Chapter 11 #2
“I always wanted to be a ballerina growing up,” I admit, surprising myself.
I rarely dive into these childhood memories.
“I saw the Nutcracker for the first time in fifth grade, and I became obsessed. I made my mom sign me up for classes at the rec center, and I watched the Barbie in the Nutcracker movie about a hundred times.” Daniel cracks a smile, eyes focused on me.
“Unfortunately, I told some ‘fellow’ dancers in my class that I wanted to be a ballerina, and they made it clear that I didn’t quite fit the mold.
” I shrug. “I was crazy tall at that point and not model thin. None of my clothes fit right, and Jadea hadn’t moved to town yet.
I wasn’t confident enough to push back and say that I could do whatever I wanted.
” The memories feel hazy, as if I’m recalling them through a fogged mirror.
I do remember the strange, sharp turn in my self-esteem and how I refused to go to the dance class that my mom had so lovingly signed me up for.
I remember crying in front of the girls who insulted me because I had even less control over the tears then than I do now.
“Fortunately, Jadea moved in next door a few months later, and I found basketball. The love of my life. It all worked out.”
“People made fun of you for how you looked?” His expression is bewildered.
I try to remain casual, like it doesn’t still haunt me sometimes.
“Yeah, a little. I mean, by the time I was in seventh grade, I was 5’10”, ginger, and straight up and down.
Not exactly the body type most normal teenage girls are looking for.
And my last name did not help. The boys used to say, ‘Could she get Annie Larger?’ Get it? ”
Daniel winces but doesn’t say some platitude about how it made me stronger or how I’m in the WNBA, so who’s laughing now? Instead, he shakes his head. “Larger has so many great possibilities and that’s what they go with. They lacked imagination.”
I let out a shocked laugh. “And you don’t, sir?”
“Absolutely.” He nods seriously. “I’ll workshop a few and let you know.”
He’s making it light, which I appreciate, but he squeezes my hand, too. I look away, blinking back a few more tears. This all doesn’t quite feel real.
I snap a picture of the ballet’s program and add it to my story, so Jadea sees I’m taking this fake relationship seriously. After that, I’m done with the socials. I just want to watch the people on stage and try not to drool too much.
The lights dim, and the first scene unfurls. All the dancers are beams of light, power, and grace, everything I admire. I know they sacrifice for this life, and I feel that ache in my heart when I see how perfect they are at what they love.
Daniel doesn’t let go of my hand the whole first half, his thumb lightly tracing the back of my hand. I tell myself it’s because he’s so engrossed in the performance he forgot to let go. This is fake. Fake.
Fake.
But, as we sit there and take in the performance, it doesn’t feel that way. It feels like that memory Daniel had of us winning at Stanford. Lightning in a bottle.
Except, instead of feeling struck on the head, it’s a slower sensation. Creeping. Seeping in my bones. My heart. Slowly cracking that glass bubble in my chest.
I cannot let it shatter like before.
*
I force Daniel to change his outfit for the second half of our date in the theater bathroom.
I’ve already changed, decked out in black leggings, my favorite running shoes, and a neon pink racer-back tank top.
Daniel brought his own running shorts and shoes, but I’ve procured him the perfect shirt for tonight’s activities.
When he walks out of the bathroom, I snort with delight.
The lemon-lime neon running top I found for him is perfect.
The people who are milling after the ballet give us strange looks, but my heart is beating fast with excitement.
Daniel told me I would love what he’d planned, and boy, did I.
Now it’s time for me to level the playing field.
“Where are we going, Annie?” He surveys himself with genuine concern. “An athleisure rave?”
I suppress a smile, gesturing for us to walk out. “That’s actually not a bad idea.”
We walk to the garage to stash our fancy clothes. After putting our outfits in the back, Daniel heads to the driver’s seat. I tug his arm, pulling him away. “We’ll come back for the car. Our starting place is only a few blocks away.”
It’s well after 9 PM now, the ballet having been around two hours long, and the sun is just starting to dip behind the horizon. It’s perfect outside, crisp and draped in shadows. Our activity starts as soon as the sun fully sets, so we should be okay on time.
Daniel continues to guess our activity, mirroring my own act in the car. “Are we going cosmic bowling and you’re trying to convince people that bowlers are athletes with these outfits?”
That one startles a laugh out of me. I glance his way, smiling. “We used to go bowling all the time in college, remember? In the union?”
Daniel nods sagely. “For two broke college kids with a competitive streak, it was the perfect date.”
“You never let me win!” My mind flashes back to those early weeks when I was nervous to be alone with Daniel, and then he’d set me at ease by suggesting bowling. We’d compete and tease and laugh and it felt amazing.
“Let you win?” Daniel shakes his head. “You always won everything; I had to take the edge where I could!”
“Everything?” I snort. “Like what?”
“Mario Kart, kickboxing, who bought the better birthday present, Settlers of Catan—”
“Settlers of Catan?” I point his way accusingly. “I didn’t win that! We were invited to one board game party by your track team, and you were the one who ruthlessly read the entire rule book ahead of time and sucked the joy out of the game. You decimated everyone!”
Daniel grins at me. “Okay, so maybe we were more like 50/50.”
“Equals.” I nod in confirmation. “Agreed.”
Daniel’s about to respond when I notice we’re approaching the St. Louis Arch, the river, and the surrounding park. I can already see other people dressed like us clustered around a check-in table. “We’re here!” I clap my hands in anticipation. “Let’s go!”
I can tell Daniel is trying to figure out what we’re doing.
There’s a sign that reads “Check-In” above the table, and the pamphlets on the table are for the nonprofit Love for St. Louis’ Children.
“Is this a charity event?” he asks quizzically, glancing around at everyone in their neon running gear.
One of the perky organizers comes over and hands us a stack of glow sticks.
Now, if there’s something I know how to do, it’s accessorize.
I begin making glow stick bracelets and necklaces for Daniel and me.
I even make myself a halo that I perch around my messy bun, a replacement look for my previous pearl chopsticks.
“It’s a Charity Run,” I finally give in and tell him, bubbling over with excitement.
“Love for St. Louis’ Children is a non-profit that helps foster care or emancipated kids transition from a life in the system into being an adult.
Finding jobs, schools, housing. The Arrows do work with them, and I got an invitation to this event a few weeks ago.
I didn’t have anyone who could go with me, but once Jadea said we needed a unique date activity, this seemed perfect.
For every mile we run, the team matches it with $500.
We get to run through the city, and people will know what we stand for.
” I’m babbling now, trying to read his neutral expression.
I start to trail off, “And, as you can see, the theme is ‘You Light Up My Life’! As in, the kids do…”
The longer I look at Daniel, the more concerned I become.
He’s not just expressionless; he looks a little sick.
His face has lost all its color. “Hey,” I say gently, tugging him towards a nearby bench, “is everything okay? I know your bad leg probably isn’t up to hurdles, but sometimes you still post your running times on social media, so I figured this would be okay. ”
A little bit of Daniel’s expression clears when he hears my voice. “I do still run, but only on the treadmill.” He says it like it’s a shameful confession, looking at the sidewalk and fiddling with his neon green glow stick bracelet.
It takes a few moments for me to connect the dots and when the epiphany finally strikes, I sit down heavily next to him. “Daniel.” I don’t even know what to say. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t even think about running outside. We can leave. I understand.”
When someone is hurting and you’re the one trying to support them, it almost feels like you’re trying to will your empathy onto them.
Not pity but understanding. Daniel was in the hospital for weeks after being hit on a run outside, and while I didn’t see the full aftermath, he likely had months of physical therapy before he could even walk normally, let alone run again.
That would obviously be a time you don’t really want to remember.
The guilt makes my skin crawl. I was thinking of the old Daniel, not the new one.
Daniel takes deep breaths, slowing himself and his thoughts.
I recognize the technique from my therapist. I keep my voice even and quiet.
“I’ll do whatever you want, Daniel. If you want to run and face it, I’ll run with you.
If you want to leave and watch Olympic reruns, I’ll do that, too. I know this run might be triggering.”
He nods at my words but continues to focus on his breathing. I sit with him for a few minutes, waiting.