polished as ever. "How can I help you gentlemen?"
"I want to buy an engagement ring," I say, nerves pounding against my stomach.
The man grows a smile, dollar bills shaping his pupils. "Well, we've certainly got a good selection. Is there anything in particular you had in mind?"
Dylan laughs beside me, and I shoot him a scowl.
The man waits patiently, his arms folded in front of his waist, a small smile on his face. "I honestly don't have a clue what I'm looking for."
He gives me a stiff smile. "Well, maybe we can narrow it down with a price range?"
I shake my head. "No price range."
The dollar bills in his eyes grow.
Dylan grabs my arm, squeezing tight. "Are you shitting me? Think for a minute, Roman."
I pull my arm out of his. "Luna is the love of my life. Whether it costs one thousand dollars or ten thousand dollars, she'll still be the love of my life. I'll know when I see the ring, I don't need a price to decide that."
He stares at me, blinking slowly. Then he gives me a loud slap on the back. "Fuck, man. You're in love. Can't wait to meet her."
I stifle a chuckle. "You're not."
If I had it my way, I'd just keep her to myself at this point. I don’t need any reasons for her to walk out the door again.
"Well, let me show you some different cuts, and we can go from there?"
I give the man a nod, and he takes us down the line of different cases, showing me different types of rings. White gold, regular gold, rose gold. Princess cut, round, pear, oval. So many fucking decisions.
Only one stands out.
"That one." I point to it right when I see it.
The man looks to where I'm pointing, smiling when he sees the exact ring I'm referring to.
"Ah, nice choice." He pulls the rack out, using the utmost delicacy in lifting the ring from the holder. He holds it out to me, and I take it, knowing without a doubt this is supposed to be on Luna's finger.
"I'll take it." The diamonds in the center glimmer in the brightly lit room. It's perfect. Delicate. Not too heavy, but not too small. Small white diamonds surround the larger pear-shaped diamond in the center. The part of it that gets me, though, is the rose gold band. Seeing it, I instantly thought of her leotard. It has a pinkish hue that resembles every bit of Luna. It's so her. My heart crashes against my chest as I hold it in my fingers. Every other ring in this store seized to exist the moment my eyes landed on this one. There is no other ring.
This is the ring.
He rings up the total, and I hear Dylan choke behind me. I don't even blink, handing over my credit card. Being a rock star for enough years, I'll never be without money. I don't even need a job, to be honest. But not having anything to do with my days wouldn't be good for me. I needed something. Being a firefighter was that thing.
But Luna just completes my happiness. Entirely.
It's been six months since Luna came to me. Six months of her sleeping next to me. Of her eating with me. I have never felt as good as I have over these last six months. With me working, and her practicing for her upcoming audition, we've both been busy, but by the end of the night, we're together.
We talk, we touch, we heal.
The brokenness in her eyes lessens by the day. What she's been through is soul-crushing. Not anything I would even want someone I despised to go through. The fact that it happened to Luna makes me enraged with a need to kill. Not a feeling I've ever felt in my life, but with Luna, the feeling comes naturally.
She wants me to heal her. In bed, she pleads for it, her fingers gripping me with a desperation I know aches through her limbs. She needs me. I need her, too, but I refuse to break her further, and being with her when she isn't healed, mentally or physically, isn't something I'm okay with.
She hates it, but when she's ready, she'll understand why I waited.
I wait for her. I'll always wait for her.
The man slides the ring into a small velvet box, and puts the box into a thick, expensive, plastic bag. He holds the handles out to me. "Congratulations."
I smile, anticipation lighting my heart on fire. "Thanks."
I have a plan for how I'm going to ask her. It's been something that's been on my mind ever since we were little. Now that we're older, I can make it pos
sible. It's right. The entire thing is just so fucking incredibly right, I can feel it in my bones.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
LUNA
My back extends, arching as my arms float over my head. My toes press into the floor, and I alternate foot to foot, swallowing down my wince with every step. My leg shifts up, becoming vertical with my body. My hand curls around my ankle, and I spin, each muscle in my body screaming in protest, but I continue on, finishing the routine that I'm determined and bound to perfect. I will, even if it breaks me.
My leg drops to the ground, and I rush into a leap, my legs going into a split before I land on my toes, spinning around on one foot, toe pointed, while my other foot lays against my calf, the sole of my foot flush with my skin.
Once my routine ends, sweat dots my skin, my black hair around my forehead sticking to my temples. My muscles burn, and every step aches as I walk to the bench. I can feel the fabric of my leotard sticking to my back.
I'm in the studio alone, and I'm grateful for that, because for anyone to see me right now would be embarrassing. I feel like I’m new, which in a sense I am. Staying away from dance this long really put me behind. It makes hesitations float from the back of my mind to right in front of my eyes.
Can I still do this? Or was my break too long? Maybe I blew it for good.
I keep my hesitations to myself, not even telling Roman that I'm worried it's over for me. That I'm too old. That I lost my chance. The thought brings tears to my eyes, and I bat them away angrily with the back of my hand. I don't want to be like this. I don't want to fail. I want to prove to myself that I'm still as talented as I used to be. I wouldn't be gifted with this need, this ability to dance if it was all for nothing, right?
I slouch onto the bench, my spine pressing against the brick wall behind me. Bringing my foot up, I pull the soft ribbon of my slipper, and it collapses from my ankle, the ends fluttering to the ground. I let out a whimper as I slide my slipper off and gasp when I see my toes. Blood seeps from under my nails, mostly from beneath my big toe, it’s cracked, split all the way down to my cuticle. I could tear my nail off easily if I wanted to, and I probably should, to make an infection less likely. But I don’t want to go through the pain, and dancing with a wound like that on my toe would be torture.
