Page 81 of Souls and Sorrows

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Beads of sweatpour down my face as I pass my apartment building for the fourth time this morning. My gray T-shirt is drenched, rivulets of exertion running down the length of my spine and abdomen.

I haven’t been keeping track, but I’m certain I’ve surpassed the ten-mile mark since rolling out of bed an hour and a half ago. The me from two months prior would probably be impressed with that speed or at least feel a little refreshed, but my entire body is just slogged down with pure disgust.

Not to mention exhaustion since I’ve been doing the same route over and over every morning this week.

“Hey, man.”

Lifting my head, I see a tall, wiry man approaching with a yellow envelope tucked beneath his arm. He runs a hand over his blond crew cut, then wipes it on his black turtleneck before extending it to me. His presence feels vaguely familiar, but I can’t put my finger on why.

“Any chance you could let me in?” He nods his dimpled chin at the gate behind me. “I’ve got something I want to drop off to a resident.”

“The mail office has a drop-off right over there,” I say, pointing to the blue box across the street.

Turning his head, the man looks at it, then back at me. “Yeah, but this is kind of important. I’d rather hand it to her directly.”

“Ah, love letters to your forbidden paramour?” I chuckle, stretching my legs, and then pause as I recall the last time I used that word. My eyes slowly take him in, trepidation suddenly swirling inside of my gut, pressing against the lining. “What did you say her name was?”

A delicate blush sinks into his pale cherub cheeks. “Ariana Ricci.”

Of course.Clearing my throat, I reach for the envelope. “I can take it to her actually.”

The man hesitates, pulling away slightly, but I’m quick to snatch it from him. “Uh, actually, I think I—”

“Have to inspect it first,” I interrupt, sliding my index finger under the glued flap and opening it up. Shaking out a piece of white card stock paper with gold foil edges, I read the first few lines and click my tongue in disapproval. “Oh, well I’m sorry to say she likely won’t be attending this.”

His eyes widen. “But she’s been dreaming of going to the Boston Dance Association Awards since she was a little girl.”

My jaw tightens, annoyance embedding in my molars.Just how well does this fucker know her?

“Well, as I’m sure you’re aware, Ariana has retired from dancing professionally. I’m not sure a ceremony where she’ll have to watch former friends and colleagues receive awards for something she no longer participates in is such a great idea.”

Closing his mouth, the man takes a step back, unease loosening his facial features. “Right… maybe I’ll just text her.”

Slipping the card and envelope into the waistband of my sweatpants, I nod. “Do that.”

I’ll just block your number from her phone.

After he leaves, I head back to town and I break my own rule of giving her space, marching into the studio while she’s got one leg propped up on a barre, toes pointed out as she pushes up on the floor with her other foot. She catches my gaze in the mirror on the back wall, not pausing as she watches me come up behind her.

I’ve showered and changed into a suit now, and I slip the envelope out from the inside pocket of my jacket, holding it out for her.

“This came for you,” I mutter, practically shoving it into her hand. “Special delivery from one Emile Dupont, the current preferred soloist at the Boston Ballet School and apparently a former lover of yours who might be interested in rekindling the flames between you two.”

“You met Emile?” She keeps her leg up but drops the arch of her foot, tearing into the envelope. “Did he call himself my lover, or are you making that up?”

My nostrils flare. “I’m not making up the way he looked when he talked about you.”

Pursing her lips, she lets the card fall to the floor and bends at the waist, curling her upper half over her leg where it’s still stretched out. Swallowing, I follow the length of her body, landing on the heart-shaped curve of her ass, perfectly showcased in her pink leotard and the sheer black skirt knotted at her hip.

The surface of my skin is hot to the touch, and when I finally drag myself away from the paradise I would give anything to tear into, I meet her hazel eyes in the mirror. Her glossy lips curve up at the corners.

“Well, if he looked anything likethat,” she says, arching her back slightly, “then I understand the issue.”

Adjusting my glasses, I stuff my hands into my pockets. “Are you going to go?”

“Maybe. I used to dream about being invited by the BDA. Their award ceremony is extremely exclusive, and only the best dancers, or those with enough money to buy a spot on the guest list, get in.”

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