“Decides whether to take it.”
Something flutters in my chest. “What happens if they don’t?”
“The dance ends. The negotiation fails.” He traces one of the symbols on the parchment. “But if they do take it, the real dance begins. A series of give-and-take. Advance and retreat. Each movement a question, each response an answer.”
I study the notation, trying to parse meaning from the unfamiliar symbols. “And the ending?”
“The ending is...” He pauses. “It’s called the Accord. Both partners meet in the center. The final position is called ‘surrender,’ but it’s not about defeat. It’s about choosing to trust. To be vulnerable.”
To be vulnerable.
I’ve spent my entire life building walls against vulnerability. Constructing defenses out of discipline and control and the careful management of expectations. And now I’m supposed to perform a dance that requires me to tear them all down?
“I don’t know if I can do that,” I admit quietly.
“The dance?”
“The surrender part.”
He is quiet for a moment. When I finally look at him, his expression is soft, not amused but understanding.
“Neither could I,” he says. “For a very long time.”
“What changed?”
“I met a stubborn dance instructor who refused to let me get away with half-assing my footwork.”
I laugh despite myself. “That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer that matters.” He reaches over, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers linger against my cheek. “Vulnerability isn’t about being weak, Isadora. It’s about being brave enough to let someone see you. All of you. Even the parts you think aren’t good enough.”
Even the parts you think aren’t good enough.
My mother’s voice echoes in my head. Close. But not quite right.
“What if they don’t like what they see?”
“Then they weren’t worthy of seeing it in the first place.” His thumb traces my cheekbone. “But I suspect that’s not your real fear.”
“No?”
“Your real fear is that they will like it. That someone will see the real you—imperfect and struggling and human—and decide you’re worth loving anyway.”
I flinch before I can prevent myself.
“That’s terrifying,” he continues gently. “Because if someone loves you for who you are, you can’t hide behind achievements anymore. You can’t tell yourself that their affection is conditional on your performance. You have to accept that you are, inherently, enough.”
My eyes sting and I blink rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall.
“When did you become a therapist?”
“I’ve had three and a half centuries to work on my issues. Some things eventually sink in.” He leans forward and presses a soft kiss to my forehead. “We don’t have to do this dance if you’re not ready.”
“No.” I take a breath, steadying myself. “I want to try.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.” I look down at the parchment again. “Besides, it’s not like anything magical is actually going to happen. It’s just choreography.”
