Page 165 of Facing Off
The studio blurs. My eyes seek Adrian. Out of control, it’s him I want. Seeing him is imperative, like breathing air.
When our eyes connect, I could stagger to my knees.
So often his hair is styled to be perfectly mussed. That’s not the case right now. It’s so far gone, his fingers disheveling it so badly that the ends have stuck up. That and his parted mouth, a blush riding high across his cheekbones, and?—
“Fuck,” he drags out. “Sonya.Fuck.”
I slow down to a stop, to say I agree with it all. What he’s going through, I am, too. We’re both in this together. “You’re so unbelievable.”
A second later, I wince because I meantincredible. Also,mine. Also,everything. “It’s not coming out right,” I hurry and explain, flushing.
“It’s okay, darling.” His words are chewed out as if he’sbiting his own tongue. Even so, his expression softens with patience. “You don’t have to?—“
“No, butI want to. You have to understand.” My voice pitches and cracks. “Me too.”
His eyes are bright and trained on me, as I try to elaborate, but nothing comes out. Frustrated, I move away and keep dancing.Me tooisn’t enough. But I’ll get there.
En pointe, I’m dancing completely differently. Not like I did when he snuck into the studio to check on me, so many weeks ago. That ballerina has been shed. It’s not about ethereality and lightness and playing a character for the audience.
More harsh fouetté turns.
There’s a tempest inside me. These big, overwhelming, choking feelings. I’m panting, exhausted. My balancés and bourées are a minor reprieve, before even more fouetté turns.
The skill it takes to do them is brutal. A visceral strain on my body. I’m so tired now, my body cramping in every spot.
The only person I think about is you.
Ask me who I love.
Idowant to ask and be ready with my own six words.
Am.
In.
Blank.
With.
You.
I petit saut, then I piqué turn. Once, twice, three times before a glissade, before the big one?—
Grand jeté.
My legs are perfectly ninety degrees, legs split in power, fluidity, athleticism. A massive leap across the studio, and I land with my front foot downwards and knees bent toabsorb the shock. My back leg and arms remain extended outward.
This suspended pause. Disbelief.
Then my arms unfold down.
I’ve done it. Executed a show-stopping, timeless, iconic move without suffering from the yips. No hesitation, no blankness, no panic swallowing me whole. My body remembered what to do. I didn’t fall. In fact, there’s been no falling at all, dancing for him.
I turn to Adrian to share the news, breath catching, as the tension in my body uncoils finally in what feels like forever.
Our eyes lock together and my limbs wobble. Actually, no. That’s not true.
I have fallen.
