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“There’s some Thai in the fridge. You know, since you seem to like my leftovers.” I turn on my heel and walk out, hearing the loud slam of a door behind me. I briefly wonder if it was hers or his but then realize I don’t fucking care.
When I get into my car, I roll my windows down and turn my radio up loud. “Party in the U.S.A.” is on, and as lame as the song may be, I still sing along at the top of my lungs. Prior to Colorado, I was a windows-up, radio-doesn’t-go-past-level-eight kind of gal, but since, I’ve been trying to relax more.
After years of walking the line, it’s been tough to transition back to carefree Addison, especially without much focus on my future. I dance, go to the beach, run, and spend time with Olivia, but even those things are getting old at this point. I could probably live off my savings for a few years, but I’m already going stir-crazy with nothing to do or accomplish.
Half a dozen songs later, I make it to the gym. I roll my windows back up, then grab my gym bag and Chase’s hoodie. I throw the hood on over my head, plug my ears with my earbuds, and head inside. Eyes to the ground, I pretend like I can’t hear the catcalls and “rich bitch” comments through my music.
I chose a gym on the outskirts of Compton because no one knows me out here, and no one gives a shit about what I do. I offered the owner double the price of the normal hourly rate to reserve the space for me every day at the same time, and so far, it’s been a good arrangement.
The mirrors are cracked and jagged, there’s no barre to stretch or practice on, and the floor is just hard linoleum. After a month of daily beatings, my feet are just now getting used to the abuse without swelling and cracking each night.
When I step inside the cold room, I lock the door and block out the window, then hook up my phone to the twenty-year-old stereo system. I strip off Chase’s hoodie and my shirt and jeans, then stand in front of the long mirrors.
I gained five pounds during my Netflix binge, but my dedication to dance has gotten rid of those plus some. My legs are getting stronger, my abs harder and more defined. A shiver runs through me as the air conditioning hits me, so I mindlessly start to move, the thick drum beats of a Twenty One Pilots song lulling me into a deeper stretch.
I realize it’s time to get serious about my next move. I can’t continue to be a deadbeat and live off my savings forever. If I want to move forward with the whole dance studio thing, then I need to get started.
I know it will be hell trying to find a good location. Dance studios, performing arts centers, and competition teams are everywhere in LA, and I can’t exactly poach clients from the studio I currently work for.
I’ve known for a while that I’ll probably have to leave LA if I want to make this little dream of mine a reality, but it’s been hard to fully accept. There’s nothing here to stop me—no one here to stop me—and yet leaving feels like just another thing to chalk up under my lost column.
“Shutter Island”by Jessie Reyez hits the speakers, and my body naturally shifts from a lunge into its own routine. My hips roll, my legs bend, and my arms sway, each individual movement gracefully flowing into the next. I turn my mind off, feeling the beats roll through my body from the ground up.
I dance for my loss, my happiness, my pain. I dance to forget or maybe to remember. Most importantly, I dance to feel, because it’s the only time I can break away from the overwhelming numbness.
