Scott picks up the dice, he’s basically part of the family, he knows all our dirty secrets. “How do you feel?”
Checking in with myself one more time, I pause before answering his question. Sucking in a deep breath, I let it fill every inch of space in my chest. “Free.”
CHAPTER39
Edith
(APRIL 12TH – DAY 26 POST OP)
I’m so fucking sick and tired of these crutches. According to my doctors, it’s too soon for a boot. But this cast-and-crutches combo is ruining my life. Okay, so that’s a smidge dramatic, but it’s most definitely ruining the lines of my outfit.
I wanted to go ax throwing. I’vealwayswanted to go ax throwing but it’s not really an acceptable activity in the hyper-feminized ballet world. I couldn’t get any of my friends to go with me, and I felt a tiny seed of guilt for even wanting to try it.
Butapparentlyax throwing isn’t a good idea when you’ve got a broken leg, so we settled on a middle-of-the-day movie.
It’s unfair just how handsome Apollo looks when he’s not even trying. He’s wearing a pair of dark wash jeans, and a dark green sweater that complements his brown eyes to perfection. I want to peel his clothes off him and drag my tongue all over his body. But he says we need to go on a date before too long passes, and we never get around to it.
I tried to tell him that we’ve done all kinds of date-like things over the years, but he’s determined to have a real first date. Aproperone, whatever the fuck that means. Do people even put effort into first dates these days? Isn’t it all just dick pics and booty calls?
Who knew Apollo de la Peña was such a traditionalist?
The theater is almost empty. We’re sitting far from the screen, near the back, and once he’s done piggy backing me up the stairs to our seats, he disappears to the concession stand for snacks. Because no movie is complete without appropriate snackage.
I can’t remember the last time I saw a movie in the theater. Always dancing, working out, meal-prepping... the little things like spending two and a half hours watching a movie fell by the wayside in lieu of something more important.
Unlocking my phone, I scroll through the socials, deliberately hunting out my old dance friends, watching and re-watching their short videos from the end of season auditions. It still cuts into my chest almost every bit as much as it did four months ago when we crashed.
Four months.
When I woke up in December all busted up and sore from head to toe, I was convinced that by March I’d be back en pointe. Instead, I’m still hobbling around like an old woman, unable to put my foot on the ground at all, and I have no idea how the bones are knitting together under my new hardware.
Will I need more surgery?
Assuming all goes well with my cast removal, I have six weeks until my first PT session. Maybe that will instill some hope into my aching soul. I’ve tried to spend some time thinking about life—long term—and how that would look if I truly can’t dance again.
The crippling, consuming panic at the thought tickles at the base of my spine. Blinking back tears, I shake my head. I can’t accept that part of my life might be gone forever. I just can’t.
Maybe by the time PT starts I’ll be in a better place emotionally to hear—again—that my life-long dream is gone forever. But today is not that day.
“What’s wrong?” Apollo places the giant soda in the armrest to my left before handing me an equally giant bag of popcorn.
“Butter?”
He arches a brow. “This might be our first date, Edith. But I’m not new to how you like your snacks.”
Rolling my lips between my teeth to fight a smile, I nod.
“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”
Shoving my phone away with a sigh, I pop some popcorn in my mouth, groaning at the delicious buttery taste that explodes on my tongue. Drenched in butter, exactly how I like it. “Getting in my feels about dance again.” The sadness devouring me is a constant companion, clawing at my chest. I’ve tried to press it down as best I can when I’m around Apollo and Penelope. They’re probably so sick of my misery, and I can’t blame them. I’m fed up with it all, too.
He cups my face, turning me to him. “We will face whatever comes, together.Sí?”
My internal monologue is stuck on repeat. Until I know how my leg is healing, and what my recovery looks like, I can’t know for certain if I’m going to dance again, or if I need to find something new to do with my life. And that ambiguity seems to be engulfing me in the meantime.
At some point during the movie, Apollo hauls me into his lap. I guess sitting next to him was too far away. Pinned against his muscular chest, my head resting on his shoulder as his fingers skim my thigh, the anxiety loosens its hold for long enough to enjoy the film.
But it’ll be back.
