Chapter Twelve
I’m midair when she walks in.
Literally suspended, though I suppose metaphorically too. Lately my entire life feels like one long, graceless leap with no guarantee of landing.
This landing, though, is clean. My feet kiss the floor on the way back down, and for a split second I let myself revel in the small miracle of it.
Then I hear it: her breath. Sharp, involuntary, slicing through my self-congratulatory moment like a referee’s whistle.
With Petra, that sound could mean anything: astonishment, or the prelude to dismantling me piece by piece until I understand how catastrophically out of position my arms and feet were.
I turn, still half-thrumming with adrenaline, and find her watching me. Blue eyes narrowed, lips parted, posture tilted as she examines. It’s impossible to know if I’ve just impressed her or disgraced the studio in which I stand.
She looks like someone who’s experienced every possible human emotion in rapid succession—joy, grief, rage, and exhaustion all competing for real estate on her face like overcrowded tenants in a studio apartment, each one leaving its mark before the previous one has had time to pack up and leave.
I recognize that look she wears. It exudes exhaustion, the type that comes after you’ve demolished something that needed demolishing, but you’re still mourning the rubble.
And yet, amidst it all, she remains gorgeous.
“That jeté…” her voice carries genuine bewilderment. “When did you—how did you figure that out?”
“Just been practicing what you taught me. A lot,” I say.
She shakes her head, approaching with that analytical gaze she gets sometimes. “You’re actually starting to resemble a dancer.”
“Careful with the compliments,” I say. “I might start believing them.”
She rolls her eyes. “Still plenty to work on. Plenty. Don’t you worry.”
“Good. Push me harder. I want every correction you’ve got.”
What follows is sixty minutes of discovering new ways muscles can file complaints.
She puts me through combinations that make my brain attempt to divide by zero, footwork that requires cognitive functions I’m not sure I possess.
But I push through each challenge because the expression on her face when I nail something supposedly impossible?
That’s a drug I haven’t found in any physical therapy protocol.
By the time the session is complete, I’m on the floor, chest heaving, wearing what I suspect is a deranged smile. This is what progress addiction feels like: not the pain itself, but the tiny increments of becoming something you weren’t yesterday.
Petra settles beside me, legs extending in front of her. “You’re really improving.”
Her fingers have started their telltale circular pattern-tracing on the floor, invisible choreography for whatever she’s not saying.
“Seems like something’s on your mind today,” I say because literal dancing is now my thing, but metaphorical dancing around subjects isn’t my style anymore.
She keeps her gaze fixed downward. “Just…processing some stuff.”
“Want to talk about it, or should I just start guessing?”
She sighs. “You’re exhausting, you know that?”
“It’s been mentioned in performance reviews.”
I watch her internal debate play out—trust versus self-protection, the universal human wrestling match. Then she takes one of those signature breaths that indicate she’s ready to show her cards.
“I got an offer.”
“For a role?”
She nods, fingers creating a death grip on her ankle. “Not quite. An offer for a spot as a principal dancer.”
I sit up immediately. “Wait—seriously?”
Another nod, a hint of a smile but shadowed with something that isn’t quite celebration.
“Petra, that’s incredible!” My smile arrives without consultation from my brain. “This is what you’ve been working for. This is so exciting. Congratulations!”
“It’s in Saint Petersburg.”
Ah, there it is. The universe’s punchline: You finally connect with someone who makes you want to be better, and geography decides to play the role of heckling disruptor.
But this isn’t about me. This is about her.
“Your dad lived there at one point, right? Didn’t you mention? And it has the Mariinsky Theatre, and…” I say, trailing off.
“Yes,” she says softly. “I still have family there.”
Several emotions compete for dominance in my nervous system, but this moment isn’t about my feelings. It’s about hers.
“You have to take it.”
“What?”
“You must take it,” I repeat, finding conviction somewhere deep within. “This is everything—the opportunity to dance where your father’s story began. This isn’t even a decision. You don’t turn this type of offer down.”
Her eyes develop that suspicious shine that precedes tears, and I realize she expected resistance. At least reservations.
“God, I didn’t come here to have feelings flood out of me,” she says, pressing palms against her eyes like she can physically push the emotions back inside.
“Well, you also didn’t come here expecting to find me successfully airborne, so today’s full of surprises.”
She produces something between a laugh and a sob. “Your pirouettes are still tragic though.”
“I prefer ‘orbitally challenged.’”
The studio walls seem to lean in, creating intimacy in the empty space.
“Look, I won’t pretend this isn’t upsetting for me, selfishly.
But this is about you and your life. You have to take this opportunity.
Not for your career, not for your father’s memory, not even for ballet.
You have to take it because some chances only come once, and saying no to them is saying no to the person you’re supposed to become. ”
She studies my face with that intensity that makes me forget I’m supposed to have other thoughts.
“You really think so? I mean, there’s so much to consider, so many unknowns. I just don’t—”
“This is your moment,” I interject. “And moments like this don’t wait for you to be ready.”
The truth is already written in her expression—she’s leaving. And I’m going to let her. Hell, I’m encouraging her. Because that’s what you do when someone’s dreams are bigger than your desire to keep them close.
“New York will miss you…I’ll definitely miss you too,” I say. “Have you told your mom or sister yet?”
She shakes her head. “Not yet. I wanted to figure things out first.”
“What about Gavin?” I say.
“It’s over,” she whispers. “With Gavin. I ended it last night.”
“Yeah?”
“He said it would be a mistake to leave.” She lets out this brittle laugh. “Like being a principal dancer performing at the Mariinsky doesn’t hold a candle to being his plus-one for life.”
“You don’t seem too upset about it.”
“I’m not.” She pauses, reconsidering. “Or maybe I am, just not the way I expected. I’m upset that I wasted years with someone who saw me as some accessory to his life.”
“Well, it sounds like it’s for the best this opportunity has come now.”
“I guess,” she says, her eyes drifting elsewhere.
“You don’t sound convinced now.”
“Because now I’m standing in a studio with someone who told me to take the job. Who understood immediately why it mattered. And that’s making it harder for me to decide.”
The space between us has developed its own gravitational pull.
“Petra—”
“I know it’s bad timing—horrible timing. I know I’m leaving. But…” She places her hand on my chest.
I can feel my heartbeat accelerating under her palm, probably giving away everything I’m trying not to say.
“You know what’s really crazy?” she says quietly.
“My pirouettes?”
She lets out a small laugh. “Yes those, but also…” Her fingers curl slightly into my shirt. “It’s that you’re the one person who makes this feel less like I’m losing everything and more like I’m choosing something great.”
“You are,” I say.
She leans in first, or maybe I do, or maybe we both do simultaneously.
The kiss begins tentatively, like we’re both testing the strength of a bridge we’ve been building plank by plank for weeks.
Her lips are softer than my imagination ever dared to make them, warm and pliant, carrying the faint sweetness of cherry ChapStick.
Her breath mingles with mine, quickening, and I feel the delicate brush of her fingers against my jaw, anchoring me in a way that makes my pulse race.
My hand finds the curve of her waist, the heat of her body radiating through her shirt.
Then my hand makes its way up her body, discovering the place where her neck meets her shoulder.
As I slowly trace that vulnerable curve, her pulse flutters against my thumb.
Her skin is warm and smooth. I can feel her heartbeat syncing with mine.
I’m suspended in the air again—metaphorically this time—between what is and what’s about to not be.
And this time, I don’t ever want to land.