Page 26 of Give Me Strength

As the music swells, her movements grow more frantic, more desperate. She spins faster, her body a blur of motion, her turns becoming a whirlwind of emotion, a futile attempt to escape the pain that haunts her. She pours her soul into it, a physical manifestation of her internal struggle, and a desperate attempt to outrun her sorrow. Bonnie and I stand transfixed. Tears stream down Bonnie’s face, and my own eyes burn with unshed tears, the sight of Ashlynn’s torment cutting deep.

The final notes of the piece fade into a heavy silence. Ashlynn stops, breathless and trembling, staring at her reflection in the mirror. The raw vulnerability in her expression grips my soul. I can only imagine she’s seeing what I see, what we all see: The gifted ballerina she is, but also the girl who has faced so much loss, and the woman she is becoming, one who’s fighting to find her place in a cruel world that has taken so much from her.

It’s at that moment, standing in the doorway of the dance studio, that it finally clicks for me. I finally understand what ballet means to her. It’s more than calling; it’s a way for her to confront her pain, to bridge the gap between a shattered past and an uncertain future, to make peace with both and heal from it.

The decision to stay or leave is still hers to make. This house, filled with ghosts and memories, might also be a place for healing. I believe she can find a way to make this house a home again. A place where memories of the past can coexist with hopes for the future.

After all, this is what she was born to do. She belongs on stage.

And as her guardian, I will do everything in my power to support her on that journey, not hinder it.

Everett Crane was an idiot, and he didn’t deserve a daughter like her.

I won’t make the same mistakes he did.

11

ASHLYNN

Dinner is a blur of clinking cutlery and polite conversation. Gilbert and Aunt Bonnie keep the bulk of the conversation going. They talk about mundane, surface-level topics that fill the silence without saying anything of substance.

My mind drifts, half-listening, half-lost in the echoes of laughter and whispers of the past. The decision to stay or leave weighs heavily on my heart, a choice between holding on to memories and forging a new path. I steal glances at him throughout dinner. Each time, it is to find his eyes already on me. The concern in his gaze is evident, and I wish everyone, especially him, would stop treating me with kids’ gloves.

Our eyes meet again, and I feel a rush of heat rise to my cheeks. They hold mine for a moment longer than necessary. There’s something in his gaze, a mix of admiration and something deeper, something that makes my heart race.

It’s just my shitty luck that the first person I actually feel something for — other than an overwhelming sense of disinterest, that is — is the one person I can’t have. Or rather, shouldn’t want. Even though the attraction is undeniable, an electric current running between us that I can’t ignore.

He and Aunt Bonnie are talking plenty, but those eagle-sharp eyes of hers stay on me. Somehow, she manages to keep the conversation light, but the tension is palpable. Every glance, every brush of his hand against mine as he passes the pepper, sends a jolt of electricity through me. It’s inappropriate. He’s my legal guardian, not the object of my desire.

But who says the two ought to be mutually exclusive?

Since I’d rather not know the answer, I keep my eyes on the food.

The spread is perfect: a light salad with mixed greens, cherry tomatoes, and a delicate vinaigrette, followed by grilled salmon with a side of steamed asparagus. The food looks and is delicious, but my appetite is barely there. I can’t focus on it. Not with him sitting so close, his presence overwhelming my senses.

As the meal progresses, the tension between us only grows. I find myself drawn to him, unable to resist the magnetic pull. The way his t-shirt clings to his shoulders, the casual ease of his movements, everything about him draws me in.

Only, it’s all one-sided.

I know I should find a way to control it, to push it aside. I try to concentrate on my plate, but my mind keeps drifting back to him, to the way he looks at me, to the unspoken words hanging in the air. The logical part of my brain tells me to keep my distance, to push these feelings aside and maintain the boundaries of our relationship, but my heart isn’t listening. The stubborn heart muscle has a mind of its own. All I can think about is how much I want him, how badly I need to feel his touch.

How impossible it is to have him.

When he disappears into the kitchen to grab the dessert, I take a deep breath, attempting to steady my nerves. And after dessert, I excuse myself, needing to be alone. This time, I wander through a different part of the house, my footsteps soft against the hardwood floors.

Eventually, I come upon Rachel’s Creative Wing, as she called it. The hallway leading up to it is lined with framed photographs and enclosed glass shelving filled with ballet trophies.

A gallery of frozen moments, featuring myself, Mom, and Rachel.

I pause in front of a picture of Mom and Rachel taken at Brookfield Dance Academy. Mom sports a radiant and beautiful smile, while Rachel looks at her like she is her entire world. I trace the glass with my fingertips, feeling an ache deep in my chest.

There’s one of Mom, mid-dance, her form perfect and graceful. There’s another of Rachel, her eyes twinkling with pride as she watched me on stage. Mom probably took this one, like she did a lot of the pictures on this wall.

I continue down the hallway, pausing at each picture, each memory. There’s a picture of me as a child, ten years old, standing in this very house, clutching a ballet trophy with a triumphant grin. Mom and Rachel on either side, their hands resting protectively on my shoulders. The weight of those hands is now gone, leaving an emptiness that’s hard to bear.

The walls seem to close in, the memories pressing down on me, making it hard to breathe. So I keep on moving, this time to our trophies. There are so many of them. Every trophy I won before the accident is here, and so are Mom’s and Rachel’s. Rachel used to joke that I’d surpass both of them, combined, by my seventeenth birthday. There are a lot more dance competitions now than back then, and I’m usually the one to beat in whatever division I enter. I like to win, and I’m unapologetic about it. I haven’t been keeping score on my trophy count, but if I had to guess, I’d say I hit that goal at sixteen. Most of them are at Bonnie’s place. The ones I had at Dad’s place are in storage boxes.

Would Gilbert mind if I moved those in here?

---