Chapter 21 Emma
EMMA
The crutches are an improvement over the wheelchair, but not by much.
I maneuver carefully across the community center studio floor, my right leg still encased in the surgical boot, my armpits already sore from learning how to navigate on these things.
The physical therapist said I’m doing great—ahead of schedule, even—but right now great means I can hop from point A to point B without falling on my face.
Progress.
“Miss Emma, are you gonna fall down?”
I look up to find one of my nine-year-old pupils watching me with concern.
“Nope. I’m totally fine.” I adjust my grip on the crutches and make my way to the front of the room where twelve kids are scattered in various states of attention. “All right, everyone. Let’s start with warm-ups.”
After almost three weeks doing little more than sitting with my leg elevated all day, I managed to convince Bones and my dad, and well, everyone at the clubhouse that I could handle doing a little teaching—with an assistant.
And while they’d tried to fight me on it, in the end, they knew I was just going to do it anyway—which is how teaching these classes became the highlight of my day.
Not because the kids are particularly skilled—though a couple show real promise—but because teaching them feels different from performing.
Less pressure. More joy. They dance because they want to, not because their careers depend on it.
And now that I’m on my feet—well, foot—and can actually participate in teaching them a little more, I’m starting to remember who I was before ballet became a cage. Before discipline replaced joy.
I run them through stretches and basic positions, demonstrating what I can from my crutches and having one of the older girls help with anything that requires actual movement. The kids don’t seem to mind my limitations. If anything, they’re fascinated by the boot.
“Does it hurt?” one of the boys asks for the millionth time.
“Only when I forget and try to use it,” I say. “Which is why we’re all going to be very careful around Miss Emma and her crutches, right?”
“Right!”
After warm-ups, I have them practice the routine we’ve been working on—a simple combination they’re going to perform at the town meeting tonight.
Originally, Josie was pushing to have it within the week of the club finding out Summit was acquiring property again.
But the logistics had us waiting two weeks.
It wasn’t ideal, but it meant the club had more time to rally the community, and I had the chance to pitch my recital idea.
Dad wasn’t super receptive at first. But when Josie pointed out that having kids stand up and demonstrate why this community is so important would help get the sympathy vote, all of a sudden, he was nodding along and calling it inspired.
“Remember,” I call out as the class moves through the steps, “this isn’t about being perfect. It’s about showing people why Stoneheart matters to you. Why our home is worth protecting.”
The kids nod seriously, their little faces scrunched in concentration.
We’ve been talking about community and belonging and what it means to have a place that’s yours. Some of it went over their heads, but enough stuck that when I asked who wanted to perform at the town meeting, every single hand shot up.
One of the twelve-year-olds executes a nearly perfect pirouette and I feel that familiar ache—not in my ankle this time, but in my chest. I’ll never dance like that again. Never feel that weightless moment of perfect rotation, never push my body to those extremes.
But watching her? Helping her get better?
Maybe that’ll be enough.
“Beautiful!” I call out. “Let’s run it one more time, then we’ll talk about tonight.”
They run through the routine again and I make mental notes about timing and spacing. When they finish, I gather them in a circle on the floor. I lower myself down carefully, crutches clattering to the side.
“So,” I say. “Tonight’s the big night. Who’s nervous?”
Several hands go up.
“Me too,” I admit. “Public speaking is scary. But you know what’s scarier? Staying quiet when something important is happening.”
“My mom says the meeting might get loud,” one of the boys says. “She says people might argue.”
“They might,” I agree. “But that’s OK. That’s democracy. That’s how we make decisions as a community, by talking about it, even when we disagree.”
“What if the bad people win?” another kid asks.
I take a breath. These are kids. I can’t promise them everything will be OK when I don’t know if it will be.
“Then we keep using our voices,” I say finally. “We don’t give up just because something’s hard. That’s what being part of a community means.”
The kids nod, and sometimes I think they understand how important our community is more than the adults do.
We spend the last ten minutes going over logistics—where to meet, what to wear, when to arrive. By the time parents start showing up for pickup, the kids are bouncing with nervous energy.
One of the moms stops to talk to me on her way out.
“Thank you for doing this,” she says. “My daughter hasn’t stopped talking about the meeting all week. She actually wants to go to a town meeting. Do you know how rare that is?”
I laugh. “I’m just glad she’s excited.”
“We all are. The whole neighborhood.” She adjusts her child’s dance bag on her shoulder. “What you and the MC are doing—organizing everyone, standing up to these developers—it means a lot. None of us want to lose our homes.”
After they leave, I sit on the floor for a minute, letting my ankle rest. My phone buzzes with a text from Bones.
Bones:
How’d class go?
Me:
Good. Kids are ready. How’s the research?
Bones:
Found something interesting to present at the meeting. You need a ride?
Me:
Dad’s picking me up. See you there.
Bones:
Love you, swan.
Me:
Love you too.
I’m still smiling at my phone when the studio door opens and Dad walks in with Josie right behind him.
Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve watched them circle each other like two people who know they want something but are too stubborn to reach for it.
They’re not officially together—at least not that anyone’s acknowledged—but they should be together.
The way he holds doors for her, the way she touches his arm when she’s making a point, the way they stay late at the clubhouse working long after everyone else has gone home.
It’s cute. Also slightly weird seeing my dad act like a teenager with a crush.
“Hey, kiddo.” Dad crosses the studio and looks down at me. “You planning on getting up anytime soon?”
“I’m resting. Doctor’s orders.”
“Pretty sure the doctor didn’t say rest on the floor.”
“It’s a studio floor. Dancers rest on studio floors all the time.”
“Uh-huh.” He reaches down and hauls me up, handing me my crutches. “How’s the ankle?”
“Better. Still useless, but better.”
“Useless for dancing, maybe,” Josie says. “But you’ve done more for this community in two weeks than most people do in a lifetime.”
I feel my face heat. “I just talked some kids through a dance routine.”
“You did more than that,” Josie corrects. “You showed them they matter, gave them a way to have a voice in all this. To a kid who’s normally pushed out of grown-up things, that’s pretty cool. They’ll remember this.”
Dad’s looking at me with a soft expression. It’s something I’m not used to seeing from him. Pride, maybe. Or just relief that I’m here in front of him.
“The town meeting starts at seven,” Josie says, shifting into business mode. “We’re expecting about two hundred people based on RSVPs. The kids perform first, then we open it up for public comment.”
“Two hundred?” I blink. “That’s half the east side.”
“Sounds like it’ll be a good turnout,” Dad says. “Tank and Hawk have been knocking on doors, explaining what’s happening. People are pissed. They don’t want condos taking over our mountain town.”
“Have you heard from Summit?” I ask. “Or what they’re calling themselves right now?”
“Carolina Properties,” Josie puts in. “They know about the meeting. Daniel Vernick RSVPed. He’s planning to speak.”
“Let him,” Dad says. “We’ve got our own speakers lined up. Erica, the Thompsons, Mr. Rooney from the corner store. Real people with real stories about what this neighborhood means to them.”
“And we’ve got Bones’s company research,” Josie adds. “If Vernick tries to paint himself as some innocent businessman, we can show exactly who he’s connected to.”
I think about Bones, holed up with Axel for the past two weeks, barely sleeping, following paper trails and corporate connections. He’s been in his element—focused, driven, useful in the way he needs to be.
“Is it enough?” I ask. “To stop them?”
Dad and Josie exchange a look.
“Tonight’s not about stopping them,” Dad says finally. “Tonight’s about showing them we’re not going to make it easy, making sure the community is on the same page. Summit needs to know that every step they try to take, we’ll be there, fighting back.”
“And about the election?” I press. “If Vernick becomes mayor—”
“We’ll focus on the elections a little down the track,” Dad says. “One battle at a time, Em.”
But I can see the worry in his eyes. Summit’s obviously been playing the long game, and we’re scrambling to catch up.
We head out to Dad’s truck, him helping me navigate the stairs with my crutches. Josie drives separately—still maintaining the fiction that they’re not together—and Dad waits until she’s out of the parking lot before starting the engine.
“So,” I say as we pull onto the main road. “You and Josie.”
His hands tighten on the steering wheel. “There’s no me and Josie.”
“Dad. Come on.”
“We’re working together. That’s all.”
“You’re working together every night until midnight. You’re always together. Always giving each other those goo-goo eyes.”
“The fuck are goo-goo eyes?”
I turn to him and do my best impression of a goofy lovesick cartoon character and he scoffs.
“We do not look at each other like that.”
I reach down and adjust my boot, trying to find a comfortable position. “It’s OK, you know. To like someone. To want something for yourself.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, just driving.
“I’m not really suited to it,” he says finally. “The relationship thing. Your mother—”
“Mom left because you put the club first. Always. For twenty years.” I look at him. “Josie’s not asking you to choose. She understands the club. She’s part of it.”
“Which is why anything between us would be complicated.”
“Everything worth having is complicated.”
He glances at me, something shifting in his expression. “You read that on a fortune cookie or something?”
“I’m just smart, Dad. Figured it out on my own.”
“When’d that happen?”
I give him a half smile, because what am I going to say? That I grew up and learned a bunch in all those years while he wasn’t paying attention?
The silence seems to say it, anyway. Because the next words out of my dad’s mouth come as a bit of a shock.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “For all the years I wasn’t there. For choosing the club over you and your mom. For not fighting harder to keep our family together.”
My throat tightens. “Dad—”
“No. This has to be said.” He keeps his eyes on the road.
“When you showed up at Devil’s for the reopening, I was so angry at myself.
Because I knew if you were back, then it meant you weren’t OK.
That if you were running to here, then the safety I thought you had in your New York life was broken.
” He glances at me. “I know that’s my fault. ”
I swipe at my eyes, annoyed that I’m crying again. I can’t even blame the pain meds anymore. I’m just emotional.
I pull it together with a gross snuffling sound, clearing my throat before I speak. “I didn’t come back because I needed saving, Dad. I came back because this is where I belong. With you. With Lee. With Bones.” I look at him. “It just took me a while to figure that out.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “You need him.”
“Yeah. I do. And he needs me. That’s how it works.”
“I understand.”
“You know,” I say, staring out the truck window, “when I was a kid, I thought Stoneheart was the smallest place on earth. Now it seems gigantic. Every street has a whole story behind it. Every person has a lifetime here.”
“That’s what they’re trying to buy.” Dad’s knuckles go white on the wheel. “They think money can erase that.”
“Maybe that’s why they’re so desperate,” I say. “No amount of money can buy the kind of history we have here.”
He glances at me briefly. “I hope you’re right.”
So do I. Because tonight, we find out if history is enough.