Page 133 of Swallow Your Sorries

Maybe that’s why I’m trusting someone that I shouldn’t. Because in some fucked up way he believes in me and right now, that’s what I need.

It’s all I’ve ever needed.

It’s all I’ve never gotten.

“I had the best turnout at my old school,” I lament with a weak snort. “Can you believe that?”

“I can.”

I hadn’t expected him to answer me.

“You thought you were a good dancer because you were a good dancer. At your defunded public school where the ballet instructor doubled as the art and music teacher, right? A Madame Dumont, who only took two levels of ballet in college and never got cast in any major productions barring a dancing mouse in The Nutcracker.”

A dancing mouse is a harder role to procure than you’d think.

“I hardly think she qualifies as a Madame. Perhaps a Miss.”

“Well, she was the best in our district,” I say defensively. My old teacher probably wasn’t the most qualified, but at least she encouraged me, unlike Gant’s mother.

Encouraged you? Or encouraged your delusions?

“Just like you were the best in your class. A dove amongst pigeons.”

I bite the tip of my tongue and taste the metallic twang of blood.

“But here you’re amongst swans. You blend in colour-wise, but you’re too small. You get lost in the shuffle.”

“I don’t want to be a swan,” I say before I can stop myself.

“Let me guess,” Gant smirks. “You want to be a phoenix?”

It sounds insanely cheesy out loud, but I nod and, surprisingly, Gant doesn’t laugh.

“Then you’ll have to shake off all that ash.”

“Half of which you blew on me?” I lift a brow.

“I’ll blow a lot more on you than ash,” he says, his dark eyes twinkling.

I gaze up at him from beneath my lashes. “I hope so.”

The incredulous smile that tugs at his lips is more than worth it, but another thought’s nagging at me.

“Why did you know my old teacher’s name?”

“I know everything about you. I brought you here.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” I quip. “But why did you do a deep dive into my instructor’s dance history? How was that important?” I ask. Sure, he’d gone to extreme lengths to get me enrolled at Beaulieu just so he could torture me, and now…teach me? That still didn’t make sense, interlude or not. But still, I never mentioned my instructor’s name on my application, much less her ballet achievements. “Did you think having insight about her would give you a better idea of my dancing level?”

“Is that not obvious?”

“You used a body double for my audition tape.”

He says nothing, waiting for me to get to the point.

“But once I got here, there would be no way to hide that I’m not up to Beaulieu’s standard. You knew that would happen…and you knew you would end up tutoring me?”

Again, he doesn’t deny it.

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