The Right Moves (The Game #3)(45)
Author: Emma Hart

Battle scars.

No matter how unsightly they are or how ashamed of them I am, no matter how I might try to hide them or forget about their existence, that’s the bottom line. That’s the basic truth I will never be able to escape from.

They’re my battle scars, earned over a time when I was honestly fighting for my life. They’re the things that remind me that even in the face of true pain, I was able to stay strong and keep fighting. I was able to face each day head on, albeit with fears and worries, but I still did it.

And that’s all my depression is now. Another battle scar. A silent one that will never be shown, a scar just for me, but a scar all the same. And just like the others, this too will fade.

Depression: the name given to people who are strong enough to face the outside world when their own is crashing down around them.

I put my legs into the leotard and pull it up my body. It rolls up my stomach, and my arms go in, tugging it all the way up. And it fits. It fits just as snugly as it did two years ago, and the black lycra against my pale skin is more striking than I remember. I step backwards slowly, my eyes on my reflection, and stop. My hair flows over one shoulder, and if it wasn’t for the darkened color of it, I’d almost think I was looking at the Abbi I was before.

But I’m not, and I never will again. I’m looking at me, the new me, the me I was supposed to be all along. The broken, damaged me that is somehow still holding onto life.

Somehow.

There is no somehow, I realize as I touch my finger to my cheek. I’m not holding onto life itself – merely the smaller things that make it up.

My parents. Maddie. Dance. Juilliard. Blake.

I don’t have to hold onto all of them, only a little part. As long as I’m holding onto a small part of them, then I have a hold on life. I just need to remember what makes life worth living, and that’s the center of it. They are the things my world revolves around, even if Blake did sneak his way in smoother than a ninja could.

If I can keep a hold on them, I can keep a hold on life. And faced with the honesty of my scars, I know I can.

Because I’m strong.

I’m not a shadow of the person I was.

She is a shadow of me.

~

Blake’s hands are warm on my waist as he lifts me from my plié and onto his shoulder. My arms are in fifth position, raised and curved above my head, and my back is poker straight. There’s nothing comfortable about this position – I think sitting on hot coals would be more comfortable, to be completely honest, but it’s vital to our dance.

I take a deep breath as I feel Blake’s body shift, and he drops me into a fish dive. His fingers curve around my thigh and he holds me steady as we spin, my body stretched out. He lowers me gradually, spinning at an almost glacial pace, and I move into arabesque, one leg out behind me. I bring it down and straighten my body up, Blake’s hands moving to my stomach and my hand to promenade. I count his turns, and on five, he releases me, leaving me to fouette until I drill my way through the floor.

I still, finishing the adage section of our dance, and turn my eyes to him. It’s the first time I’ve truly watched him dance. The first time I’ve truly let myself watch him, and I’m spellbound. My eyes follow his every move, fluid and precise as he dances across the floor. Every step, arm position, turn, leap, every single thing about his dance is beautiful. It’s a struggle to stay standing as I watch him. All I want to do is sink to the floor and stare at him dancing the way a child stares at the television.

And he doesn’t even know. He’s so lost in his moves, so focused on what he’s doing, I’d bet anything he can’t feel my gaze searing into him and burning holes in his back.

He stops, his variation over, and his eyes slowly open. A smirk graces his lips when he sees me staring at him, and I drop my eyes to the floor.

At least I’m still standing and not on my ass.

I step into my dance with the ease of someone that’s done these steps their whole life. In reality, I made them up last night. I walked into the garage after Blake went to work, dressed in my short leotard, and let myself go completely. And this dance, filled with bourreés, coupés, and one of my favorite steps, an échappe sauté, is a dance from the heart. It tells a story from despair to fleeting moments of true happiness, starting off slowly and building in speed until the coda section of our dance, when Blake comes back into it.

This dance is easy. True. Real. Free.

This dance is everything I feel when I dance.

Everything I want to be.

Blake’s hand clasping mine and pulling me to him signals the start of the coda, and I don’t bat an eyelid as we dance alongside each other. It’s only been mere weeks we’ve danced together but it feels so much longer. I know, after this weekend, what we have is so much more than just a pas de deux. What we have away from the studio strengthens what we have inside.

He knows my every move and adjusts to it without thinking, even when I make a split second decision and change out a step for something else. He doesn’t stop, he doesn’t say a word, and he doesn’t get annoyed. He simply changes direction, falling in with me.

And when his hands rest on my waist again, strong and determined, I push off as he lifts. The explosive motion results in a perfect grande jeté, my legs completely straight in their split as Blake lifts me through the air. I feel weightless, like I’m flying, and my drop back down is easy. My feet touch the ground and my knees bend. Blake’s hands travel from my waist down my arms to my hands and I push up en pointe, arching my back and dropping my head behind me. My arms are stretched to the sides, and the only thing stopping me falling backward is Blake’s grip on my fingers.

His lips touch mine, a barely there brush, and he flicks me back up. That wasn’t in the original dance.

I spin away from him, pausing a few meters away, and turn. His arms are stretched toward me, his eyes intent on mine, and I spring to him. Like that time in the garage, my hands hit his shoulders, his hands grip my waist, and he propels me into the air above him, my legs going instinctively into arabesque. Our faces are so close I can feel his breath across my lips, and I smile, moving my legs. They do a split sideways, and I hold them for a long beat, then wrap them around Blake’s waist.

He laughs quietly, sliding his hands around my back and splaying his fingers. I smile, dropping my face down to his, and wrap my arms around his neck.

“This isn’t part of the dance,” he whispers, still laughing.