FIFTEEN
Willow
Following the movie, I didn’t see Ryan all weekend. Having given him my cell phone number, he texted me on Saturday, but I told him I was still feeling ill. I lied saying it was some kind of bug, but I knew better. The movie had aroused in me my great need to dance, something I’d managed to suppress since I’d come back home. It also rekindled my great fear of going back to the thing I loved most. The world of ballet. The all-consuming world that had made every molecule of my being feel alive but had almost destroyed me. My insides felt shredded, my crippling anxiety gnawing at me. My father, God bless him, let me stay in bed all weekend, and believed I actually had come down with something since I spent a good deal of time in the bathroom on account of my upset stomach. The homemade chicken soup he kept bringing me did nothing for my aching soul. Though he was getting stronger every day, he was the last person with whom I wanted to share my condition. There was only one person I wanted to talk to.
Dr. Goodman. On Monday, I had my standing appointment with him and dragged myself out of bed, trying to make myself look as presentable as possible. Even after a hot shower, my reflection in the bathroom mirror looked gaunt and haggard. Dark circles orbited my eyes and my complexion was pasty. Tossing and turning at night, I hadn’t slept much and the sleep deprivation only added to my malaise.
“So, what’s been going on?” asked my therapist as I fidgeted in a chair facing him. I’d decided to sit in a chair rather than lay down on the couch because I feared I might conk out.
“I think I had a set back.” My voice was small and uncertain.
His brows rose slightly. “Tell me about it.”
“I went to see a movie—The Red Shoes.”
A smile flashed on his kind face. “Ah, that’s one of my wife’s favorite movies. Moira Shearer, right?”
I nodded.
“What made you see it?”
“Ryan took me. We went on a date.”
Stroking his beard, he nodded approvingly. “That’s good.”
“No, it wasn’t good.” My voice grew stronger. “It made me really upset. I burst into tears. Uncontrollable tears. I was sick to my stomach all weekend.”
He listened intently. “I see. And why do you think the movie had that effect on you?”
Of course, he knew why. He’d treated me for almost ten years. He just wanted to hear me articulate the reason.
“It made me feel sad.”
“It’s a sad movie,” he commented. “But that’s not really why it had that effect.”
My stomach crunched. Dr. Goodman was so damn smart and somehow he was going to get me to face the truth.
“Did you tell Ryan why the movie affected you?
I shook my head again. “No, I simply told him I was sick. I made him take me home.”
“Does Ryan know anything about your recent past?”
I shook my head again. “Not really.”
“Why haven’t you told him?”
“I hardly know him. I don’t feel comfortable yet confiding in him.”
Dr. Goodman refocused on the movie. “Willow, let’s backtrack. Why do you really think the movie had that profound effect on you?”
I spewed the answer. “I identified with the heroine. Her burning need to dance. It made me miss ballet, but at the same time it made me feel very afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Afraid of falling.” I meant that literally and figuratively. Of falling flat down on my face. And of letting myself fall for him.
“Willow, do you want to dance professionally again?”
“I don’t know. There’s an emptiness in my heart that’s eating at me, but I don’t know if I’m ready.” My voice grew small again. “Dr. Goodman, am I?”
Dr. Goodman lifted his glasses to the top of his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. He did that out of habit whenever he didn’t have a clear-cut answer. Generally, whenever that happened, he responded to my question with another question. Sure enough…
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know. I’m scared.” My final months with the Royal Latvia Ballet whipped around my mind like a wicked rollercoaster. The ups. The downs. My final free-fall from the stage after Gustave’s betrayal. My wasted body. My wasted life. My head pounded. Trying to assuage the pain, I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my temples with my forefingers.
“Willow, take a couple of deep breaths.”
I did as the good doctor asked, inhaling and exhaling sharply through my nose. My mind calmed down as he continued.
“You know, Willow, there are other ballet companies.”
He was trying to say I shouldn’t go back to Gustave. But the truth was he was my master and always would be. After all the other company directors had rejected me, he was the one who’d cherry-picked me. The one who had driven me to new heights. The one who believed in me. Saw in me what no one else had. Okay, I’d fucked things up. I’d gotten involved with him. Let him fuck my brains out. But I was better now. Physically stronger. More in control of myself. And there was someone else…
As if Dr. Goodman had read my mind, he stroked his beard again and said, “Willow, let’s talk a little more about your relationship with Ryan before our session ends.”
This time, at the mention of his name, my heart skipped a beat and my body heated. I squirmed in my chair.
“What do you want to know?”
“How do you feel about him?”
I couldn’t deny my feelings. “I like him a lot.” Okay, I wasn’t totally being honest. I more than liked him a lot. I was crazy about him. Insanely attracted to him both emotionally and physically. “I feel bad about Friday night. I haven’t returned any of his phone calls.”
“Why is that?”
“I just couldn’t talk to him.”
“Understandable.” Dr. Goodman lowered his glasses back on his nose. “Do you want to see him again?”
My lips twisting, I squirmed again in my chair. “Yes. But I don’t think he’ll want to. I’m too fucked up. I’m not what he needs.”
“Willow, why do you say those things? You’re a beautiful, bright, young woman with the whole world at your fingertips.”
Swallowing hard, I processed his words. I obviously still had major self-esteem issues, or at least, I’d regressed.
“I honestly don’t think he’ll ask me out again.”
A wry smile flashed on Dr. Goodman’s face. “I think he will.”
My brows lifted. “How do you know that?”
His smile widening, he pointed a knowing finger at me. “Because, my dear, I’m going to make him. He’s going to invite you to his place for dinner.”
And with that and my hopeful heart in my throat, our session ended.