“Good thing for us I know it’s a great idea if we do.” He steals the half-eaten brownie from my hand. “See you in a bit, Anna.”
“Don’t you dare eat my brownie,” I warn, lunging for him.
He winks at me then stuffs the brownie into his mouth, wolfing it down in one bite. “Mmm. That was yummy.” He grins arrogantly before sauntering out the door.
My chin pretty much smacks the floor as the butterflies in my stomach come to life again. I’ve never felt them before, at least not with Miller, but I felt them with Ben, and with countless other crushes I had before . . .
My parents died.
My fingers fumble as I retrieve the envelope from my pocket.
When I was twelve and had my first crush, I asked my mom about the butterflies.
“I feel them every time I see him,” I told her in a giggly tone.
She was sitting behind me, leaning against the headboard, braiding my hair. “I felt that way with your dad, too.”
“Really?” I peered over my shoulder at her, and she nodded. “Was he the only guy that ever made you feel that way?”
Her fingers stopped moving through my hair. “Of course.”
Looking back, she could have been lying. Maybe the guy at the antique store made her feel the same way. Perhaps there were more guys. More secrets. More than I could ever, or will ever, understand.
Shoving the envelope back into my pocket, I sniff back the tears, wishing she were here with me so I could just ask her. I could even talk to her about how I’m feeling now. A year ago, she would’ve taken me into my bedroom and told me to pour my soul out. Eventually, I would’ve told her everything about the way I felt because I trusted her.
I glance around at the banister nicked with memories, the glitter stuck in the cracks, and the gouges in the floorboards, mainly from me dancing around in tap shoes when I was younger.
I slide the photo out of my pocket. It was taken about a year ago, right before I was about to go on stage. I was decked out in a swan costume, covered in feathers, sequence, and tulle. Standing in fifth position, my posture was perfectly straight, my legs strong, unscarred.
But that girl doesn’t exist anymore.
I crumple up the photo and chuck it in the trash.
All that’s left of my life now is a scarred leg and an empty house.
Chapter Thirteen
Horror Movies, Prom Dances, and Buried Secrets.
It seems like it takes forever for Christmas Eve to arrive. I spend most of the day watching horror movies and munching on the snowman sugar cookies Tammy brought over, trying my best to curb the need for pills and alcohol with sugar. She had set aside one that was covered in purple Skittles, and for some reason, that cookie ended up tasting the best.
The house is empty and extremely quiet today. My family went out to visit my parents’ graves and decorate the headstones with wreaths Zhara made. It’s really bothering me that I couldn’t go with them. I usually don’t care, but today, it’s got me throwing myself a pity party. I miss the numbness from the pills I used to pop and the nights of getting drunk and forgetting. Those nights used to be so uncomplicated. But it was those nights that got me trapped in my own home.
I grow desperate enough that I ransack the house for alcohol and pills, but Loki did too good of a job clearing out everything. Weirdly, I’m relieved when I come up empty handed. As numbing as it was to be out of it all the time, now that I’m not anymore, I realize it gets exhausting trying to stay high to escape. All the emotions, pain, the past, the future I was running away from, still existed under the sea of painkillers and booze.
I return to the sofa, but the second my butt hits the cushion, the quiet unsettles me again. I contemplate texting Miller and asking him to come over to distract me like he used to do.
I haven’t spoke to him since the cabin incident, but from the rumors Alexis told me, he hasn’t gone to jail yet, but there’s a good chance he will. I don’t feel bad that he might; after everything that happened, he kind of deserves whatever punishment is headed his way.
Just like I deserve my punishment.
Growing way too emotional again, I open a new text message.
Me: Hey, I’ve been thinking about what happened, and I just wanted to say that
Say that I what? Still feel super pissed that he forced me down on the bed and left bruises on my arm. That I want to vomit every time I think about it. That I’m glad he got arrested because he deserves it—deserves more.
“What am I doing?” I hammer my finger repeatedly against the delete button and switch to a different message feed.
Me: Saw u leave the house this morning. FYI, u look super dorky in a Santa hat.
Luca: Yeah, right. If I looked dorky, then u wouldn’t be looking.
Me: How could I not look? U looked ridiculous.
Luca: Keep telling yourself that. We both know that’s not true. U secretly liked it. Just like u secretly like me.
A smile tickles my lips. I haven’t seen much of Luca since the day he told me the secret about his sister, even though he did say he was going to come over. But he never showed up. I thought some time away from him would make the ridiculous grinning and butterflies vanish, but clearly that isn’t the case.
I set the phone down on the coffee table and tuck my hands under my legs. “Don’t text him anymore.” The phone buzzes. “Don’t pick it up.” It vibrates again, and growling at myself, I scoop up the phone.
Luca: U want to see something really crazy?
Luca: Check this out.
Attached to the message is a picture of his mom decked out in a red sweater with bells sewn on it. On the top of her head is a green elf hat that’s embellished with pointy ears. Her cheeks are painted pink, and she’s grinning as she hugs a man dressed up as Santa.
Luca: And that man she’s hugging is my dad. This is how I’ve spent the entire morning—hanging out at my dad’s store with these two weirdoes.
The two of them look silly, and the photo should make me laugh, but for some reason, a wave of sadness washes over me. My parents used to do goofy stuff like that around the holidays, but now that I think about it, it was more my dad than my mom who encouraged it.
Me: They look really happy. Ur lucky.
Luca: Anna, I didn’t mean to make u sad. I’m so sorry.
Me: I’m not sad. I promise.
Luca: Don’t lie to me. Perceptive. Remember? Now tell me what’s wrong.
I force down the lump wedged in my throat. He wants me to tell him what’s wrong? Is it that simple? To just type it? Say it? Just throw out the secret I’ve been carrying around for seven months now?
Me: I have to go. Easton just pulled up.
I toss the phone onto the table, flop back on the sofa, and focus on the woman running for her life across the television screen. But my attention keeps drifting to the sad looking, undecorated tree in the corner. It makes the room feel cold and empty, still, like a graveyard. If my dad were here, he’d be so sad that this is what we turned Christmas into.
The last time I saw my dad flashes through my mind, and without even thinking, I stride to the garage to get a box of Christmas stuff. I tell myself just one box of ornaments. For him. But then I come across the matching stockings my dad bought everyone a couple of years ago—purple for the girls and green for the guys—and end up grabbing those, too.
I return to the living room and drop the boxes onto the floor. Then I dust the dirt off my hands and crank up the iPod that’s on mantle. “6 Months” by Hey Monday, a song Alexis listens to sometimes, blares through the speakers.
I open the first box and dust puffs out along with a cloud of memories so strong I almost back out. But I push through the pain for him, because it’s the only thing I can do. There’s no going back in time, no rewinding and doing things differently. I can’t go back and tell him. Can’t erase my love for dancing. Can’t run from the pain and anger I feel over the loss of my parents. Whether I can run or not, the past h
appened. All of it. The good days and the stormy ones.
By the time I’m finished, the tree branches are drooping down with the weight of way too many ornaments, and the stockings hang crookedly above the fireplace. It’s not perfect, but it makes the living room less cold and empty.
Wiping away a few tears that managed to escape my eyes, I settle in the sofa and continue watching my movies until Easton shows up for my third session this week. The moment I hear him knock on the door, the pain in my leg amplifies, as if it knows reality has finally arrived. But since I can’t escape from it, I have no choice but to open the door and face the inevitable.
***
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” I complain to Easton as he makes me continuously push the chair around the couch. I can only use my injured leg because, according to Easton, I rely too much on my good leg. “My leg feels like it’s going to fall off.”
“That’s how it’s supposed to feel,” Easton says, eyeing the gory movie on the television. “Do you really watch this stuff all the time?”
“What can I say? I have a morbidly twisted fascination with fear.” I groan as the chair crashes into the corner of the sofa. “This sucks. My leg hurts so bad.”
“No one said physical therapy was supposed to be fun.”
“Um, yeah, you did. At our first appointment, you said, ‘I promise you’re going to have fun, Anna,’” I deepen my voice, mimicking his, while making air quotes.
“I said that to bring positivity to the atmosphere, but since it didn’t work on you, I’m trying a more blunt approach,” he repays, patting me on the head.
My lip curls. “I’m not a dog.”
“You kind of are, though, with how much growling you do.” He grins at me. “Kind of like a feisty little Chihuahua.”
I don’t give him the benefit of a growl. “Can I do something else now? All the spinning in circles is making me dizzy.”
“I was so hoping you’d ask that.” Bending over, he rummages around in his duffel bag for something.
I don’t like how happy he’s suddenly gotten. “Maybe you should go easy on me. I’m getting tired.”
He glances over his shoulder at me. “Going easy on you won’t help you get better.”
“Can we at least take a break?” I ask, clasping my hands in front of me. “It’s Christmas Eve and we’re supposed to be celebrating.”
He stands up with a silvery bow in one hand and an old school CD player in the other. He sticks the bow on top of my head. “There. Now you’re all decked out for the holidays.”
I pluck off the bow and press it to the back his shirt as he walks off. He sets the CD player down on the end table and leans over to plug in the cord. He presses the play button then spins around, rubbing his hands together as “Bright” by Echosmith comes on.
“Let me guess. You listen to this in your car on your way to work. I bet you even dance around in the seat.” I roll my shoulders and shimmy my hips.
“Actually, I do.” He flashes me his pearly whites as he snaps his fingers. “Now, stand up. It’s time to have that fun I promised.”
I know where he’s going with this, and I don’t like it at all.
I curl my fingers around the chair. “No way.”
“Anna, this is important.” He gently grabs my arm and drags me to my feet. “When we had our first visit, Loki really stressed that he wanted you to be able to dance again.” His expression softens. “Now, I can’t promise you that you’ll be able to dance like you used to, but we can at least work on dancing again.”
“Then what’s the point?” I wiggle my hand from his hold and inch back.
“The point is that this is part of the healing process,” he says.
Shaking my head, I inch back until the backs of my legs smash into the table. “I’m not dancing, especially with you.”
He chuckles, offering me his hand. “I promise I’m really good. I won’t even step on your toes.”
I scrunch my nose. “It’s too weird.”
“It’s only weird if you make it weird.”
The last thing I want to do is try and dance when I used to dance and twirl and leap. “You’re too . . . old.” It’s a lame excuse, but it’s all I can think of at the moment.
He shuffles back with his hand pressed to his heart. “That was a low blow.”
“I just mean that you’re older than me, and it’d be weird if we danced together because we’re from different eras.”
“I’m only three years older than you. That’s not a different era.” When I waver, he puts his hands up in front of him, surrendering. “Fine, I won’t make you dance with me.”
I calm down, breathing freely again. “Seriously, thank you. That might be, like, the nicest thing you’ve ever done for me.”
He leans back, peering out the window. “Hang on. I have an idea.”
“No! No ideas. I don’t even want to dance, anyway . . .” I trail off as he runs out the front door.
I sink into the chair and let my head fall back. I won’t do this. I can’t. I need to find a way out. Running away isn’t going to work this time. Throwing a fit might help, but it’s a fifty-fifty chance with Easton.
Panic overwhelms me, and without warning, I’m back in that damn car, hanging upside down, blood rushing to my head. Everything feels so fuzzy, so distant, so nonexistent.
The Doctor looks at me with pity. “Let’s just worry about getting you walking properly again, okay?”
I realize I’m not breathing, and I gasp for air. The song ends, but Easton must’ve put it on repeat because it plays again. I stand up to change it, but halt when I spot Easton and Luca heading up the porch steps.
“Oh, my God, he didn’t.” I spin around to bolt for the stairs, but move way too quickly, and my feet fly out from under me.
I land flat on my back and blink back tears.
“You dance while I cook,” my mom says while cracking eggs and mixing batter.
I pirouette around the kitchen on my toes, my arms forming a perfect circle in front of me, my long brown hair whipping around and around. “I love dancing.”
“I know you do, sweetie.”
“When I grow up, I’m going to be a ballerina.”
“Of course you are.”
When Easton and Luca enter the living room, I’m still sprawled out on the floor.
“What happened?” Easton runs over to me and extends his hand to help me up.
“I’m fine.” I shoo his hand away as I sit up, stretching my legs. “I was just taking a break.”
He doesn’t buy into my bullshit, but he doesn’t call me out on it either. “Ready for the last exercise of the day?” he asks me.
“When you put it like that, then yeah.” Grabbing hold of the table, I grit my teeth and hoist myself up. When I get my feet under me, I turn to Luca. “Whatever he promised you in exchange for doing this, just know they’re all lies.”
Luca’s gaze skims across my sloppy ponytail, baggy shirt, shorts, and knee brace. I wonder what he thinks of my messy look then realize, more often than not, he’s seen me looking like a hot mess.
Luca glances at Easton then inches toward me. “He didn’t promise me anything, other than I’d get to spend time with you.” When I fold my arms across my chest and arch a brow, he looks at me innocently. “What? I’m being serious.”
“You so aren’t.” I assess him closely. “What’d he promise you? Free rock climbing lessons?” Luca shifts his weight, shoving up his sleeves, seeming twitchy, and I feel like I’ve won a prize. “That’s it, isn’t it?”
“I would’ve done it, anyway,” he insists. “The rock climbing lessons are just an added bonus.”
“It’s cool,” I say, waving him off. “It makes it easier on me that he had to bribe you, anyway.”
“Why would that make it easier?”
“Because it means you really don’t want to be here.”
“But I want to be here,” Luca protests, tugging the beanie off his h
ead. Strands of his dark brown hair stick up everywhere, and he runs his fingers through it, trying to tame it.
I visualize my own fingers there, playing with his hair, which I bet is super soft.
I blink from the daydream, realizing Luca is still talking to me. “Huh?”
His forehead creases as he studies me closely. “I said I offered to help before Easton even asked for the favor.” He sticks out his hand for me to take. “Honestly, he probably should’ve bribed you.” He leans in and whispers, “I suck at dancing.”