Page 141 of Swallow Your Sorries

On the fact that she may be a victim too…

On the fact that she may not be your biggest enemy after all.

But maybe your biggest witness.

But if I have a new enemy to focus on, what does that make Elle? She’s been my reason, my fuel for this long. If I strip away my hatred... What’s left?

“You’re not extending enough,” I say on her third pique as we run through another portion of Cinderella’s choreography. “Then when you step down, your knee is bent, and the other leg kicks too high. It looks more like a controlled hobble.”

To Elle’s credit, she never seems overly defensive. She’s pliable, and that’s important for improvement.

“Do it again in the mirror and watch.”

When she obliges, I make us do it together and immediately she can spot the difference, judging from her expression.

“Again,” I say, leaning against the barre. “Focus on keeping that leg straighter, and the kick lower.”

While she focuses on that, I refocus on something else.

The green car.

But not just the green car. The connection between Elle and I. We’d both been hit and now I can’t stop the intrusive thought that both accidents weren’t accidents at all.

What are the odds that there were two forest-green vintage cars on the exact same road at roughly the same time? Just a kilometre or two apart?

As we transition into Grand Jete’s, pirouettes and finally Grand Adage, I don’t know who’s more relieved when the session comes to an end, me or Elle, but for very different reasons.

We need to talk, but I still need Elle to be great. I can’t shift her focus just yet, not during our limited sessions, no matter how badly the questions burn in my skull.

“You learn fast,” I say, watching as Elle runs through a sequence we learned last class one final time. With the small corrections, she’s marginally better. It makes me wonder how much better she would’ve been if she’d had the right instruction from the start.

Not that my own mother was much help. She had her preconceived opinions on who fit into the ballet world and who didn’t just by looking at them. It’s the main reason she’d dissuaded Stassi’s parents from signing her up at her dance studio while being utterly gutted that Aria only dropped in for sessions to help with her ice skating. Aria could’ve been a great ballerina, she’d always say, completely ignoring the potentially great ballerina in front of her.Elle.

“You explained what I was doing wrong really simply. It just clicked,” she huffs in between sips of water. “Mistress Errard’s given me a lot of pointers, but it’s hard to digest when they’re cushioned with so many insulting similes. Still, she’s probably the most helpful instructor technique-wise that I’ve ever had. Well, except for you.” She looks away at the last part, taking another swig of water.

“So you admit I’m a fantastic instructor?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“And when I prove it to you? By keeping you right where you belong in the advanced class. With me.”

“If you can keep me from getting demoted to intermediate, I’ll call you whatever you want.”

“Your baby?”

She freezes and then licks her lips. “Whateveryou want, Gant.”

I stalk closer to her, grabbing the barre and resting my elbows on it so I can peer down at her because suddenly I want something, desperately. “I want my kiss.”

It always catches me off guard how damn cute she is. How damn innocent. I’ve touched her pussy. Spit on her slit and yet she’s startled by the idea of kissing me for a third time. What, does she find it too intimate? More intimate than when I stroked her walls?

“You still have eight more questions.”

“Later,” I drop to a squat in front of her. “I want my kiss now.”

“What are you doing?”

She tries to move, to step back the way she always does when I get too close to her. Even in the greenhouse, she kept creeping up the table, all the while wanting me to suck her clit. But all she’s doing is backing herself up into a corner, right against the cool pane of the narrow window.

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