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13
Pen
After a busy day of lessons, throwing myself into learning new dance techniques and avoiding the Breakers, I head up to my flat to change. Monday is the only day of the week when I don’t share any lessons with them. Which is just as well, as I need to get my game face on ready for tonight’s group practice. The show must go on, right? Madame Tuillard and D-Neath don’t give a fuck if I’ve got issues with half of the dance crew and I need to show everyone I can be professional despite everything that’s happening right now. Like Tuillard said, there are a hundred dancers willing to take my spot in a heartbeat and I refuse to fuck this up. I have to focus on the end of year show. I need something positive to hold onto in this mire of shit I’m wading through.
That show is my golden ticket. That’s my future. My way out. It’s my first step into a career in dance that I’ve always dreamed of and worked towards my whole life. Maybe I’m just being naïve believing that, but I have to hold onto something, right?
My stomach growls as I climb the stairs to my flat, reminding me that yet again I’ve eaten nothing for breakfast or lunch, and all that’s keeping me going are two cups of cheap tea sweetened with sugar to give me a boost in energy that I lack these days. I’ve literally got ten pounds to my name and somehow that’s got to keep me going until I start work at Grim’s. I decide that my only option is to call my new boss and ask for an advance. It’s not as if I can back out of my agreement with her, so she knows I’ll be good for it. Stepping into my flat, I head into the main living area only to stop short when I see three shopping bags filled with food sitting on my kitchen counter.
“What the fuck?” I whisper, my mouth dropping open in shock.
Reaching for the first bag, I pull out three packets of pasta, several jars of sauces, bread, eggs, tea, coffee, and other essential items to make enough meals to last me until the end of the month. The next bag is filled with fruits and vegetables, and the third has snacks and crisps and all kinds of treats I’ve never been able to indulge in, making me squeal in delight. I pull out biscuits, bags of crisps and chocolate bars. It’s all so wrong, but oh so right. I pick up a pack of chocolate biscuits and shove one in my mouth, moaning around the explosion of taste. My stomach gurgles, practically doing the jig as it relishes the sugary goodness I’m feeding it. I grab another biscuit, this time chewing on it slowly, rather than shoving it into my face, and take a good look at all the goodies. Relief floods my veins making me feel almost lightheaded, or maybe that’s just the sudden rush of sugar.
“Clancy, you gorgeous wonderful woman.” I laugh out loud, not remotely cross that she’s somehow snuck into my flat to leave me all this stuff. Not only is she an amazing friend, she’s a freaking badass lockpicker to boot. Though I am beginning to worry about how easy it really is getting into my flat. I need to sort that shit out.
Noticing a piece of folded paper on the counter, I snatch it up grinning, but my growing smile freezes on my face when I recognise the handwriting. “Fuck,” I whisper, placing the half-eaten biscuit on the counter and unfolding the note, my hands shaking.
Pen,
You will never go hungry again.
I’ve filled up your fridge too.
Eat first, then go look in your wardrobe.
Zayn.
No way!No fucking way. My throat constricts.Zaynbought me all of this. I grip the counter to steady myself, blinking back the sudden rush of tears that prick my eyes. Ignoring his command to eat first, and with hope fluttering in my heart, I walk towards the wardrobe. Attached to the glass mirror is another note that I hadn’t noticed when I entered.
This is the least I could do.
You deserve so much more, but this is a start.
Zayn.
I slide open my wardrobe and next to my clothes are a dozen hangers holding all sorts of dance gear. There are leggings, short and long-sleeved leotards, joggers, t-shirts, hoodies, even legwarmers. I flick through all of the items, my fingers running across the expensive dancewear. I’ve never owned anything as luxurious as these items. I’m used to hand-me-downs and second-hand clothes. I’m used to using what little spare money I have to buy from charity shops and cheap high street stores. All of this stuff is high-end dancewear that I’ve only ever dreamed of owning. It’s overwhelming. My gaze follows my hand as I touch every item reverently, my fingers finally landing on a black suit bag that’s been hung in the far corner of my wardrobe. There’s another note pinned to it.
Malik might be a dick, but he was right about one thing.
You dance with passion, with fire. You fucking slay me.
I’d willingly burn up in your flames, and suffocate in your ashes, if it meant I could hold you close again. If it meant you’d let me in.
Zayn.
“Zayn,” I whisper, needing him in a way I haven’t allowed myself to in a long time. He was always so good with words. He always knew what to say.
I might still feel pain at the way things ended between us, but after Zayn’s apology and our kiss I felt myself wanting to let him in. Even when he delivered Jeb’s message, I couldn’t hate him. He fought for me, protected me, and was cut by Jeb for his insolence. Now he’s backing up his actions by taking care of me in another way. I don’t know what this means for the rest of the Breakers, but at least Zayn’s showing me he’s not backing down, and that both fills me with happiness and dread because David’s threat still hangs over me. He remains like a spectre in the night, a monster under the bed, a nightmare just waiting to happen. He taints everything, even this moment of happiness.
Taking a deep breath and pushing all thoughts of David aside, I unzip the bag, refusing to let him ruin this moment of joy that is so rare these days. Inside is an absolutely stunning dress, the top half is a dark-grey silk held up by delicate straps edged with lace. The bodice is lightly boned and fitted, but it’s the skirt that takes my breath away. It’s made up of layers of light, floaty, red, gold and orange tulle giving the effect of flames creeping up the dress.
Flames and ash, just like Zayn’s note.
I’veneverowned anything as perfect as this.
Taking the dress out of the bag I hold it up against me and look in the mirror. I know without even having to try it on that it will fit. My fingers run over the material as I hug it against my body. A flush creeps beneath my skin as more tears swim in my eyes and I allow myself to believe that sometimes wecanfix what’s broken, that maybe hope is worth holding onto no matter how impossible a situation might seem.
Hanging the dress back up, my eyes trail to the bottom of the wardrobe and the dance shoes lined up there. I fall to my knees, picking up the ballet slippers, then the pointes. My fingers stroke over the silky material and I hug them to my chest before placing them back lovingly. My gaze falls to my ruined trainers and I yank them off my feet before picking up a pair of black dance sneakers and pulling them on. They fit like a glove. There is a pair of tap shoes too, as well as a couple of pairs of stretch canvas, half-sole shoes that will prevent the balls of my feet blistering when I dance. I won’t have to constantly wrap my feet up now that I have these. Wonderment fills me at Zayn’s generosity, his thoughtfulness, and his words.
