Chapter 15 Emma
EMMA
By the time we finish lunch, it’s almost one. My class starts at one-thirty, which means I need to leave Devil’s to get to the community center.
“I have to head out,” I tell Bones, starting to gather my things.
“OK. I’ll walk you,” he says immediately, standing and pulling out his wallet.
“You don’t have to—”
“I want to. Weather’s nice. Construction site isn’t far past it.”
We say our goodbyes to the group, who are now debating what kind of dog Ginger and Tank should get—he wants a cavapoo, she wants a rottweiler—and head for the door.
We’re almost outside when the door opens and Stone walks in, a woman I haven’t met before right behind him.
I stop so fast Bones almost walks into me.
Stone and I have seen each other a handful of times since the morning he gave us his very reluctant blessing, but it’s still awkward. We’re both trying to figure out how to be father and daughter again after years of distance and resentment.
“Emma,” Stone says, surprise flickering across his face. “Hey.”
“Hi, Dad.” I glance at the woman, who’s standing slightly behind Stone.
She’s beautiful, with long dark hair that she’s styled into a bun and dark brown eyes.
She wears just a touch of makeup to enhance her natural features and dresses professionally in slacks and a blazer.
But despite all that, they seem . . . close.
“Care to introduce me to your lady friend?”
Dad’s face goes bright red. “She’s not—we’re not—”
“I’m Josie,” she says, stepping forward with her hand extended and a slightly amused smile. “The club’s attorney. This is just a business lunch.”
“Right,” Dad says quickly. “Business. We’re going over some contract stuff for . . . business.”
“Yes. Club business,” Josie adds, but there’s a twinkle in her eye that makes me think this is more than just business, whether they’re admitting it or not.
“Uh-huh,” I say slowly, not buying it for a second. Stone’s ears are still red and Josie keeps looking at him like she’s trying not to laugh. “Well, nice to officially meet you, Josie.”
“You too. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“All good things, I hope?”
“Mostly.” She grins. “Though I did hear about that somersault move you used to get through the door. That was impressive.”
I laugh. “Desperate times.”
Dad clears his throat, clearly trying to regain his composure. “Speaking of desperate times—you gotten rid of that tracker yet?”
I should’ve known he’d bring it up. He’s mentioned it every time I’ve seen him since that morning in Bones’s apartment.
“Patience, Dad,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Bones is getting me a replacement I can wear. We’ll take it out once I have that.”
“A replacement?” Stone’s eyebrows draw together. “Emma—”
“It makes me feel safe,” I say firmly. “And it’s my choice. Isn’t that what you said? My life, my choice?”
Stone looks like he wants to argue, but Josie touches his arm lightly.
“For what it’s worth,” she says, looking at me, “I’d probably want to keep it too. Or something like it. Kind of like a security blanket, you know? Especially after what you went through.”
I beam at her. “See, Dad? Josie gets it.”
Dad looks between us, clearly outnumbered, and sighs. “Fine. But I still don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to like it,” I say sweetly. “You just have to tolerate it.”
Bones, who’s been silent this whole time, squeezes my hand. “We should go. You’ll be late for class.”
“Right.” I turn back to Dad and Josie. “Enjoy your very professional business lunch.”
Dad’s ears go red again and Josie actually laughs this time, a genuine sound that makes her whole face light up. Dad looks at her like he’s seeing her for the first time, and I file that away to analyze later.
“See you around, Dad,” I say, pulling Bones toward the door.
Outside, the afternoon sun is warm and the street is busy with lunch traffic. Bones and I fall into step easily, his hand finding mine.
“Stone and Josie,” he says after a moment.
“Right?” I glance up at him. “There’s definitely something there.”
“There’s been something there for a while. Some of us were betting on how long it’d take for him to do something about it. But at this stage, I think we’ve all lost. Man’s a holdout.”
“I’m not surprised. He’s pretty good at denying himself things he wants.” I swing our joined hands. “But Josie seems like she can hold her own. Maybe she’ll be the one to make the first move.”
“That would be something to see.”
We walk for a moment, and I can’t stop thinking about what Bones said at lunch. About his brother. About why he saved Cash.
About why he’s always saved me.
“You never told me,” I say quietly. “About your brother.”
Bones’s hand tightens around mine, but he doesn’t pull away. “Not much to tell. He’s gone. Has been for a long time.”
“But that’s why you—” I stop, trying to find the right words. “That’s why you always showed up for me. Even when I made it impossible. Even when I was awful to you.”
“You were never awful to me, swan. Challenging, maybe. But never awful.”
“I climbed out windows to avoid you.”
“And I caught you every time.”
Of course he did. Because that’s who Bones is—the man who catches people before they fall. Who sees someone hurting and can’t walk away. Who lost his brother and decided no one else would die on his watch.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “About your brother. And about making you worry all those years.”
He stops walking, turns to face me. “Don’t apologize for being who you are. Your wildness isn’t something that needs to be tamed or controlled or apologized for. It’s what makes you you.”
His hands cup my face, thumbs brushing my cheekbones.
“My brother died because no one old enough to do it cared enough to catch him. Because he was alone and scared and couldn’t ask for help.” Bones’s eyes are intense on mine. “You were never alone, Emma. Even when you thought you were. Even when you were trying to be.”
Tears prick my eyes. “I know that now.”
“Good.”
We walk in comfortable silence for a few minutes, and I realize how natural this feels. How right.
And that terrifies me.
Because if this is right—walking through Stoneheart with Bones, teaching kids who just want to have fun, belonging here with the club—then what does that say about the last ten years?
Three weeks ago I was in New York, going through the motions of a life that didn’t fit anymore. Forcing myself into a mold I thought I was supposed to fill. Being disciplined. Controlled. Perfect.
Taming every wild impulse until I was nothing but technique and determination.
But here? I don’t have to tame anything. Don’t have to be anything other than Stone’s daughter, Bones’s girl, Emma who teaches kids and laughs with club families and belongs.
It should feel like giving up.
Instead it feels like coming home.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
“What are you thinking about?” Bones asks, reading my expression.
“Just . . . how happy I am,” I admit. “I’m glad we’re doing this.”
He stops walking, turns me to face him, and kisses me right there on the sidewalk. It’s not desperate or hungry like our kisses usually are. It’s soft. Sweet. Full of promise.
“I love you, swan,” he says against my lips.
“I love you too.”
We break apart, and I can see the community center up ahead. My new normal. My new life.
“I’ll pick you up after?” Bones asks.
“I can get back home on my own.”
“I know. But I want to.”
I smile. “OK. See you at four.”
He kisses me one more time, then heads toward the construction site, and I watch him go for a moment before turning toward the center.
Inside, my class is already gathering—twelve kids ranging from seven to fourteen, all in various states of proper dance attire.
I only have time to grab my water bottle and change out of my jeans.
I swap them for black leggings and an oversize hoodie, then pull my hair up into a bun and slide into the studio.
I find my class already mobbing the mirrors, practicing cartwheels and pirouettes with complete disregard for form or spatial awareness.
“All right, chaos goblins—let’s line up.” I clap my hands. “Barre work first, then we can improv. Yeah, little dude, I see you. No backflips on this floor.”
The kid ignores me as usual, executing a cartoonish jeté that’s more frog leap than ballet, then lands in a Spiderman squat.
The rest of them shuffle into some semblance of a row.
I take attendance, run them through pliés and tendus, correct arms, point toes, try not to dwell on how much of their energy is just wild—loose and explosive and so opposite to what ballet should be.
“OK,” I say, clapping my hands. “Let’s try a simple combination. Watch me first.”
I demonstrate the sequence—chassé, pas de bourrée, pirouette. Simple stuff, but it requires control and balance. The kids watch intently.
“Your turn. Remember, spot your head on the turn.”
I count them through it once, twice, adjusting arms and correcting feet.
“Good! Let me show you one more time with the music.”
I move to the center of the room, cue up the track on my phone. The music starts and I begin the combination, muscle memory taking over.
Chassé, pas de bourrée, prep for the turn—
The moment I go up for the pirouette, my right ankle gives out completely.
One second I’m mid-turn, the next I’m on the floor—white-hot pain exploding through my ankle so fast it knocks the air out of me. The kids gasp. Someone yelps my name. I clutch my ankle and fight not to scream.
And the only thought in my head is:
My body is done.
Not twisted. Not sprained. Done pretending. Done performing. Done being punished into beauty.
I’ve pushed through pain for years—told myself it was normal, necessary, the cost of greatness. Ignore your instincts. Smile through it. Be perfect or be nothing.
But my body finally called bullshit.
“Miss Emma?” Tiny voices hover around me, trembling.
“I’m OK,” I lie, because this pain isn’t the familiar dull ache I’ve been ignoring for months. It’s sharp. Wrong. Final. “Can someone get Ms. Patricia?”
And beneath the panic, something settles.
Truth.
When I got kidnapped at Christmas, I thought Stoneheart was the danger. That New York was the safe place. The smart place.
But New York didn’t care if I healed, only when I’d perform again. They wanted productivity, not recovery. A tuned-up machine, not a person.
Here? Kids care more about me than a recital. Patricia’s already calling Bones. And when he gets here, he’ll help me because I matter—not because I’m useful.
If this happened in New York, they’d tape me up and shove me back on stage. Here, they’ll actually let me stop. Let me breathe. Let me choose myself.
My ankle didn’t betray me.
It saved me.
I don’t know what comes next—surgery, rehab, a life that isn’t ballet-shaped. It’s terrifying.
But at least I’m not facing it alone.
At least I listened before I broke beyond repair.
At least I’m home.