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“Such a charmer, but still no Shakespeare.” The rawness of my voice has her on alert, but I just hold her to me, keeping my forearm locked around her chest.
“You’re going to blow them away with that dance. I’m so damned proud of you.”
“Look at you, getting all sentimental on wine.”
It’s the longest fight of my life. The minute it takes me to rein my emotions in. I’ve already lost her again, and the worst part is I completely understand why. I can’t be in her future if it’s here in New York. It’s not impossible, but with her unwillingness to commit to anything but dance, it’s improbable. I battle with myself to ask. I’ll never feel this way about any other woman, I know it.
I know the unconditional love of family, the sincerity of a good friendship in its own love-like version, but Harper showed me—taught me—what love with strings feels like. Her strings pinpoint so many parts of the anatomy of my heart—desire, borderline obsession, need, want, but most of all, the capacity to be content, and that’s something I’ve never had until her. I still love her the way she taught me how, and I don’t want to ever know any different. It’s her.
This fight is selfish. All my thoughts are selfish. The best thing I can do for her is let her dance, let her shine her light, and not taint her with the darkness I fight daily, the darkness that keeps threatening to swallow me whole.
Maybe my line of thinking is dramatic, but it’s totally true.
“It’s almost midnight, almost Christmas,” she says softly before leaning back and drawing me into her kiss. I kiss her back, knowing the clock is ticking as I fight for just another minute with her. No matter how good we fit, no matter how hard we love each other, or how much I want it, she can’t truly belong to me.
And it’s that blow that leaves me defeated.
Harper
Both of us are on the verge of sleep, Lance grips me tightly to him as we lay on my bed using my Mac as a TV. We put on my favorite Christmas movie after making love for hours. Hours I could never, ever forget. He’d showered me in his love, his need. I’ll never fail to remember the way he hovered above me—his movement so deliciously slow as my entire body shook with the feel of him. My center throbs now as I think of the way he leaned in, drawing my kiss as he rolled his hips, his deep thrusts stealing my breath, in his eyes a gentle storm. It’s utter completion being with him this way. I feel free, happier than I can ever remember. Nothing has ever felt so real to me, so right. My heart’s been faithful for good reason. He’s the one and my only, and he’s leaving soon. I’m terrified. Terrified to speak up because I know what battles I’ll face in the road ahead if I choose life with him.
Lance’s fingers run along my scalp, and I cower away from his touch. Repositioning myself on his chest, I try and concentrate on the movie and the feel of his caress.
“Happy, you little bitch?”
I shiver in his hold, trying to bat away the images that keep surfacing.
“Do we have your attention now, Harper?”
Minutes into my fight, Lance’s voice pulls me back to where he lies beneath me.
“She’s too skinny,” he says in sleepy observation.
“What?”
He juts his chin toward the screen. “She’s way too skinny.”
I lift to sit and peer down at him, unable to help the bite in my tone. “Is that all you see?”
He frowns. “What? What do you mean?”
I glance over at the screen. “Is that all you see when you look at her?”
“She’s unhealthy. She looks sick.”
“She’s my hero. Vera-Ellen is a freaking legend, and is she remembered for this movie or her incredible dancing? No, instead, she’s known as the anorexic dancer.”
“No offense, babe, but it looks pretty true.”
“You know what I see?” I say in a huff. “I see raw, unbelievable talent. A rarity. Someone worthy of a hell of a lot of praise, not your scrutiny.”
Lance moves to sit, reaching for me. “Where is this coming from?”
“I’m just saying, look at her dancing, her talent.”
“Whoa,” he says, reaching for me. I stand, shying away from his touch before roughly pulling on his T-shirt.
“People don’t get it. They have no idea what it takes to do something so damned complicated and make it look easy. You know what else I see,” I look over to the screen, “I see that she probably spent months perfecting the transition into that fouetté turn, for you, for me, and you see a girl who needs a cheeseburger.”
