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Her dad chuckled, shaking his head. “No, not at all. That’s why I remember it. Your mom and I were sitting on the sidelines as you walked off the floor, waiting to see if you were going to scream or burst into tears or... what. We didn’t know. And you strode right up to us with your little chin in the air. I said ‘You did very well, sweet pea,’ trying to head off the explosion.”
He took another sip of beer, snorting a little. Sophie laid her head on his shoulder. “And I didn’t explode.”
“Not a bit. You looked me right in the eye and said ‘Next time, I’ll do better.’” He rubbed his chin over her hair. “You could have knocked your mother and I over with a feather, we were so surprised.”
It was Sophie’s turn to snicker now. “I didn’t win in Verona until I was thirteen, I think. Maybe fourteen.”
“But you kept going back.” He dropped his arm from around her shoulders and turned her face up, gripping her chin until she met his eyes. “I was so proud of you. I still am, sweet pea. Your mom, too.”
Sophie cleared her throat of the sudden obstruction and blinked away the sting of tears. “Um, thanks Dad. But I’ve always been passionate about dance. I’m still not sure I get why this one was so memorable to you.”
“It wasn’t the passion, Sophie. Anyone can have passion for something. And it has nothing to do with whether you were winning or not. Your strength, your dedication, your unwillingness to give up. That’s what makes us so proud of you.” He let her go and stood up, taking the ribbon from her hands and laying it gently in the box.
“You went back, and you did better. You kept on, until you made it.” He smiled fondly, finished his beer, and stretched. “I’m going to go have a quick shower before dinner.”
“I love you, Dad.” Sophie’s voice was a breathy rasp as her father’s words washed over her.
“Love you too, sweet pea.” He took only one step out of the door before stopping and turning to look back at her. “Whatever it is, Sophie? You’ll work it out. I have faith in you.”
She couldn’t help the tears that flooded her eyes at that, wetting her lashes. But her lips curved in a smile. She gave her father a short nod, because she couldn’t speak. He winked and strolled down the hall to the bathroom.
When she heard the door shut, Sophie let out a long, quavering breath. She should’ve known she couldn’t fool her father. He might not say as much as her mother—his little speech a minute ago was about as verbose as he ever got—but that didn’t mean he didn’t pay attention.
“It’s not just the passion,” he’d said. Was that true? Passion had always seemed the most important part of her pursuit of dance. She’d seen it countless times, throughout all the years she’d taken classes, and now, teaching them too.
Some people mastered the technique but were never great dancers, because the passion wasn’t there for them. It was the difference between understanding something and feeling it.
The great dancers were the ones who, when they danced, you could see the passion emanating from them like a glow.
Sophie’s gaze fell to the cardboard box and the small, faded ribbon on top. Her dad’s words touched her mind again, like a hand on the shoulder. Maybe it wasn’t the passion. Or, not only the passion. She had worked hard to be the best dancer she could be. She had practiced and trained and practiced some more. She had sacrificed a lot to make it to the top of the competition circuit, before the injury.
It had always felt worth it though, because she loved it and couldn’t imagine doing anything else. That’s why she had felt so lost after the accident. Why she’d fought so hard to get back on her feet, literally, after all the surgeries. Why, w
hen she’d finally reconciled herself to the fact that she would never dance professionally again, she’d opened the studio—with Darren’s help, of course. Why she worked so hard to make the studio as successful as it could be. Because it was a part of her—dance.
And if it got hard, she just worked harder. She always had.
So, why was she running away from Henry? Even if it was over. Even if what the tabloids were saying was true, which Carl had assured her it wasn’t, didn’t she owe it to herself to face it? To face him?
She’d never taken the easy way about something that mattered before. Never skipped a rehearsal or sat out a competition. The question was, she supposed, how much did everything that had happened between them matter? How much did Henry matter?
Sophie dug into her pants pocket, her eyes on the faded pink of the Participation ribbon as she jabbed at the screen and listened to the line ring. Darren answered after the third ring.
“What’s up, Soph?”
“I’m coming home.”
She heard his sharp intake of breath and knew he was worrying. About the news. About whether or not she’d heard the news. “You are?”
“And I’m going to need your help.” Sophie’s lips curved upward in the first real smile she’d felt all day. Darren was frowning. She could hear it in his voice.
“With what?”
“I’ve got a plan.”
Chapter Twenty
Darren was still frowning when she arrived at his apartment later that evening. He tried to smooth his blond brows as he opened the door and ushered her inside, but there was still a small fold just above his nose.
