Chapter 12
Willow
The sun's shining, birds are chirping, and River is bouncing on the spot like a hyperactive puppy on a sugar rush.
“I told you not to eat that many sweets at the cinema,” I scold, tugging at his sleeve as we step up to a massive building. The walls gleam pristine white, sunlight glinting off the large glass windows that stretch from floor to ceiling.
River barely glances at me, too busy bouncing on his. “But I needed them!” he protests, grinning like a maniac.
You wouldn't think he's almost eighteen and a football player. I’m never letting him eat that much sugar and drink that much pop again. Even if it has been fun.
My eyes wander, scanning the facade until I spot the sign, Ariamotion Studios.
This must be the dance building Elijah mentioned a while ago.
I tuck a strand of my hair behind my ear, taking it all in.
Clean, modern, and intimidatingly professional—it's the kind of place that makes me want to both panic and prove myself all at once.
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” I twist my fingers together, nerves fluttering just a little.
After a few solid nights of sleep and some real food that wasn't McDonald's, I’m feeling lighter than I have in weeks. So I agreed to spend the day with River, and so far, it's been pretty fun.
He looks down at me, grinning, and throws his arm casually over my shoulders. “No harm in checking. I know a great coffee place around the corner—my treat.”
I nudge him lightly as we start toward the doors. “I hope it's your money and not Elijah's.”
He smirks. “I thought you hated my dad and wanted to spend every penny he has.”
I push past him to open the door, pinching his side as I go. “Maybe I don't hate him as much anymore. Rose, on the other hand…”
I kept my promise to Elijah; I haven't and won't tell River, it's not my place anyway.
He chuckles. “She's complicated.” That's one word for her. “I get it, and I won't lie—she didn't want you at our house, and the arguments she and Dad had because he wanted you with us? World War Three.”
I stop in my tracks. “Wait—what do you mean? I thought it was you who suggested I move in?” That's how he made it sound before.
River stuffs his hands into his pockets, looking down like he's choosing his words carefully. “Dad offered. Not that I didn't want you here with us,” he rushes out.
My stomach twists. Why would he do that? I’m practically nothing to him. Just the other child.
All this time, I thought River had to convince both of them for me to live here—and that Elijah was just being nice, for the sake of it. But it turns out it was all his idea.
I gulp, pressing my fingers to my forehead as everything feels both denser and unnervingly vivid all at once.
“I don't understand,” I murmur, pausing outside the quiet studio.
The room beyond is stunning—sunlight streams through tall windows, bouncing off the polished wooden floors.
Ballet bars line the mirrored walls, reflecting everything twice over, and the pale walls are dotted with golden frames showcasing dancers frozen mid-leap, mid-twirl, each one more graceful than the last. Above, soft, swirly light twists across the ceiling, casting a warm glow that makes the whole space feel magical.
I step inside and am immediately transported back.
My eyes blur with memory. I can see myself as a little girl, eyes wide, hair pulled into the perfect bun, my first pair of pink ballet shoes pinching my toes, but making me feel unstoppable anyway.
I remember the way my dad tried to dance alongside me, his laughter rumbling through the room, his smile growing impossibly wide every time I hit a step just right.
Back then, I was his world, and he was mine.
The ache of living without that—the absence of his pride, his warmth, the way the world seemed simpler when he was there—hits me like a shadow in the bright studio. It's harder than I expected to breathe in a room that should feel like home, but instead reminds me of what I've lost.
“I miss watching you dance,” he says softly.
I look up at him, and the ache in his eyes makes my chest hurt. Without thinking, I reach out and squeeze his hand. “I miss it too,” I whisper. “It's just… hard, you know?”
I drift toward the barres, letting my fingers skim over the smooth wood. It feels like a lifeline, grounding me in the room. He won't ever truly understand this kind of loss, and I’m quietly grateful he doesn't have to.
“I know,” he says, gently, pulling out his phone and tapping the screen a few times. “All you can do is try. If it doesn't feel right today, we can stop. Go to the cafe and eat a ridiculous amount of ice cream.”
“I hate ice cream.” I remind him.
He looks at me, appalled. “Oh yeah, I completely forgot you were a weirdo.”
I stick my finger up at him, making him laugh.
A song starts on his phone. My lip presses between my teeth, and a sudden warmth blooms behind my eyes. Ordinary by Alex Warren.
My favourite.
The song carries me back—driving around with Dad, windows down, the wind tangling in my hair, or sitting quietly by his bed when he was too weak to leave it, headphones pressed to my ears, letting the music stitch some kind of peace into the sadness I felt.
I swallow hard, blinking rapidly as the tears I've been holding back prick at the corners of my eyes.
“No pressure,” he says, pointing toward the small desk opposite the mirrors. “I’ll sit over there.”
I nod, grateful for the space, and he wanders off with his easy, laid-back stride, leaving me alone with the music.
The song fills the studio—soft and beautiful, wrapping around the room like it belongs here.
I walk slowly to the centre, every step tugging loose another memory.
My fingers tremble as I toe off my shoes, shrugging out of my jacket until it slips from my shoulders.
Now I’m just in a strappy top and black joggers.
I toss everything behind me with a careless flick, pretending I’m braver than I feel.
Finally, I face the mirror.
There's a faint pink in my cheeks now, a little more life in my skin. My green eyes stare back at me, and the sadness is still there—but it doesn't look as noticeable, not as consuming as it was in those first awful days without Dad.
Grief used to swallow me whole, and I let it.
Now it only lingers.
It ebbs and flows like the sea—some days it rises in a dark, roaring swell, fierce enough to pull me beneath its depths. Other days, it laps at me in hushed, silvered tides, a quiet pain I can stand within, almost serene in its sorrow, something I am learning to carry rather than drown in.
I take a deep breath, closing my eyes, letting the melody guide me, reminding my body of a language it hasn't spoken in far too long.
Slowly, I lift my arms, reaching upward, fingertips stretching toward something unseen, as if the air itself holds weight.
I rise onto one tiptoe, the other leg lifting behind me, a burn threading through my calf and thigh, sharp and welcome.
I've missed this. The ache of effort. The serene demand to be graceful.
My body remembers before my heart does.
I turn in a gentle circle, arms floating wide, spine tall and proud.
The polished floor gleams beneath me as I glide forward, toes brushing softly against the wood, letting the music flow through each measured step.
When the melody swells, my shoulders loosen, and I let myself melt into it, surrendering completely to the rhythm.
I fold into a crouch, weight curling inward, knees tucked close to my chest, and then the chorus lifts me.
I roll backwards, flipping lightly onto my feet again, fluid and instinctive, letting every movement carry the memory of myself—the dancer I used to be.
Leaps follow, light and unhurried, carrying me across the studio.
My feet barely whisper on the wood. I spin, landing softly, then drift into another turn.
The music becomes louder, pulling me down to the floor again.
I stretch out my back, eyes tracing the ceiling lights, chest rising and falling in time with every note.
Slowly, I lift, arching my spine, vertebrae stretching as if I’m offering everything I've held inside to the sky.
I flip upright, arms reaching wide, and I pirouette. One turn flows into another, and another after that, until I lose count. The mirrors catch every motion, every line, every extension of my hands, soft as feathers suspended in the air.
The music cuts off, leaving only an echo of my breath in the quiet studio.
My legs shake, my heart hammers, and my chest rises and falls too fast. I glance over my shoulder and see River.
Phone in his hand, aiming at me, a wide, proud smile lighting up his face.
The moment his eyes meet mine, he lowers his phone, and for a second, it feels like the world has shrunk down to just us.
“That was… fucking amazing,” he breathes.
My bottom lip trembles, and I sniffle, nodding, waves of happiness and grief crashing over me all at once.
I hardly register him moving closer before he wraps me in a huge, grounding hug.
I collapse against him, clutching at his back as tears spill freely, the sobs I've held in for so long finally breaking free.
He rests his chin on my head, strong and steady, and for the first time since I lost him, I let someone see me break, someone hold the pieces as they fall.
We step into the coffee shop—Beantastics, which, I have to admit, is a pretty good name—and the bell above the door jingles, letting warmth spill over me. The rich scent of coffee mingles with something sweet, and it feels instantly comforting, like I could curl up here for hours.