The keys dangle from my hand as I open the studio door. Stale air greets me when I step into the studio that was once my home away from home. Locating the switch, I turn on the lights and gasp at what I see.

Time seems to stand still.

There is no shine to the wood floors laid parallel to the mirrors, and the dust that covers every surface is like the cloak that covers my dreams. The music that once vibrated through these walls has long ceased, and the irony is not lost on me: when I walked away from this dream everything else died. My mother shut the studio down when I left, and it looks as if she hasn’t been here since. Though she said she rented it out, I know that by the amount of dust that it was a lie. It saddens me to see something she worked so hard for tossed away so easily.

I take a few seconds walking around, the familiarity of each step reminding me of the years I spent here. I let the emotions crash over me as I drag my fingers along the ballet barre installed in the back of the room. The throbbing in my ankle brings fresh tears to my eyes, and I look at myself in the mirror. For a split second I see a younger version of myself in a leotard and I’m reminded of how everything has changed.

“Enough with the pity party, Les. It’s time to get to work.” I brush back the tears that threaten to fall. I’m here to save my parents, not dwell on the past.

My mother casually mentioned that the studio needed a clean up before we could open the doors again, but by the looks of it, I’ll be here for the remainder of the week. I toss my hair into a messy bun and get to work.

* * *

With a full day behind me, the floors are vacuumed and waxed. The mirrors are clean and streak free, and I can see the potential the studio still has. It looks like it once did, beautiful and filled with endless opportunities. I feel anxious, and hopeful for a successful grand re-opening, but I doubt I’ll ever be the dance instructor my mom is—or was.

Walking over to the sound system in the far right corner of the room, I plug my phone in and slide my feet out of my tennis shoes. There is only one way to find out if I still have it in me. Whether I can teach or if I’ll be a complete failure. I wait for the song to load, crank up the volume, and hit the play button. Naturally, my feet and arms take first position, and then I press up on my toes and wait for the song to start. Closing my eyes, I allow the melody to take over my soul. It’s a routine my mother and I choreographed.

It’s my audition for Juilliard.

It’s what got me my dream before it was taken away from me.

My toes extend and my arms move effortlessly through the air. I push through the pain and each position is delicate as it leads me into the next. The rhythm takes over and I leap across the floor. Extending my toe, I fan out my leg and fall to the floor dramatically before getting back up. The tempo of the song changes and I push myself, arching my back into an arabesque. It’s near the end, so I lift up as I set up for the fouette spin. I’m rusty and my ankle wobbles as I try to balance myself. But I fight through the pain and let the rhythm of the music guide me across the floor. With one final spin, I imagine myself being lifted into the air. I hold my breath and let my body float off the ground effortlessly, even if only in my mind.

It was how Ethan and I practiced it that entire summer. We had spent countless afternoons under the massive tree in my back yard doing the routine until it was perfect. It was how I envisioned the piece. Ballet was my life and when I was down, he was there to lift me up. He was my foundation. The one who built me up when my mother tried to tear me down. It was only right that the routine end with a lift. It was how I imagined it. Through every hour of torturous practice, the blood, sweat, and tears, I would rise up like the lotus flower.

I gasp and open my eyes when I feel myself being lifted from the ground. His hands are at my waist, extending me over his head. I lose my balance and screech with fear. Slowly, Ethan lowers me back to the floor. My body brushes against his and I take a few steps back.

Stunned.

Breathless.

Consumed by his presence.

He’s here. Standing before me as if nothing ever happened. As if eight years never passed. As though the last time I spoke to him, I wasn’t begging him to come to me.

We don’t say anything to each other as the song comes to an end and the studio is silent. My heart races in my chest and I can’t seem to catch my breath. His presence is unbearable, and for a moment I think I’m imagining it.

It’s a mirage. He’s not really here. It’s the fumes from the wax.

“Hey, Freckles.” His voice is more masculine than I remember. The way my nickname slips off his tongue causes me to bite back a sob. The man before me looks nothing like the boy I left behind.

“Ethan,” I manage even though every fiber in my body is telling me to run away.

His gaze scans my body and I take a moment to do the same. He is older, more handsome, stronger, and the scruff growing on his cheeks makes him look delectable. Every single emotion crashes through me.

Hatred.

Love.

Pain.

Longing.

Repulsion.

Desperation.

I want to run into his arms. I want him to kiss away the pain like he always did. But I stop myself. The pain radiating up my leg keeps me grounded to the floor.

“I heard about your dad. How is he?” He tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans and shifts his weight from one leg to the other. My eyes are fixated on his arms when I catch a glimpse of a tattoo peeking out from under his sleeve, but I can’t see what it is.

“He’s fine.” I clear my throat and hope my voice sounds less shaken than I feel. “How’s yours?” I cock an eyebrow at him.

“Still breathing.”

I huff. “How unfortunate.”

“You’re still dancing?” A small grin curls up on his face and for a split second he again looks like that boy who made me fall madly in love with him.

“No.” I shake my head. “Not since . . .” My words fail me and I lift my ankle to crack it. I inhale and push the thoughts out of my mind. “How did you know I was here?”

“It’s a small town, Leslie. People talk. And when they see you, they tell me.”

“My mother said you left.”

“I keep to myself. I moved across town and I don’t go to that house anymore. Not to mention your mother rarely leaves the house anymore.”

My eyes trail down his body and I notice his shirt. It’s from a business his father once owned. The anger rises, heating my blood.

He’d become his father’s son.

“You’re picking up your daddy’s slack, I see.” I shake my head in disgust. Anger erupts through my body and I can’t hold back anymore. “You’re working in his shady business! What the hell happened to you?” I grind my teeth and try to keep my voice calm but fail. “You hated everything he stood for. You hated how he ran this town. You wanted to leave this godawful place, and yet here you are as his fucking replica?”

“Leslie—” He takes a step forward and I step back.

“Don’t touch me!” I can’t stop the tears that pool in my eyes. “You’re just like him, aren’t you? Did you earn your spot by killing an innocent person? Sorry I missed your initiation.” I begin to tremble so I walk to where my phone is plugged into the sound system.

“I’m nothing like him,” he claims.

My feet fail me. I’m paralyzed. Rooted to the spot. “Oh yeah?” I don’t look back at him. “Tell me you don’t own this town.” I wait a few seconds before looking back at him.

“It’s not what you think.” His eyes are hooded.

“Really?” I cross my arms over my chest. “You know what I think? I think you’re a coward. Growing up, all you wanted was to leave this fucking horrible town. And yet here you are running shit like your father once did.”

“I didn’t have a choice.” His voice rises. “After that night in the garage-”

“Get out!” I scream. The pain in my ankle is unbearable. “Get. Out. Now.”

“Let me explain.”

“Explain? You want to fucking explain? Too little, too late, buddy. I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to be anywhere near you.”

“I’m sorry . . . for everything.” he says softly before turning around and walking out the door. I wait until I hear the revving of his car before I break down and cry.

* * *

I arrive home from the studio drained. My muscles ache with a familiar pain they haven’t felt in years. I find my mother in the living room sitting in my father's recliner.

“Hi,” I say, surprised to see her. “You’re home already? I thought I was going to pick you up after his dinner? How was he today?” My father was transferred to the rehab center on the other side of the hospital a few days ago once the new insurance kicked in. My mother usually spends her entire day with him.

She looks over at me and I realize she has been crying. Her eyes are puffy and the tip of her nose is red. “Mom, what is it?” I crouch down and grab her hand. 

“It's just painful to watch, Leslie.” She sniffles back. “Your father isn’t the man he once was. And I know he's on the road to recovery, but to see him like this . . . It breaks my heart. I couldn't wait for you to come and get me. I needed to leave.”

I rub my hands over hers to soothe away her pain. “He's going to get better, Mom. The doctors are very hopeful that he can make a full recovery.”

“I hope you're right.” She slides a tissue under her eyes and wipes away the tears.

I give her a small smile. My eyes scan her face. I can see that her cheeks are sunken in and I can’t remember the last time I saw her eat. “I'm gonna make us some dinner.” I stand and let go of her hand. “If we’re going to help Dad, we need to be healthy ourselves, and that means we need to eat.”

“I'm not hungry,” she mutters.

“Mom, we need to nourish our bodies. You can't live off coffee.” I walk out of the living room and toward the kitchen.

“You seem to be living off tequila just fine.”

I look back at her and can't help but laugh. She's right, I have consumed copious amounts of it since I arrived. “Fine, no more coffee for you, and no more tequila for me.” She nods her head in agreement.

In the kitchen, I cut up vegetables and defrost some chicken. Tossing it into a pot, I add some chicken stock, and just like that we have chicken soup.

My mother is sitting at the kitchen table when I bring her a bowl. Without saying a word we consume our dinner. It's the first time in what feels like a lifetime that my mother and I have shared a meal. It seems odd yet comforting.

“That was delicious.” My mother wipes the corner of her mouth with her napkin. “I don't remember teaching you to cook.”

I feel the corners of my mouth curl up in a grin. “I worked for a catering company through my last year of college. I can make phenomenal whipped cream, but I don't think you’d approve of the fat and calories.” 

She laughs. “No, you're right. I would not approve, but the soup was splendid.” The puffiness around her eyes has vanished and some color has returned to her cheeks. “I'm going to head up.” She stands, taking her empty bowl with her. As she passes me, her hand lands on my shoulder and she grips it firmly. It’s only for a split second but I know it means so much more.  It’s an olive branch to a potential relationship between us.