Page 29 of With You

She lets out a heavy breath but says nothing.

“Exactly. And I don’t hate you, Amelie. I don’t think I ever have, really,” I admit. “So maybe we start there. Go back to basics like we did a few days ago.”

“I hardly think we need to be best friends just to dance together,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. She’s so stubborn that she has to push back even when I’m suggesting something that will benefit her.

“Five minutes, that’s all I’m asking for.”

I don’t know why I’m so determined to make this work, but I am. If I’m going to perform, for what might be the last time ever if I don’t start enjoying ballet again, then I want to go out with a bang. This performance means more to Amelie than I can ever imagine, but that doesn’t mean I don’t care about it.

She fiddles with the pieces on the board, moving them around again even though I just put everything back where it belongs.

“Do you want to play?” I ask her, nodding down at the board.

“It was quite satisfying when Grayson threw a piece at your head. Maybe we can recreate that,” she says gleefully, and it’s the first time she’s smiled during this conversation.

“Is that what it’s going to take for you to talk to me?” She only shrugs in response. “Okay, let’s try this. Seeing as how you think you know everything about me already, for every fact you get right, you can throw a piece at me.”

“And what do you get if you guess right?” She asks, leaning forward in her seat.

“The satisfaction of confirming that I know you better than you think,” I tell her.

She leans back again, arms still crossed as she considers my proposition. Amelie looks me up and down, her gaze flitting across me as she takes me in.

“Okay. Five minutes, rapid-fire questions,” she concedes.

“Great, I’ll start. What’s my favourite colour?”

“Blue.”

“Wrong, it’s green.”

“Nothing about you says that you like the colour green,” she snaps back, the frown on her face creating small dimples on her forehead.

“We don’t all feel the need to make our favourite colour our entire personality,” I say, gesturing toward her outfit.

“Whatever.” She shakes her head, and picks up the white rook in front of her. “What’s my favourite performance?”

“The Black Swan pas de deux,” I say confidently.

For years now, I’ve seen her watch countless performances, studying them and practicing diligently so she can perfect the routine. She wouldn’t have chosen it for her solo audition if it wasn’t something she cared deeply about. And she performed it spectacularly.

I was on my way to my own studio to practice when auditions were taking place, and when I saw Evie and Zena waiting outside, I knew Amelie was in there. I wasn’t in a hurry to start dancing, so I glanced in through the small window in the door. She was extraordinary. I almost didn’t believe her when she told me she didn’t get the solo, because it’s impossible that anyone in that room—in any room —was better than her.

Amelie clenches her jaw before relenting and admitting that it is her favourite piece. She throws the rook at me, anyway.

“What was that for?”

“You had a lucky guess,” she says, picking up another piece.

“Your favourite piece is the Black Swan pas de deux, but your favourite ballet is Giselle because that’s the first time you saw a woman who looked like you as a principal ballerina. You started classes when you were five, and you excelled far beyond our peers that even when I joined, I knew in an instant that you were dancing at a much higher level than the rest of us.”

Amelie narrows her eyes at me, leaning back in her seat, as if putting distance between us will stop me from seeing too deeply into her like I have so far. But it’s too late. I already know everything about her.

“You don’t like partner dances because you enjoy the control you get from dancing solo. But when push comes to shove, you’re more than capable of dancing with someone else, and in a way that elevates them to your level, too. Your dream is to be a Danseur Étoile, and you already hold yourself with the confidence and talent of one. And no one deserves it more than you do.”

She throws the king in her hand at me, her chair legs scraping across the floor as she stands.

“That’s enough,” she says, quiet but firm.