Freya Sinclair had spent her life dreaming of becoming a prima ballerina in a world-renown ballet company. A severe injury at nineteen took her out of her pointe shoes for over a year and landed her right smack in the middle of a college campus, hardly what she had dreamed of. But donning those slippers were no longer a choice, so she submerged herself into her studies, focused on creating a career path, and graduating summa cum laude with a prestigious job offer in hand. Except the pressures of being an adult seemed to want to sweep her up into oblivion, so she took a year off after graduating with the money she’d saved from working while in college and traveled.

Upon her return, she found her passion for dance again, only this time it was to teach. She took a decent paying job, saved up enough to put a down-payment on a house that had been a former studio, and lived there. She worked full-time by day and taught in the evening and at night. Her ballet school became a kind of popular place, and soon she hired two additional part-time instructors.

“You know, Freya, you need to get out of this place more often. Why don’t you come out with us next weekend? We are going out for dinner and drinks. I promise it’ll be classy.” Marissa, a younger twenty-three-year-old instructor, said.

“Yes! You should totally come and hang with us. Even bunheads have got to have a little fun,” Justine, the other instructor, chimed in.

Freya wasn’t sure. She was hardly old, twenty-six herself, but she didn’t get out much. Most of her former friends continued to be active artists, either still part of a corps or slowly moving up the ranks as demi-soloists and soloists. Most of her former co-dancers were first soloists or principals. The memories of what never would happen made her heartache. She quickly chucked the feeling away and tried her best to engage.

“Sounds like fun. What’s the attire?”

“Nothing over the top, but fun and flirty. You never know who you might meet.” Justine winked.

“We can leave from here if you don’t mind. It’ll be fun getting ready together. What do you say?”

“You know what, Marissa, that is a great idea. As soon as the last class wraps up, we can hit the showers and make it happen.” Thinking forward to the next weekend made Freya nervous. She’d need some new clothes. Considering she did most of her shopping online, purchasing clothes in person was all new territory she needed to explore.

 

 

Monday, during her lunch break, Freya walked over to one of the downtown malls closest to her office. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, but she figured she’d know when she saw it.

Isn’t that how this shopping works? she thought to herself, trying to remember the last time she’d stepped foot in an actual mall. She was comfortable with online shopping and occasionally visited the clothing boutique on the main floor of her office building.

She joined the crowds, walking through the revolving doors opening to a seven-story shopping mecca. When did this place get here? she wondered as she wandered aimlessly around, almost forgetting her original mission.

Overwhelmed, she ducked into a store. She didn’t even recognize it was a shoe store until an associate approached her.

“How may I help you, miss?” the petite-framed young lady asked.

“I’m not sure. I guess I need shoes?” Unsure, she tried to convince the associate.

“What’s the occasion? That always helps.”

“Oh! Nothing extraordinarily special. But I know I want to make a lasting impression. I think?” She said.

What am I doing here? she wondered.

The sales associate tried her best to pull shoes of one style or another, to no avail. The task was more daunting than she’d expected. Pleasing Freya was difficult.

“We have new shoes arriving this Thursday. I’ve seen the inventory catalog, and there are a few pairs in there I think you might find more than suitable,” she said as she closed several open boxes. “I’d love to continue helping you if you are agreeable to returning then?”

Freya wasn’t interested in continuing the escapade of shopping, so she reluctantly agreed. Worst-case scenario, I can wear whatever I have that is best, she concluded.

 

 

“Arabesque. Allongé. Those who need to should not hesitate to use the barre. Just make sure you are extending properly.” Freya circled the young ballerinas, helping attune their form.

“Miss Freya?” a young girl with beautiful form asked from the center of the room, “has anyone ever tooted when stretching or practicing?”

The class broke into a laughing fit; even Freya grinned at the question. “It's happened, but most dancers I’ve been around have taken their training seriously. We always continued without acknowledging the slip-up. Many of my instructors wouldn’t tolerate what I’m allowing all of you to do.” She winked, asserting her tone that the class was serious business.

The girls composed themselves and continued as Freya stood back observing, appreciating the youth before her, and wondering just who of her students had what it took to make it in the industry. It didn’t matter that her studio was small; Freya would put it on the map, making it a force to be reckoned with.

After class, she raided her closet. Shoe shopping was more than enough; there had to be something in there she could wear to the weekend's soiree.

Tucked away toward the back, forgotten in the obscurity of time, was a garment bag. Within the bag hung a beautiful white dress. Freya had planned on wearing it after her first major performance, but the opportunity never arrived, as she’d sustained the career-ending injury.

She ignored the bag and gave up. That’s enough for one night, she thought, walking away to ready herself for bed.

 

 

Thursday arrived, and once again, Freya made her way to the dreaded shoe shop. She looked around not noticing anything new, but then she wouldn’t really know. She didn’t have an eye for spotting stuff like that. Heck, she once ended with the same pair of shoes. And she was sure the same sales lady had sold her both. Too embarrassed to admit it outwardly to anyone, she kept the second pair. Those were also somewhere in her closet.

“Hello! I’m so happy you came back. I think I found the perfect shoes for you,” the petite girl excitedly stated.

Oh, joy! Freya thought as she tried to smile.

The young lady pulled out a caged, fuchsia, satin-covered heel stiletto sandal. They were back-zip, with a leather lining and sole. The shoe was beautiful, but something else caught Freya’s eye. Off to the side, something crimson stuck out of a box. As the associate fussed with the satin sandal, Freya stood to retrieve the black shoe box.

She pulled out the most exquisite, covered-toe, suede stiletto, with a big bowknot that wrapped around the ankle. The powerful feminine design was stylish, yet distinctively sexy.

The associate took one look at Freya and put the caged sandal away.

“Those are lovely. The vibrant red color will make you instantly recognizable. And from your expression, I think it's safe to say the shoe has found you.” She said as she helped Freya try them on.

Freya couldn’t lie nor hold back her excitement. She finally understood the concept of she’d know when she found the perfect shoe, as she stood in front of a mirror, appreciating the way her toned legs looked.

“I’ll take them,” she said without hesitation.

She wore a smile on her face while walking back to her office, causing a few heads to turn. Not that she was unapproachable. Well, yeah, she had to admit to herself; she was unapproachable, but mostly because her job required a level of confidentiality, and one thing she’d learned early on was to allow no one to question her level of trust.

“Ms. Sinclair?” the receptionist called to her as she caught up with Freya, “you have somewhat of an urgent message.” She handed a folded piece of paper to Freya and walked away.

Freya dipped into her office, closing the door behind her.

“Avoiding me or anyone else won’t solve anything. We’ll be expecting you for Thanksgiving dinner.”

She crumpled up the piece of paper and tossed it into the recycle bin, immediately digging into work.

 

 

“Seriously, Mom. My work? You called my work to remind me of Thanksgiving dinner?” She tried to remain calm, but there was enough edge in her tone her mother would understand she wasn’t pleased.

“Oh good! You got my message. How else am I supposed to get your attention? Huh? I’ve tried all other avenues. You leave me with no other choice.”

“Has it occurred to you that maybe I don’t want to go? Maybe I don’t know how to say no, and perhaps not saying anything might send that message?”

“Please! You, Freya? You make no qualms with…” her mother paused, “look, if you don’t want to come, that’s fine. But we want you here. I want you here. I’ve got to go. I have a church thing I’m helping with. I love you, Freya.” She whispered the latter just before hanging up, leaving Freya out of sorts. No matter what, that was her mom. What happened to her wasn’t her fault. It was her mom’s doggone insistence she move back home that got her motivated to snap out of her funk. The last thing Freya wanted was to live at home.

Freya tossed her phone off to the side as she curled up under a plush throw. She loved her family, yet, there was something about being around them that made her feel inadequate. No matter how much they assured her, guilt hung over her.

Their mother had spent so much time taxiing Freya around and sitting for hours on end at studios just so Freya could pursue her dreams. After her injury, she felt she failed not only herself but her entire family. All those hours sacrificed.

Wasted, she thought.

Claire and Will were both married, but neither had kids yet. Tristan was very much a single with no desire to settle down. Too busy globetrotting to even consider it, and that his job had him traveling so much didn’t help.

Claire was the youngest and practically forced into ballet, so their mother didn’t have to worry about excluding her. She seemed to carry a chip on her shoulder, causing Freya to feel bad.

Both her brothers were older. They played year-round sports, but they were not passionate about any sport as adults. Freya now wondered if it had anything to do with her. One day she planned on asking, but just not now. She wasn’t emotionally ready to handle any more pain if it turned out any of her siblings resented her.

Pulling herself up, she walked through her home and business to ensure she’d locked up properly. When she reached the studio, she stood in front of the mirrors, tilting her head, moving back and forth. Like a bell being rung, in cloche, en position, as she arched her upper body, she allowed the tears to flow down her alabaster skin.

I really need to let go. I cannot continue living like this, she told herself. Maybe Thanksgiving with the family isn’t such a bad idea.