Page 85 of My Last Dance

“Kappy!” I shouted.

When he finally grunted and turned over, relief filled my chest. He was alive, but that just meant he was ignoring me.

Growing frustrated, I pulled the covers down and dared to pat his face, only to find that his cheek was searing hot. On closer inspection, his hair was damp with sweat. Yanking the blanket clean off, I found that his whole body was sweaty. His t-shirt was basically soaked through.

“Jesus, Piper, I’m tired,” he groaned, grabbing for his blanket.

“Why are you all sweaty?”

“Huh?”

“You’re drenched in sweat, and you’re all pale. Are you sick?”

He rubbed his eyes. “What?”

“Are you sick?” I slowly repeated. He squinted at me like I was speaking a different language. “Do you feel okay?”

That seemed to snap him out of the haze he was stuck in. “I’m fine, jeez.” He stood quickly, but then almost toppled over and had to grab the ledge of the TV stand, making my picture frames and decor topple to the floor.

“Are you okay?”

Squeezing his eyes shut, he rubbed at his chest. “You need to stop asking that.”

“I’m just trying to make sure you’re okay,” I said defensively.

“It’s too early for this,” he grumbled.

Feeling slighted, I completely rescinded my potential breakfast offer. “Well, I’m leaving for ballet in twenty minutes with or without you.”

He just grunted, making me wonder where the usual happy-go-lucky Kappy went.

I ended up leaving for the dance studio without him. Polina, our middle-aged Russian dance instructor, was a stickler for being late, and I wasnotabout to risk her wrath because of him.

But he shockingly made it to practice on time. He strolled in with his hair still wet from the shower, but he had more color in his face than he did after waking up, making me feel a little relieved.

“You good?” I asked quietly while reaching for my toes to stretch.

“Yeah, why?” he feigned indifference, but I could tell he was hiding something.

“You didn’t look so good this morning.”

“You two.” Polina interrupted us. “Ready?” she asked in her thick Russian accent.

Kappy gave her what I can only describe as his “smolder” look, squinting his eyes and smirking slightly. He reached out for a handshake. “I’m Richard Kappers.” His voice dipped. “But friends call me Kappy. Pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

I snorted, then immediately tried to cover it as a cough when they both looked at me.

Polina’s sharp gaze darted from Kappy’s hand to his face. She turned up her nose and walked away from his hand, her posture extremely straight. “We start with stretch,” she demanded.

Kappy stole his hand back and smoothed it through his damp hair. “Okay then.”

“Guess your charm doesn’t work on everyone,” I snickered.

“Guess not,” he said with a little chuckle.

We went through a round of stretches, and Polina really pushed Kappy. Watching her forcefully deepen his stretch, making his face go red, had me actually feeling bad for him. I went through that, but at age seven.

As soon as Polina walked away to give us a water break, Kappy rolled onto his back and groaned. “I don’t think men are supposed to stretch like this. My man area hurts.” He slung an arm over his forehead and remained on the floor.

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