Page 10 of Give Me Strength

“What’s the catch?”

“I hate to do this to you, but… no more classes.”

“For how long?”

“A month.”

It might as well be an eternity. “But?—”

“I know I can’t keep you from the premises at any time. You are welcome to sit in on classes. You just can’t participate.”

“What else am I supposed to do in the meantime?”

“Live.” She winces slightly. “Poor choice of words, given that your dad just died.”

“He was hardly ever around anyway.” I wring my fingers. “Any suggestions on what I’m supposed to do to fill my time?”

She shrugs. “Find some new hobbies.”

4

ASHLYNN

Mrs Janice’s words weigh heavily on my mind as I leave the studio. The rational side of me recognizes that she’s right, but the thought of taking a break from ballet feels damning, like losing another piece of myself. Like I’m losing the only solid connection I have left to Mom.

But I have no time to dwell on it; I have to get to the lawyer’s office for the reading of the will.

On autopilot, I make my way over to where the town car is parked. Russ, my driver of almost five years, is leaning against the side door and watching me with a mixture of concern and sorrow. He straightens as I approach, places his hand on the door handle, and then pulls it open for me. He knows I am capable of opening the door myself; he just likes to be chivalrous.

It took him a year to agree to wait in the parking lot instead of waiting for me right in front of the building. Asking him to skip the door thing was asking for too much, so we compromised on that.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m seated in the back of the car, staring out the window as the city blurs by. My mind is a whirlwind of thoughts, a chaotic blend of legal worries and lingering grief. The Greenfield & Barrett Legal Group’s office building is just up ahead, but I can’t bring myself to face it head-on.

Even though this is just a formality — the reading of the will, that is — Aunt Bonnie told me I don’t have to worry about the legal stuff. Lord knows there’s a ton of that to sift through. After the accident, there was a huge settlement, several trusts, and other provisions put in place for Rose, Wynter, and myself, the three survivors. All paid for by the man who caused the accident. This was separate from the payouts Dad and Gilbert got for the deaths of their wives.

My stuff is all a plethora of legal jargon that Dad and Mr. Greenfield, our lawyer, handle. In his absence — there were a lot of those — Aunt Bonnie was the de facto executor of all of that. Counseling, Therapy, Chauffeurs, you name it, I’ve got it. She always told me not to worry about it and focus on ballet.

The thing is, I turn eighteen in a week. In the eyes of the law, I’ll be an adult. So, whether I like it or not, it all becomes my problem. And I have no clue what any of it means.

“Park in the lot, please,” I instruct Russ. I need a moment to collect myself before stepping into the storm.

We pull into the parking lot, and I take a deep breath, trying to steady my nerves. I had hoped Russ would park a bit further away from the main entrance so the short walk could do me good, but no such luck. He pulls in and parks the town car in the first empty spot closest to the designated handicap parking.

That was another thing he and I had to compromise on. Legally, he could — for me — as part of the terms of the provisions in place for me. The problem is, it’s bad enough that I get chauffeured around like a prim little princess — something that often gives others the wrong impression about me — but since I’m not the one doing the actual driving, it seemed a bit like overkill to have to occupy a spot that someone else needs more than me.

Maybe this is a sign that I should learn how to drive. Who knows how much longer I’ll have Russ. My heart squeezes painfully in my chest. It will be yet another painful milestone I’ll have to cross.

One thing at a time.

I take another deep breath, trying to calm my racing heart. My fingers curl around the door handle.

“I’ll let myself out, and you can take the rest of the day off…” I say, but as I look up, the words die a swift death on my lips as my gaze lands on the last person I expected to see today, getting out of his car.

Gilbert McKenzie.

The years have been kind to him, but they’ve also left their mark. His dark brown hair is streaked with a few strands of gray. It suits him, makes him look more refined, more authoritative. Even from this distance, I can see the freckles that dust his nose and cheeks, a charming detail that softens his otherwise stern appearance. His skin is pale, almost alabaster, contrasting sharply with the dark stubble that lines his jaw.

He’s changed so much, but in ways that only add to his allure.

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