I should have kissed her.

I should have lowered her to the ground sooner, brushed that stray lock of hair from her face, and bloody well kissed her.

But something stopped me. Something in her eyes – a wariness, a hesitance – it hit me full force in the gut and it made me stop.

There’s more to her depression than she said. It doesn’t take a genius to work it out – she’s hiding in plain sight, keeping a part of her buried under the weight of her sadness.

Just like Tori.

But is she? Is she like Tori? No one believed her. I was the only one that ever listened to her, that ever believed there was truly something wrong with her. Mum brushed it off as teenage attention seeking, while Dad claimed it was merely her hormones and she’d get over it soon. Aren’t sixteen year old girls extra dramatic, after all? According to my parents, yes, they are.

But not to me. I was the one who crept into her room at night when she cried and held her as tightly as my twelve year old body could. I was the one who came away with mascara-stained t-shirts and wet jumpers.

Even Kiera, a year younger than Tori, never believed her. She believed Mum, believed Tori just got the overdramatic gene. Allie, Laura and Jase were all too young to understand. Hell, they were too young to even notice. I’m pretty sure I would have been had I not spent every spare second with her.

But I still never understood completely. I never truly got how deep her pain ran, how stinging each rejection from our parents was, how much every word from the bullies that tormented her cut her. Every word cut into her spirit deeper than the blades she took to her skin. They took more out of her than every drop of blood she spilled.

I don’t get it even now. I don’t understand why she never said anything – to me, to anyone. But I hate it; I hate that she suffered alone, silently, and that she died the same way. I hate the fact I was too late.

Every single fucking time.

I was always one step behind. Always one minute too late. And always one dream ahead.

I’m determined not to be that person with Abbi. I’m determined not to be one step behind her. I don’t even want to be one step in front. I’ve known her for three weeks, short enough that I still remember the first time I saw her in the studio. The only place I want to be stepping is right alongside her.

In time with her.

On the studio floor.

On the stage.

On her damn American sidewalk.

Dance steps or normal steps – I don’t care. If she cries, I don’t want to let go when she’s done. If she tries to run, I want to chase her and catch her. And if she tries to let go, I want to make her hold on.

 

~

 

“I feel like all I ever do when I’m not at work is be with you,” I tease, opening the door.

“That’s because you keep calling me,” Abbi replies, stepping into my apartment and looking around. “I was considering having a date with my pajamas and the movie, Ghost, but then you said you were cooking. I couldn’t resist. It’s Chinese night at my parents’ and I’m really not a Chinese food person.”

“Really?” I shut the door. “How can you not like Chinese?”

She shrugs. “I just don’t, so it was a no brainer. Greasy take-out food, or home cooked goodness. At least I hope it’s good or I’ve just wasted my time coming here.”

I smirk. “I’m a chef, so I’d like to think it’s good.”

“Really? And to think I can barely make toast.”

“Good job it’s me cooking. Can’t have you choreographing on a stomach filled with burnt toast now, can we?”

“Hey.” She frowns at me. “Okay, you have a point.”

I laugh. “Take a seat … Well, anywhere. You can sit in the front room and shout at me, or in the kitchen and talk to me.”

“Let’s go for talking,” she says, perching on a chair at the kitchen table.

I throw her a smile over my shoulder and grab a knife from the block on the counter. I set it on the side and put the chicken and potatoes in the oven dish.

“What are you making?”

“A summer chicken dish.”

“It’s not quite summer yet. It’s a bit slow this year.”

“Eh, it’s close enough. Besides, it won’t matter when you taste this.”

“Cocky,” Abbi accuses playfully.

“No, confident.” I grin at the garlic I’m crushing. “My childhood nanny used to cook this, and I made her write it down when I was ten so I’d be able to make it one day. I was the really annoying kid that was always under her feet when she was in the kitchen, and she agreed on the terms if I left her alone. She didn’t say how long I had to leave her alone for, so I was back ‘helping’ her the next day.”

“You had a nanny? Wow.”

“It’s not that great. Honestly, I’d rather my Dad played football with us more than once a year.”

“Where in London does your family live?”

“Chelsea.” I put the dish in the oven, check the temperature, and lean against the counter. “My dad is a lawyer with the family firm, and my mum has her own shoe label. Both of them work stupid hours, so they had no choice but to hire a nanny. It means none of us ever wanted for anything except them.”

“Really? You never saw them?” Abbi leans her elbows on the table and props her chin on her hands.

I shake my head. “Not really. Especially once Dad realized I had no intention of following in both his and Granddad’s footsteps by becoming a lawyer. He was pretty pissed off when I decided to become a chef. His parents are old fashioned, and I think Granddad engrained in him that only women should be in a kitchen.”

Abbi snorts in disbelief. “And then you moved here. To dance.”

A sly smile graces my lips. “That went down about as well as an uncontrolled demolition. I started dancing when I was four, and both my parents put it down to me simply copying my eldest sister, so they left me to it. Needless to say, they weren’t happy when I was still dancing at twelve while my eight year old brother was banging in the goals for a local kids’ football team.”

“Foot – oh, soccer. Never mind.” Abbi smiles. “Did they help you move here?”

Now it’s my turn to snort. “No. They didn’t help – at all. I walked straight into an apprenticeship when I left school and saved almost every penny since. I paid for it all myself. I’ve spoken to my mum once since I landed, my brother twice, and I haven’t spoken to my father and sisters at all.”

“Wow. I couldn’t imagine not speaking to my parents for that long.”

I shrug, turning to the chopping board and grabbing a courgette. “It’s just how it is. My family isn’t exactly tight-knit. In fact, the only reason I spoke to my mum was because she’s coming here next week to close a deal to do with her shoes.”

“Well, that’s good. You’ll spend some time together, right?”

“If one meal the night she arrives counts as spending time together. Apparently that’s the only time she can ‘fit me in’ – and even then she wasn’t happy I wouldn’t miss dance to see her.”

Abbi’s silent as I finish preparing dinner, and I can feel her eyes on my back. I spin round to face her.

“I guess it’s true what they say,” she says softly. “Money really doesn’t buy you happiness.”

“I’m not gonna lie. It made me happy as a kid – I mean, who wouldn’t want the coolest trainers and the newest toys? Then I grew up and those things stopped making me happy. They were just that – things. I realized while money could buy me everything I needed, it wouldn’t get me anything I wanted because I just wanted real happiness. The things that give you real happiness are priceless.”

Her eyes linger on mine for a long second.

“So …” I break the silence. “This won’t be ready for a while. Do you want to start on the dance while I clear up?”

“I can help–”

“No, you’re a guest. I’ll do this.”

“Okay. In the front room?”

“Comfy sofa or wooden chair. Your choice.”

“Yeah … The sofa works great.” She smiles and heads toward the front room. She pauses by my bookcase and touches a finger to a frame there. “She’s pretty. Who is it?”

“My sister, Tori.”

“I thought you had five brothers and sisters? Why is there just a picture of her?” She sighs. “I’m sorry. That was kinda nosy, huh?”

I glance over at her and smile sadly. “There’s a picture of me and the others on the windowsill, but I was closest to Tori.”

“Was?” She goes silent for a long moment, and her lips part when she realizes what I mean. “Oh. You mean …”

“She died nine years ago.” I put the chopping board down on the counter and look out of the kitchen window. Footsteps sound as Abbi crosses the kitchen floor, and her hand touches my lower back softly, her head resting against my arm.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked,” she says quietly.

I shake my head. “You didn’t know. I don’t talk about her much. It’s hard.”

She nods. “I get that. Kinda. I remember when Maddie’s mom was killed – she couldn’t talk about it for months. Even I struggled for a few weeks. I know it’s not the same, but yeah. For what it’s worth, I think Tori would be proud of you.”

I don’t tell her how much her words mean to me. To tell her that would be to tell her everything about my family and my sister. And that day. I’d have to relive that day.

Instead, I nod, then turn my head and rest it atop hers for a few seconds. She doesn’t freeze or tense up at that simple touch like she has so many times before without realizing it. Her face turns into my arm and her arm rubs a slow circle on my back. Then she takes a deep breath, and sits on the sofa, away from me.

I want to turn around. I want to turn around, take her in my arms and breathe her in while I let the pain of remembering my sister leave me. But that would be too much for her. So even though it kills me a little to leave her there on the other side of the room, alone, I do. I go back to clearing the dirty dishes, and leave her to the choreographing.

 

~

 

“Tori, why are you bleeding?” I’d only walked into her room because Mum was getting annoyed that she wasn’t ready for dinner. “Do you need a bandage?”

My sister tore some tissues out of the box on her bedside table and put them on the cut on her arm. “No, Blake. I don’t – it was an accident.” She pointed to the newspaper clippings all over her floor. “I’m doing my coursework for art and dropped the scissors. I sharpened the blades earlier, and they cut my arm.”

“Oh. Does it hurt?” I tried to peer round at her arm, but she grabbed some more tissues and pulled her sleeve over it.

“No. No, it doesn’t hurt. At all.”

“Good. Mum wants you to come down for dinner.”

“I’ll just be a minute, okay?” She smiled.

“’Kay, Tori.” I smiled back at her and turned around.

“Uh, Blake?”

“Yeah?” I glanced over my shoulder.

“Don’t … Er, don’t tell Mum about my arm, alright? You know how clumsy I am. She’ll just worry and give me Laura’s toddler scissors or something.”

“I won’t. Just like when you cut your leg at hockey last week, right?”

“Right,” Tori replied in a sad voice, her green eyes wide as they found mine. “Just like last week.”