Page 36 of The Last Pirouette
Her mother’s voice softened, filled with a grief that mirrored Harper’s own. “That’s not true, sweetheart. It will be different, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be good. You just need to find a new path, a new dream.”
“A new dream?” Harper laughed, a hollow, mirthless sound. “And what exactly is that supposed to be, Mom? Competitive wheelchair ballet? I don’t think so.”
Her mother flinched, but her voice remained gentle. “There are other things you’re good at, Harper. You’re smart, you’re creative…”
“But I’m not a dancer anymore,” Harper interrupted, her voice thick with tears. “And that’s all I ever wanted to be.”
The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken grief. Harper had hit a new low, allowing her insecurity and fear to overwhelm her. By quitting PT, she actively chose to give up, convinced that she was a burden and that recovery was an impossible dream she no longer deserved.
Her mother stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Harper, holding her tight. “Oh, honey,” she whispered, her own tears flowing freely. “I’m so sorry.”
Harper buried her face in her mother’s shoulder, finally allowing herself to break down completely. The sobs racked her body, each one a release of the pain and frustration she had been holding inside for so long.
Alone in the quiet of the locker room, the sounds of his teammates' departing chatter fading away, Liam sat slumped on a bench. The cold metal pressed against his skin, mirroring the chill in his heart. He ran a hand through his sweaty hair, the events of the past few days replaying in his mind like a broken record.
He’d been so focused on getting back on the ice, on proving to himself and everyone else that he wasn’t finished, that he’d completely ignored the person who had been his biggest supporter, his fiercest competitor, his… his something more.
He thought of Harper’s face when he’d told her he was cleared to skate, the fleeting flash of happiness quickly replaced by a shadow of pain. He’d seen it, but he’d been too caught up in his own excitement to truly understand it.
He knew he’d messed up. He knew he’d hurt her. And he knew he had to do everything in his power to fix it.
He pulled out his phone, scrolling through his gallery until he found it: a photo of him and Harper laughing by the lake, theirfaces flushed with sun and shared amusement. It was taken after one of their therapy sessions, before everything had fallen apart. The image was a painful testament to a joy he can't reclaim on his own. In the picture, Harper's eyes sparkled with genuine happiness, a far cry from the haunted look she'd had in the parking lot.
He closed his eyes, the weight of his hollow victory settling in his chest, knowing he has to fight for more than just a spot on the team. He had to fight for her.
Chapter 23
The afternoon light filtered through the window of Harper's childhood bedroom, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. The room, once a vibrant shrine to ballet, was in a state of solemn disassembly. Trophies sat on the floor next to a cardboard box, posters of famous ballerinas were carefully rolled up, and Harper moved with a heavy, methodical quietness. The mood was funereal, as if she were packing away the effects of someone who had died—the person she used to be.
She systematically removed her dance memorabilia—photos of herself mid-leap, programs from long-forgotten recitals, ribbons snipped from worn pointe shoes—and began placing them into a large storage box. It was a physical act of erasing her past identity, a declaration that Harper Quinn, the ballerina, no longer existed. Each item she laid inside was like a goodbye whispered to a ghost.
A stack of photographs showed Harper at different ages, each one a variation on a theme of dedication. There was six-year-old Harper in a too-big tutu, beaming with gap-toothed pride. Ten-year-old Harper, serious and focused, accepting a first-place medal. Fifteen-year-old Harper, radiating confidence in a black-and-white headshot, her eyes full of dreams. Now, at seventeen, she felt like a stranger staring back at her.
Her mother, Mrs. Quinn, entered the room, her presence sharp and observant. She didn't immediately offer comfort, instead watching Harper's somber ritual with a thoughtful, almost critical expression. Her eyes moved over the dismantling of Harper's world, taking in the trophies, the posters, the heavy stillness that hung in the air. It created a palpable tension, a silent question hanging between them.
“What are you doing, Harper?” Mrs. Quinn asked, her voice even, carefully devoid of any forced sympathy.
Harper didn’t look up, continuing to carefully fold a particularly vibrant pink ribbon, its satin worn soft with use. “Getting rid of it all,” she said, her voice flat.
Mrs. Quinn stepped further into the room, her gaze unwavering. "Getting rid ofwhat, exactly? The trophies? The pictures? Or are you getting rid of yourself?"
Harper finally met her mother’s eyes, a flicker of defiance in their depths. “It’s all the same, Mom. It’s over. I can’t… I can’t dance anymore.”
Mrs. Quinn didn’t flinch. “And you think that makes you… nothing?”
“Pretty much,” Harper mumbled, looking away again, focusing on the box at her feet. She picked up a small, framed photo of herself in costume forThe Nutcracker, a snowflake glittering against the velvet backdrop. "This was the happiest I've ever been."
“So that’s it?” Mrs. Quinn pressed, her voice firm, bordering on confrontational, designed to break through Harper's wall of despair. “Years of work, years of passion… you’re just going to pack it away in a box and pretend it never happened? That it nevermeantanything?”
Harper slammed the photo into the box, the glass rattling against the trophies. “What else am I supposed to do, Mom? Put on a show for you? Pretend I’m okay? I’m not. I’m so far from okay, I don’t even know where to start.”
Mrs. Quinn crossed her arms, her expression softening only slightly. “I’m not asking you to pretend, Harper. I’m asking you to remember who you are.”
“Who Iwas,” Harper corrected, her voice laced with bitterness.
“No,” Mrs. Quinn said, her voice gaining strength. “Who youare. Don’t you dare let this accident, this injury, define you.”
“What else is there?” Harper cried, her voice cracking. "Ballet was everything."
