“Coffee?” Mom asks, eyeing the Starbucks at the end of the street.

I roll my eyes but I should have guessed she’d ask eventually. I’m sure coffee runs through her veins instead of blood.

“Would I deny you that?” My lips twitch as I look at her. She grins.

“You’ve tried, honey. You’ve tried!”

“Only because Dad made me hide all the coffee. I either did it, or he threatened he wouldn’t buy Barbie’s convertible. I was eight. I needed that car, Mom.” I laugh. “It was a life or death situation, y’know.”

She shakes her head, laughing silently, and grabs the door of Starbucks. “Life or death was me not getting my coffee that morning, Abbi. Do you want one?”

I look through the tall windows into the coffee shop and shake my head. Most of the tables are full since it’s just after lunch, and after making small talk with the manicurist and hairdresser for two hours, I need some quiet.

“No, I’m okay. I’ll wait out here.” I smile uneasily at her, my eyes darting between her and the windows. Mom follows my gaze and nods understandingly.

“I’ll only be a minute.” She hesitates, sucking the corner of her lip into her mouth, before pushing the door open and disappearing inside.

I sit down on the bench on the opposite sidewalk and sigh. My fingers run through my soft hair, and I realize how tired I am. I can barely believe something as simple as getting my hair and nails done has made me so exhausted. But that’s the thing with depression. You never know how or when it’s going to strike and it nearly always knocks you off your feet.

It brings a whole new meaning to the phrase “always expect the unexpected.”

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes and stifle a yawn. The sooner Mom gets her coffee the better.

“Didn’t expect to see you anytime soon.”

I haven’t heard that voice for a year – maybe more. I can’t think of a time when I’ve wanted to hear that voice again. Jake Johnson.

Pearce’s best friend and half of the reason Pearce ended up a drug addict.

“I can’t say I wanted to see you anytime soon,” I reply, crossing my ankles and staring stonily at Starbucks.

Of course he didn’t expect to see me anytime soon. As far as he – and everyone else – knew, I’m still at St. Morris’s. The loony bin. The nuthouse. The funny farm. Because I’m crazy.

Like they know anything at all. Crazy is hysterical giggles after an hour long pillow fight. It isn’t depression.

“Ouch.” Jake laughs huskily, eight years of chain smoking starting to take its toll on his voice. “I don’t remember you having this much fight in you before you went loopy.”

“I didn’t,” I say honestly. You can’t have fight for something you don’t respect or care about. “Aren’t you worried about talking to me in public? I mean, what if someone sees you talking to Pearce’s crazy ex-girlfriend? Wouldn’t that tarnish your perfect bad boy image?”

He laughs again, and it crawls across my skin like slime. I try and fail to repress a shiver. I never liked Jake, and he never liked me; we were civil to each other for Pearce’s sake. A lot of things were for Pearce’s sake, and not one of them meant anything to him.

“Don’t worry, Abbi. There’s no chance of Pearce running into us. You don’t have to worry about seeing him.”

“I’m not worried about seeing him,” I lie. My throat is dry at the mere thought of it. I swallow hard. I don’t want to think about seeing him.

I’m not sure anything scares me more than that.

A third laugh comes from Jake. “You won’t see him for the next fifteen years, girl.”

My head snaps round, and I look at him for the first time. To look at him, you wouldn’t think he was as addicted to heroin as Pearce. You wouldn’t think it was what he lived for, the only thing that kept him living. In fact, you’d probably walk past him in the street, look at his gelled brown hair, his clear skin, and his muscular build and it wouldn’t even cross your mind.

But I know. I know the devil that lives beneath the surface, and I’ve met him many, many times.

“What?”

“Fifteen years.” Jake leans against the wall casually, as if he’s not talking about the guy he grew up with. “He lost his job about a month after you went nuts and couldn’t afford to keep up with it. He owed money to a lot of people – more than you know, Abbi. A lot of people that wouldn’t think twice about breaking his neck, so the jackass made a deal. Said he’d be their runner and deliver the shit to their customers. His dealers got to sit on their asses, and he paid off so much debt that way. He paid less than he would have, because he took some home at the end of the night. It was a win-win for him.”

“And?”

“And he got sloppy. Too confident. He got drunk one night out on his run and the cops got hold of him.” Jake smirks. “Everyone knows if you’re running junk you don’t get drunk on the job. No need to draw attention to yourself, y’know? Anyway, he was loaded with shit and had a couple thousand dollars stashed in his back pocket. Took him straight down to the NYPD and had him on possession with intent to supply. He was in court last month. Asshole bagged himself fifteen years in the slammer for a rookie mistake.”

I can’t deny the part inside of me that relaxes. I can’t fight the relief that floods through me at that news.

I don’t have to see Pearce. Maybe ever.

“Well.” I look back toward the door of Starbucks in time to see Mom walking out, her coffee in her hands, and I stand. “It’s nothing less than he deserves.”

I walk away without saying another word. I don’t need to.

My actions speak louder than my words ever could.

 

~

 

I kept my eyes on the floor and wondered why I didn’t give in to the screaming voice in my head telling me to grab the door handle and run. Wondered why I was standing here, yet again, while he destroyed himself.

I flinched with every sound he made as he prepared the drug and took it. No part of me wanted to know anything about how he took it. I waited for the inevitable happy sigh that would come as the drug spread through his body.

Still, I kept my eyes on the floor. As if not looking meant it wasn’t happening. As if not looking meant I wasn’t standing idly by and letting him do it.

But I knew why I was standing there. Fear. Fear of the anger that could erupt from him at any minute, even as he enjoyed his rush. Fear of another bruise or mark to explain away.

The sigh came.

I looked up.

I looked up but away from anything that had anything to do with the drug. His lips twitched into a gentle smile. A satisfied smile. My fingers curled into my palm, my nails cutting into my skin, but I swallowed the urge to speak. I learned early on not to say a word when he was getting that first rush. Don’t speak. Don’t move. Don’t make a single damn sound.

I stepped back, breaking the second golden rule. Luckily, the thick plush carpet masked my footsteps as I backed toward the wall. I reached a hand out behind me, barely glancing over my shoulder.

And I hit a chest of drawers.

I froze, my eyes darting to him. His head snapped up, his blue-green eyes as cold and hard as ice as they met mine across the room. I took a sharp breath as he stared at me, and even as I dropped my eyes and screwed them shut, I could still feel his eyes cutting through me.

The bed creaked as he stood, and my teeth clamped down on my bottom lip. His silent footsteps as he approached were almost more daunting than loud ones. I couldn’t see him. I couldn’t hear him. I had no idea how close he was until his hand gripped my chin.

Pearce ran his thumb down my jaw almost lovingly before he tightened his grip and yanked my face up to his, forcing my eyes onto his.

“What have I told you, Abbi?”

 

~

 

I jolt, and the bath water splashes with the force of my awakening. I grip the sides of the tub so tightly my knuckles are white, and try to steady my breathing. My eyes dart from side to side, taking in the room, as I work to ground myself.

Home. I’m home, in my bathroom. Not at a party. Not with Pearce.

I’m safe.

“I’m safe,” I whisper. “I’m safe. I’m safe. I. Am. Safe.”

I keep whispering those words, over and over, over and over. Reminding myself of what I know as I struggle to erase the flashback from my mind. I don’t need to ride it out – I remember what happened too well. I remember the bruise on the side of my head from hitting the drawers after he shoved me aside and I remember “slipping on some black ice on my way home.”

I let go of the tub and rub my hands down my face. The water is freezing cold. A quick glance at the clock on the wall tells me I’ve been in the bath longer than I thought. Much, much longer. I climb out and wrap my body and hair in towels with shaky hands. Adrenaline is still pumping through my blood from the memory, roaring through my body, and it makes me want to forget.

My eyes dart to the cabinet but it’s pointless. I know there’s nothing in this house that isn’t carefully hidden that would hurt me. No razors, no scissors, and the broken mirror in here has been replaced lest I slice my finger along it. There’s even a lock on the knife drawer in the kitchen – that’s how much my parents trust and believe in me.

But somehow I feel safer this way. Knowing I can’t get anything that would hurt me almost makes me feel a little stronger because I have to cope. Right now I have to cope with the memories because my chosen way out isn’t an option anymore. I can’t escape into the pain or lose myself in my blood swirling down the plug.

I have to feel. I have to remember. I have to live.

Yet it doesn’t stop my nails digging harshly into my palms. Even that, the small sting of pain, takes off the edge of the past. It clears my head long enough to make me realize I haven’t danced today.

Long enough to realize, I need to dance.

I change into some yoga pants and a tank top, clip my wet hair on top of my head and grab my ballet shoes. The TV buzzes as I pass the front room, and I open the door in the kitchen that leads to the garage.

Dad converted half of the double garage into a mini dance studio when we found out I’d be leaving St. Morris’s. There are mirrors on the wall and a brass banister that doubles as a barre. I’d laughed at him when he showed me it for the first time, but it works surprisingly well.

I take the cold metal in my hand, moving into position, and can’t help but think about the last time I danced … With Blake.

When Bianca had ordered us to partner off, I was ready to run there and then. Or shout at her for not telling me – either one. I know now she deliberately didn’t tell me. And after all, I’d have to dance with someone at Juilliard, so it’s better to get that hurdle cleared now. And it was cleared easier than I thought it would be.

When we danced together, I felt nothing but free. I felt like I could take any steps to any music on any stage in the world and I would get it perfectly right.

The art involved in ballet is like a movie. If the two lead characters don’t have chemistry, it doesn’t work. If two dancers don’t have chemistry, if they don’t click, the dance won’t work.

I’ve partnered with more people than I can count, both male and female, and I’ve never connected with anyone the way I did with Blake. I’ve never felt so comfortable in someone else’s arms as we danced together, and I’ve definitely never trusted a partner that way. I’ve also never been as attracted to a partner as I am to him.

And that scares me.

The day I walked out of St. Morris’s for the last time I built walls a hundred feet high around every part of me. I topped them with barbed wire and guarded any crack with wolves. I was – am – determined not to feel. I’m determined not to let anyone in. Not until I know I can keep myself up.

Dance is the one thing that keeps me up. It’s the one thing I let myself feel; it’s the one thing that is truly real to me. It’s the only thing that’s allowed to get past the wolves and climb my walls. Yesterday, Blake and dance were synonymous. They were one.

Where the dance went, he went, too.

I slowly lower from pointe and breathe out. Instead of being at the barre, I’m in the middle of the garage. I danced without realizing. Lost in my head, I could have done any dance, any steps, any positions, and I’ll never know.

But I did what matters.

I fought the impulse to hurt.

And I danced.