Page 17 of Broken Desires

“Yeah, and denial is not just a river in Egypt,” Ethan responds, leading the way. “Let’s head to the private bar upstairs.”

We make our way to the hotel’s top-floor bar, a place where Ethan’s age should be a barrier, but his local fame grants him an unspoken pass. I order two glasses of scotch, bringing them over to where Ethan has claimed a pair of leather chairs by a window offering a panoramic view of the town.

“She had to know,” I say, placing a glass in front of him. “Your feelings for her are as plain as day.”

Ethan runs a hand over his face, his exhaustion palpable. “She does. And I think she feels something too; it’s just… complicated.”

I let out a wry laugh, the sound tinged with weariness. “Isn’t it always?” I take a long sip, feeling the warmth of the scotch as it travels down my throat. Three years, I’ve avoided attachments, and then she comes along, defying all logic. “Isn’t it always?” I repeat, my voice heavy with unspoken thoughts.

Ethan gives me a knowing look but says nothing, respecting the silence. We sit there, lost in our thoughts, gazing out at the darkened town. And somehow, just having him there, sharing this quiet space, it helps. It’s the silent understanding between us that makes the weight of the evening a little more bearable.

Chapter 7

Nessa

He knows!

The weight of his knowledge presses down on me, suffocating me in uncertainty and fear. I’m not ashamed of who I am, but I like the way he looks at me. What will I see on his face when he looks at me now? Pity? Disappointment? I can’t bear the thought. The idea of losing that look of admiration, the connection we shared—it’s too much.

Lord, please don’t let him look at me with pity, I beg, feeling the wave of nausea hit my stomach.

“Can you stop here?” I ask the Uber driver as I see the light of the art building still on. I keep forgetting that this party was for a select few and that life on campus is continuing.

He slows down, I don’t hear what he says, and frankly, right now, I don’t care. I just want a moment to myself. I don’t want to face Eva’s kindness or Poppy’s concerned questions. I can’t handle their well-meaning care, not when my emotions are this raw, this near the surface. I’m not ready to open up, to dissect the night and lay bare my vulnerabilities. Not yet.

I leave the car as soon as he stops. I just need to escape, to be alone with my spiraling thoughts. I quickly exit the car, the cool night air enveloping me as I head toward the building.

The art building stands quiet and inviting. Its silent corridors are a relief, a place where I can just be, away from the complexities of the evening. I don’t even realize that I am walking to the dance part of the building, but I take it as a sign as the janitor exits a ballet room.

“Can I use it?” I ask him, and he only shrugs.

I walk into the ballet training room, immediately feeling at ease with its familiar setup. The floor is covered with smooth, cool wooden planks, well worn from use. A large mirror spans the length of one wall, reflecting the room’s sparse interior. Opposite the mirror, there are several ballet barres fixed against the wall, their surfaces smooth from constant handling. The room has a simple, functional feel to it, marked by faint traces of resin in the air. It’s a no-nonsense space, clearly meant for serious practice.

Slipping off my shoes, I savor the polished floor beneath my bare feet. I approach the barres, running my hands along its familiar surface. Closing my eyes, I rise onto my toes in demi-pointes, lifting my left leg into an arabesque penchée. My calves protest with a sharp pain.

With my eyes still shut, I surrender to the dance for the first time in four years. I move through a routine, oblivious to any rhythm. My muscles cramp and ache, but I push through, haunted by my mother’s voice in my head.

It’s time to let go of this childish dream, Vanessa.

I attempt a pirouette and stumble.

You’re already too tall, Vanessa Claire, and now you’re disabled. Stop wasting our time.

I pause, catch my breath, and look at my reflection in the mirror. My mother’s words echo in my head, but now, in this moment, alone in the familiar embrace of the ballet room, I find a silent defiance growing within me.

Continuing to dance, each movement becomes a silent rebellion against the harsh words that haunted my past. As I twirl and leap, the shadows of cruelty cast by my family seem to loom over me. I remember my father’s cold dismissal after I lost my hearing and started to rebel. You’re just not the same person we raised.

With each jump, the harshness of their judgment fades into the background, replaced by the rhythm of my own heart. I recall the disdain in my sister’s voice, “You’re just the family embarrassment now, Vanessa.”

My movements grow more intense, driven by a need to prove them wrong, to prove to myself that I am more than their narrow perceptions. Concentrating on how my body reacts to the movements instead of the events of tonight and all the messed-up events in my life makes me feel better.

Time blurs as I push myself, the dance becoming a raw expression of emotion. Eventually, my body screams for a reprieve as my dress, now damp with sweat, clings uncomfortably to my skin.

I pause, leaning heavily on the barre, my breathing ragged. As I catch my reflection—cheeks flushed with exertion, eyes bright with a mix of fatigue and clarity—a wave of realization washes over me. The Nessa looking back is the girl I used to be, one who found solace and expression in dance. Perhaps abandoning dance entirely was a mistake, not because it was a lost career path, but because it was a part of who I am—a part I loved deeply and sacrificed under the weight of my parents’ demands.

With a heavy sigh, I acknowledge my confusion. Decisions can’t be made in moments like this, overwhelmed by a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. It’s a lesson learned in therapy, one that rings true now more than ever. I need to go home, sleep, and after that, all will be clearer.

I grab my phone, booking an Uber home. The ride is a blur, my thoughts still echoing with the cruel words of my family, now mixed with a sense of accomplishment and defiance.

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