Page 142 of Masked Sins
He’s doing well now that his diabetes is under control, thankfully.
Only took him a stern lecture from his regular doctor about his regimen, but he’s okay now.
Bradleigh’s eyes scan all of the stores, and she shifts her weight nervously. “What if they say something to me?” she asks.
I scrunch my brows. “Well, you’re with me. And Orion will stand tall and get all scary if anyone saysanythingrude, okay?” I tell her, looking over her shoulder at Orion.
“Promise,” he tells her, winking.
“Okay, maybe shopping first, then?” She looks up at me with an expectant smile.
“Sure. Let’s go.”
The three of us walk into the teen accessory store, and Bradleigh spends an exorbitant amount of time picking between two different pairs of earrings. She’d insisted that Malakai join us today, but since he was busy at Julian’s house, I’d brought the second-best thing—his brother. We’d met Bradleigh at the mall, and her mom had gone back home to rest. Apparently, she was a nurse working overtime, and the whole bullying situation at school had taken a toll on Bradleigh, causing her to have nightmares.
Neither of them was sleeping very well.
She talks to us excitedly about ballet when we get pretzels and dip them in warm cheese sauce. I tell her about my performances at PCB, and she tells me about her dreams to dance for the Royal Ballet in London.
Orion is quiet for the most part, engaging with her genuinely but not wanting to interfere in the girls’ trip. When we declare that it’s time for nails, Orion winks and excuses himself to the bookstore.
Bradleigh and I decide to get matching yellow polish—her choice—and when her technician is still working on her nails, I walk to the outside of the store to get away from the strong fumes. A woman is sitting on the bench in front of the nail salon, and I have to do a double take.
Jean Fuller.
Also known as the judge from the Paris School of Ballet—the one who rejected me all those years ago.
You simply don’t fit the image of a Parisian ballet dancer.
She’s thinner now, if that’s possible.Older.Her severe expression is fixated on something on her phone. As I take a step closer, I contemplate if I should say hello. I doubt she remembers me, but maybe it would be a good time to get some closure or something.
When I take another step closer, she snaps her head up to me, and I go still when I see the tears tracking down her face.
“Are you all right?” I ask, holding my hands out.
“I’m fine,thank you,” she snipes, her accented English bitter and cold.
I should just walk away. After all, she was rude to me—it almost seemed like she was holding a grudge against me that day, though I suppose I’ll never know why.
“Are you sure?” I step closer, and it doesn’t really seem like she’s okay. Her hands are shaking, and her hair looks less polished than I remember.
Without asking, I sit down next to her.
She scoots away. “I told you, I’mfine?—”
“You probably don’t remember me,” I say slowly, looking at her with what I hope is an open expression. “I auditioned for the Paris School of Ballet seven years ago, and my stepbrother interrupted the audition?—”
“I remember,” she says, sniffing. She reaches into her purse and pulls out a handkerchief, blowing her nose.
She doesn’t say anything else, so I continue.
“I worked really hard for that audition, and I was devastated for a really long time that I never got to show you my repertoire.”
“And?” she asks, looking annoyed.
I huff a laugh. I’ve thought a lot about this over the years. I held so much anger toward Orion, and at the time, it felt justified. But if I’m truly honest, I think the struggles I’ve had with my size and body shape probably would have been amplified had I lived in a foreign country away from my family and friends. Especially in a city as sophisticated as Paris.
“I realize now that it was never meant to be, and that’s okay. Everything happens for a reason, you know? You told me I don’t fit the image of a Parisian ballet dancer, and you’re right. I never would’ve been happy there.”
