Chapter 23 SONYA
SONYA
Hughes drops me off at my dance studio. He offers to go inside and clear up the fact that he’s not my husband, but I turn him down. Honestly, between everything else that’s happened, I forgot about him lying to Madame Kozlova about us being married. And now? It’s not what I’m even thinking about.
How can it be when my wet pussy has since come up?
Kill me. Hughes felt how much I wanted him. Well, how much my body wanted him. It’s not the same thing as my mind and it doesn’t count, I remind myself. It’s not like I like him or anything.
He was underneath me, and I reacted. It’s his fault for being all muscle-y and male. And then when he started daring and touching me… I should be mad it got that far, but I feel…
I don’t want to think about how I feel.
As soon as Hughes pulls up to my dance studio, I run out of his car without looking back. I’ve got bigger problems to focus on like my dancing. Even though it’s been one day, it feels like I’ve taken too much time off. I plan to head straight to the studio to practice, but Nina intercepts me.
“Why are you lying? I looked it up, and there’s nothing online about you and Adrian Hughes being married.”
My gut twists. “How about you focus on ballet and how I’m a better dancer than you, Nina?”
“Is that so?” She smirks. “Madame Kozlova is waiting for you in her office. You should probably go talk to her about all that.”
The look on her face makes my gut cramp. Nina is usually haughty and competitive as hell, but suddenly she’s practically glowing with happiness. “What’s that mean?”
“You’ll find out, Sonya.”
My heart twists into a pretzel in my chest. But I head to Madame Kozlova’s office. Before knocking, I have to wipe my sweaty palms on my leggings a few times.
My dance mistress doesn’t smile when she opens the door, but that’s not unusual.
From the day I met her over six years ago, Madame Kozlova has made it clear that she hates pleasantries for the sake of politeness.
It’s why when I first joined this dance company, she didn’t bother learning my name.
Until Madame Kozlova thinks you could become something in our industry, she doesn’t waste energy on getting to know you.
She started calling me Sonya two years ago.
That might seem harsh, but ballet is an elitist art form. It’s expensive to join, expensive to watch, most of us aren’t paid enough, and the majority of dancers won’t be remembered unless we become principals.
So why bother with any of it in the first place?
If I can survive the gauntlet of physical pain and criticism that I put my body through on a daily basis, I can survive anything. It’s made me stronger, and now it’s paying off. I’m getting so close to accomplishing everything I’ve ever wanted.
“So far there have been two instances where you’ve messed up on stage or in practice,” says Madame Kozlova, shutting the door behind me. “The doctors checked and there’s no physical explanation as to why this is happening.”
I’ve worked tirelessly and sacrificed endless hours into finally proving myself to Madame Kozlova. I’m one of her favorite dancers. She’s probably concerned and wants reassurance that whatever is happening, I’ve got it handled. No problem, because I do.
“It won’t happen again,” I promise.
She gestures at a chair and waits until I sit down. “How can you be sure?”
Ballet is the rock at the center of my universe. I’ve studied it, relied on it, and soaked it up as nourishment.
Sure, at first, I used to hang around the neighborhood’s at-risk youth dance program as a way not to go home after school.
But after they gave me a pair of used pointe shoes and the smallest, most insignificant onstage part in a community production, everything changed.
When the audience got to their feet and clapped, standing in the very back row behind most of the other dancers, I felt special for the first time.
Nothing else in my childhood came close to that level of recognition.
I couldn’t get enough. It’s the escape I dedicated all my time and energy into replicating, and now it’s what I’m great at and what defines me.
Without it, I wouldn’t have known what I was capable of becoming, that I can thrive in this world without any support from others.
As long as I have myself and this body capable of dancing, life makes sense.
When my dance mistress makes a huffing sound, I finally answer her question. “I have the skills to do it all,” I insist. “Every move. Sauté. Jeté. Assemblé. Sissonne. échapoé Sauté. Even Grand Jeté.”
Madame Kozlova sits behind her desk, folding her hands together.
Her lips press together. “It’s not a matter of what you could do, Sonya.
But what we can trust you to do consistently.
” There’s a pause, as if she’s letting her words sink in.
”When you messed up in front of Pepita, I got this really bitter feeling in my mouth.
How could a dancer that I’ve personally been training and have vouched for choke like this under the pressure? ”
My back hits the chair. I’m shaking my head, telling myself it’s okay. There’s no reason to panic, as long as I explain. “I understand how you must have felt and how it’s reflected on you, but you can count on me—”
“That’s what I told myself,” she agrees, cutting me off.
“That Sonya will make sure it never happens again. But it happened again, didn’t it?
” Her chest reverberates with an agitated noise as her fingers start tapping a fast pattern on the desk.
“I only have so much time before I retire myself, and it’s got me thinking about my legacy and the dancers I want attached to my name. ”
My heart slams against my ribs. “Trust me, I’ll do my best to represent your legacy and do great—”
This time her slashing hand gesture cuts me off. A wrinkle forms on Madame Kozlova’s forehead. She brings her elbows up onto her desk. “You should see things from my point of view.”
A low buzzing starts in my ears. “Your view?”
“I work with the best of the best.”
“Of course, and—”
“That was you before all of your falling—”
The buzzing grows louder and my chest hurts.
Is she telling me I’m not good enough for her?
Or for Bob Pepita? That I won’t be allowed to audition?
If that happens, there’s no guarantee I’ll get another opportunity to become a principal dancer.
Not with how many new ballerinas get hired to our company every season, younger bodies desperate to make a name for themselves.
Waiting means risking replacement. My career might not recover if I step back now.
“—better if you focus on yourself,” Madame Kozlova says.
I missed a few words.
“…focus…on…me…” I repeat dully.
“My opinion is that there’s too much pressure on you, and it’s affecting your ability to perform.” Her tone has gone lower as if she’s trying to be sympathetic, but her expression is all hardened lines.
The chair wobbles as my legs jerk. “Yes, but believe in me. That l’ll power through. I always do. I can’t give up—”
“I don’t want you to give up,” confirms Madame Kozlova, nodding.
“Okay. Good.” A hysterical laugh bubbles so inappropriately in my chest. “Because for a second, I thought you were letting me go.”
My dance mistress gets off the chair, crosses her arms, and starts pacing slowly. “Before you misunderstand me, imagine this. What if you fell again in class while practicing with another dancer. They’d get hurt. Do you want to be responsible for ending someone else’s dream?”
“No… That won’t happen…”
Her gaze sweeps across the room, still not looking at me.
“You can’t guarantee it won’t, Sonya. And that’s what it all comes down to.
I think we both know what you’re dealing with isn’t going to go away just because you want it to.
That’s why I’ve made the difficult decision to put you on a mandatory leave for the rest of the season.
You need to take some personal time to sort this out. ”
Somewhere along her speech, my ears feel like they’ve been stuffed with cotton.
“This isn’t me abandoning you,” I hear Madame Kozlova say faintly. “But a temporary setback.”
My throat hurts, and I can’t think, but I must whisper some sort of objection because she nods.
“Yes, I’m aware of how significant the Bob Pepita opportunity was for you.
That’s why I pulled some strings. You’re still eligible to enter his last audition, but you have to perform a routine solo.
Something put together by yourself and not attached to my name or this dance company.
” Madame Kozlova rubs her temples. “And before you react, remember that no other dancer would have this chance, but I pushed for you. Because you have the kind of talent no one else does…once you get it together.”
She’s rambling about resting and telling me how hard this is for her.
That she believes in me. But also how I should leave and not make a scene, because it’s better if we keep this professional, but also not to be a stranger?
To come to the gala they’re hosting before the final audition with my hockey captain husband… ?
I struggle to speak again. In fact, I can’t.
It’s as if I’m wading underwater with my mouth taped shut.
Slowly, I exit her office. There’s no expression on my face.
Nothing shows how I’m really feeling. A ballerina must always be perfect and poised.
That’s what I love about being one. A ballerina never falls apart.
Never crumbles. Keeps going. This ballerina is perfect and poised, because I’ve had so much practice at it.
The parking lot is full of vehicles. I lean against a random car.
It’s fine. I’m okay. I’m okay. Okay… I’m okay… Okay… Okay…
The mantra isn’t working. Why? I don’t know what’s happening. My heart pounds as if it’s been dislodged into the wrong place. I’m really hot. This must be some sort of medical issue. That emergency doctor was mistaken. There is something physically wrong with me. Something to blame.
My surroundings start to fade. All that’s left is this loud, dissonant ringing in my ears. My jaw has clenched shut, so I can’t catch a breath.
Soon my lungs scream. Am I about to pass out? My body bends over, and I’m going to scrape my knees on the concrete. It’ll hurt, I vaguely think.
But it doesn’t. Not at all.
I’m swept up by something that is very warm and strong. As heat sinks into my skin, I realize I’m being crushed against a broad chest and underneath my cheek beats a frantic rhythm.
I’m blindly burrowing closer because I don’t want to open my eyes. Not yet. Give me this reprieve. A moment where I’m not the ballerina that’s lost everything. Because did that happen? It can’t have happened. Not after the lifetime of work I’ve put in.
I start shaking.
A mouth presses against my temple. Words register. These low, deeply solid promises. “I’ve got you. Don’t worry, I’ve got you. You’re okay, you hear me? You’re safe, I promise.”
Arms gather me close.
At this point, my lungs are burning.
I feel palms cradle my face. “Breathe. You have to breathe.” The voice is gentle, but insistent worry strains each syllable.
I struggle, eyes clamped shut even tighter and what feels like thumbs fluttering across my jaw. “Darling, can you take a deep breath for me? Please?”
I’m struggling. Shaking harder.
“We’ll do it together,” he says.
I hear it. He demonstrates a deep inhale.
Following his lead, I try gasping for air.
“Again,” he commands, more than a little desperately.
Another wretched, fast inhale.
“That’s it. Just slower now.” He demonstrates the speed. “Together with me.”
I try and follow orders, encircled in the steadiest, strongest arms. We breathe together, in and out, exchanging air as if time is an hourglass placed on its side. There’s no pressure. No rush. Nothing matters but how I’m doing.
I keep breathing. More evenly now.
The relief in the voice is a jumble of words, overlapping each other. “Hey, hey. That’s it. Good. So good. You’re doing so good. It’s okay, I’ve got you. I’m not letting go, okay? Whatever you need, you’ll get. I’m not leaving. I have you. Keep breathing. Just like that. Breathe for me, baby.”
I’m doing it now. I’m breathing, but I’m also exhausted. My knees knock together. All I want to do is sink to the ground.
My chin drops and my cheek presses into their shoulder. Very slowly, the rest of the tightness in my chest eases.
Until it’s mostly all gone.
And then I open and focus my eyes.
The corner of an ear. Blonde hair. A chiseled jaw.
Even though my pulse leaps, I’m not surprised to see who caught me. Sandalwood, soap, mint. If I was being honest with myself, I knew it was him all along…and for once? The part of me that always fights him off is too exhausted, too raw from the panic to even try.
Deep down, some part of me clearly felt I was safe.