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“You’re not going to tell her?”
I chew on the inside of my cheek. On one hand, I know I should. Inessa may be getting on my nerves right now, but she deserves to be kept in the loop. Shouldn’t her husband be honest with her? But on the other hand, I understand my father’s hesitance. She is a frightening woman on a good day. I can only imagine what it would be like to deliver this awful news, especially after how horribly she blew up when she first caught him looking for things to pawn around the house.
“You need to get going. Fix this, once and for all,” I say to him.
Dad nods slowly, gloomy defeat set into the dark features of his face. There are heavy circles beneath his eyes, his lips are chapped, his nose is runny. He’s a shadow of the man who raised me.
He takes the money and leaves first. Ten minutes pass in heavy silence as I blink the tears away and decide I need some fresh air. As I head toward the door, I can’t help but wonder if there was something I could have done differently. What would have happened if I had noticed something was wrong sooner? He has been suffering with this guilt the entire time.The thoughts rattle around inside my skull as I exit the building, pulling my winter jacket closed over my chest. What a nightmare this has been.
I barely make it two blocks before my phone dings with a text message.
I hope you had a good day.
Leo’s text immediately lifts some of the stress off my shoulders. I have half a mind to tell him what’s happened, but maybe that isn’t the sort of thing you drop on a person you’ve just started seeing. Well, I’m also pregnant with his child, but that’s a whole other can of worms that’s waiting to be opened at some point. Instead, I text him back.
It was good. I’m thinking of you.
I’m thinking of you too.
When can I see you again?
I’ll be practicing late tomorrow.
I trust you have a way in?
I’ll see you then.
Chapter 15
Leo
Ibring flowers, a massive bouquet of white and red roses, their thorns already removed. I don’t want Nikita pricking herself.
My dear friend Pavel, the security guard, lets me in after I slip him a couple hundred. He turns a blind eye as I step into the building, pretending to be incredibly interested in whatever non-existent dirt is beneath his fingernails.
Finding her is easy. Since it’s after hours, the lights of the vacant practice rooms are all off, making it easy to spot her from down the hall. Musical notes float into my ear, melodies mixing with harmonies, sweeping and cinematic.
I stand in the doorway and watch her through the glass, admiring the beautiful lines she creates with her body. I’ve never been a fan of ballet— until now. I can see its appeal. The beauty and innate charm, the discipline that goes into creating a living work of art.
I especially love how Nikita loses herself in the music. It’s like she’s on an entirely different plane of existence when she dances, moving about a space only she can see and feel. Her emotions come alive with every delicate swoop of her arm and the intricate footwork carrying her around. I thoroughly believe she is a fairy, spreading magic and love and cheer. She transports me through her storytelling. I can only imagine how wonderful it will be to see her in full costume.
But the longer I watch her, the more I begin to realize something is wrong. She makes mistakes from time to time, which I frankly don't see anything wrong with. It’s just that she grows increasingly more frustrated. There’s a weight to her today, like something is bearing down on her thoughts and body. She doesn't float as easily as she normally does, her smile seems a bit more forced than usual. When she makes an abrupt stop, places her hands on her hips, and grumbles something under her breath as she glares at the floor, I realize I need to intervene.
Something isn’t right.
I need tomakeit right.
She notices me the second I step into the practice room, her eyes sparkling with recognition. She hurries to the small stereo where her iPhone is plugged in to play the music, pressing a button to pause it mid-note.
“I was wondering when you were going to show up,” she says lightly, whatever trace of irritation I saw earlier is gone in an instant.
I approach, flowers in hand. “I had to make a pit stop.”
“These are beautiful, Leo, thank you so much.”
“Is something bothering you?” I ask, not one to let sleeping dogs lie.
“I’m fine,” she says a little too easily. I can tell she’s lying, though, because of the stiffness of her words and her inability to look directly at me.
