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“Why is that broken-down studio so important to you?” I ask, partly because I’m unable to resist, and partly because I want to hear her voice.
Galina lowers her arm—not all the way, but like some strength has been sapped from her. When she remains quiet, I prepare myself to drop the topic. Her eyes dart at me, then back to the phone.
“It’s the last piece of my father that I have left,” she says, voice soft to hide the unmistakable emotion behind them. “Thinking about it being torn down and turned into rubble … It breaks my heart. It’s like losing my dad all over again.”
Swinging my head from side to side in bemusement, I sip from my coffee. “You should be pleased that I’m transforming it into a successful nightclub.”
“That’s not the point!” Her scowl twists her lovely face up. “Turning that place into a soulless, commercial club packed with rich narcissists getting drunk and hooking up or vomiting on the floors I danced across … It’s worse than if you’d just left it an empty lot.”
Her vitriol makes me more curious than ever. “You used to dance there yourself?”
“Are you surprised?” She laughs. “My mother wouldn’t allow herself to have a daughter who didn’t learn the finesse of ballet. Luckily for both of us, I fell in love with it from day one.” Her eyes turn away, staring at a faraway place. “And it wasn’t just her. My dad … he adored watching me dance.”
Studying her natural poise as she does nothing but simply stand, I feel the urge to witness her dance for myself. What amazing ways would that beautiful body of hers twist, turn, and bend? My fingers twitch again as the image intrudes into my thoughts.
“My first big show.” She rubs her inner arm nervously. The fond memories are shifting to something less pleasant. “I was terrified. Mom made such a fuss about how perfect everything had to be, and it got me in my own head.” She runs her fingers through her hair; she’s wearing it up like she usually does. It exposes the length of her neck in a way that tempts me more than a naked pair of thighs ever could. “It was Coppélia, though a stripped-down version of it. Thirty kids doing their best to do justice to such a grand ballet. My mother didn’t sleep for the weeks leading up to it. I was cast as Coppélia. And at first, I was ecstatic! But Mom’s anxieties rubbed off on me. Insomnia isn’t kind to a ten-year-old.”
“I can imagine,” I whisper.
Her fingers linger on her scrunchie. “Just hours before the show, I decided to quit. I couldn’t do it. I wrote a note, left it at the studio, and then hid under my bed. Dad found me. He slid the note across the floor until it was inches from my nose. He sat on the bed above me, and we just talked. He told me I wasn’t acting like the Galina he knew.” She pauses, as if she has to catch her breath. “You’re too brave to pretend you’re a mouse. That’s how he phrased it. When I said I was afraid of letting him down, he started laughing. Then he got on the floor and crawled under the bed with me, suggesting all I needed was a good cuddle. But when he got halfway under the bed, he got stuck.”
I pull a frown as I try to imagine this scene. “Was he a big man?”
“He was,” she giggles. “He shouted for help, so I got out from under the bed and started yanking on his ankles. But I couldn’t budge him. He began to sniffle, moaning that it was okay if he was trapped. After all, missing the show didn’t matter to him if I wasn’t in it. That struck me hard. You know? That he only wanted to watch me. The actual show wasn’t what was important. I realized that I didn’t want to perform if he wasn’t there to see it, and when that clicked, I understood that I didn’t have to worry about making any mistakes. Dad wouldn’t care if I messed up. What was there to be afraid of?”
“That’s a big conclusion for a child.”
Grinning, she shrugs, but I think she’s pleased at my subtle compliment. “I told my father I would go get help. He asked why, and I explained I needed him to get free because I’d changed my mind; I wanted to perform in Coppélia. Suddenly, he rolled out from under the bed! The jerk was tricking me the entire time; he’d never been trapped at all!”
An unexpected grin passes over my face. “Your father knew exactly how to play you.”
“No, that’s not it.” Shaking her head, she lets go of her hair. I watch closely as some of the strands she freed in her fidgeting tickle over her shoulder, and suddenly, I’m struck by a strong desire to tuck it behind her ear.
“He wasn’t trying to trick me,” she continues. “He was trying to make me see how to focus on what actually matters. It’s not the made-up fears in our heads we should focus on; it’s the joy we share with others.”
My grip digs into my upper arms; I hadn’t even noticed that I was crossing my arms so hard.
“Interesting.” I deliberately loosen my hold and nod.
“Talking about all this … It isn’t easy,” she admits. “Remembering Dad when he was healthy is a harsh reminder that I wasn’t there for him when he got sick.”
“What do you mean?”
Galina cringes like she was punched in the gut. “I shouldn’t have put myself first. Mom needed help with Dad, even if he insisted he was fine. I knew he wasn’t … and I still decided to spend my time working on my own interests. I was struggling to figure out what my next steps were in life. I’d always danced or helped teach; what else was out there? My friend Audrey got an apartment; I stayed with her. I tried tons of new stuff. Photography, hiking, waitressing, line cooking.” Her voice falls until it becomes no more than a quivering whisper. “I wasn’t there when they needed me the most.”
There’s a yearning in my blood to take away her pain. I don’t know how to do it. All I have are words. But I have to try. “It’s okay to choose yourself, ptichka.”
“No, it isn’t.” She shakes her head grimly.
“It is,” I correct her. “It’s not possible to help others if you can’t help yourself first.”
Her eyes widen; they grow damp. I expect her to cry, but instead, she sucks in a loud breath. The moment of vulnerability dissipates.
“Thank you for letting me borrow this.” She passes me my phone, tucking her hands behind her back. “I feel better knowing the place isn’t destroyed yet.”
Yet. A hot sensation bubbles up. Words erupt from my lips before I can think them through. “If you really feel this strongly about that building … you can run it.”
“Me?” Her eyebrows press together until they make a crease. “Run a nightclub?”
