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Like I know that his left knee bothers him more than the right because of an old injury he had back in our junior year.
“Watch your back, Jackson,” he says, moving away from the car and laying a last punch on my jaw that makes me go completely down on my back. “You don’t want to mess with people who know your weaknesses. Years of soccer should’ve taught you that.”
He leaves then.
While I stay on the ground, my entire body on fire, chuckling at the pain, watching the night sky.
***
In a white dress and a flimsy green cardigan, she stares at something.
Through the window of her darkened studio.
She doesn’t know that there’s a Mustang parked a block over and I’m sitting in it. And that I’m watching her. I’ve been watching ever since she scared the fuck out of me when she appeared out of nowhere, walking down the street.
In fact, I don’t think she knows anything that’s happening around her.
And with every second that passes, my anger mounts.
What the fuck is she thinking?
What the fuck is she doing here in the middle of the night?
Where in the fucking fuck are her brothers now? Especially now when they know that she needs to take better care of herself. Especially now that they know how I fucked her over.
Again.
Only this time I’ve done it worse.
And so this is pissing me the fuck off.
That she’s out here alone.
But more than that, it’s making my chest tight, my lungs contract as I watch her stand there, looking at her dream through the glass.
I’ve been watching it too.
That dream.
For the past week, I’ve either been working on my Chevy at Auto Alpha for long hours — Pete thinks I’ve gone crazy but he doesn’t interfere because he knows what I did — or I’ve been driving here to this street, watching her dark studio.
Just so I can imagine her, dancing, spinning on her toes inside that building.
Like a fairy.
Like she was born to do.
She moves then.
She walks away from her studio and I can’t get air inside my body. I choke on the pain as she stops a few paces down. In front of another ballet studio: Baby Blues.
A sister branch of Blue Madonna, where they teach ballet to little girls.
It was the studio she went to before switching over to Blue Madonna, I know. I’ve seen her through the glass window countless times.
She’s pressing her hands on that same window now, as if she can see something. As if she can see, she can imagine, picture her — our…
“Fuck,” I mutter quietly as my sternum almost caves in on me, and climb out of the car.
I snap the door shut, the sound of it echoing in the night and finally alerting her that someone’s here.
She spins around, her eyes finding me.
I stride toward her and I see her shoulders sag in relief. I even see a small, trembling smile on her lips and I think I’ve lost my mind, that pain is making me hallucinate.
But at least I have enough sense left that I know it’s real when she stumbles on her feet. And I hasten my steps to get to her, catch her, before she falls.
I wind one arm around her tiny waist and the other behind her knees and pick her up.
“Reed,” she gasps, her blue eyes wide. “Thanks.”
I clench my jaw. “What are you doing out here?”
She frowns and clutches my t-shirt. “I’m taking a walk.”
“You can barely stand.”
“I can too.” She sticks her bottom lip out. “If you put me down, I can show you.”
“I’m not fucking putting you down.”
She rests her head on my shoulder, peeking up at me through her eyelashes. “You know, you curse too much, Reed.”
“That’s the least of my crimes.”
She sighs. “I know.”
I squeeze her body in response and it feels much too thin.
She’s small to begin with, tiny bird-like bones, but I know that she’s lost weight. I can feel it.
I can see it too.
I can see that she’s ruined. Completely and irrevocably.
Her cheeks are sunken and there are deep circles under her eyes. Eyes that are red and swollen. From all the crying, I assume.
This is me.
I’ve done this.
She raises her hand and lightly grazes her fingers over a bruise, studying me as I’ve been studying her. “Ledger did this, didn’t he?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“You look completely destroyed.”
I have to chuckle at this. Harsh and angry.
At the fact that she’s been thinking the same thing as me.
“It’s fine,” I tell her again and begin to walk.
“That’s what you used to say. Two years ago.”
“Yeah, things haven’t changed much since then. I’m still the same asshole. Besides, this isn’t anything that I didn’t deserve, so.”
Her eyes fill with tears and I squeeze her against my body again, her tears enflaming my pain, making my injuries throb.
