Chapter 4
Chapter Four
MONROE
“You know,” a spirited female voice says, pulling me from my daydreaming. “She rarely stops her bellyaching until she’s mooed herself hoarse.”
I stand and wipe the grass from my rear end as the woman comes closer with a tray of food, waiting for whatever else she has to say.
“Shaw asked me to bring this out to you.” Shaw. So that’s his name. It suits him. “I’m Rita. Housekeeper extraordinaire.”
As she hands me her offering, I finally speak. “Monroe. Girl with no choices.” My sad but sarcastic comment is not lost on her, and her smile dims a little.
“Come sit over here with me. Marilyn will be fine by herself.”
“Her name is Marilyn?” Irony at its finest. Rita confirms it as we walk to the porch and sit at the outdoor table. “My first name is Marilyn,” I tell her, reaching for the bottle of water.
Eyeing the tray of deli meats, cheese, and grapes, I crave popping one of those round berries into my mouth and savoring the sour burst of juice that’ll come with the first bite. But I can’t.
No sugars.
Not even natural ones.
“Marilyn Monroe?” Rita laughs like most people do before she looks me over. “Yeah, I can see that. Need a little more meat on your bones, though. That girl was something fierce regarding the female figure.”
With my professionally dyed platinum-blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and pouty red lips, I understand my mother naming me after the icon. Even have the little mole on my cheek.
“I guess,” I respond, then take a sip of my water.
Rita’s a real woman, not one of the fake ones I’m surrounded by daily.
She has genuine life experience, and because of that, I have no idea how to talk to her.
I’m not up to date on current events. I know nothing of the real world.
I barely graduated from high school and only finished with honors because it was required for the Miss California pageant, which I did win two years ago.
Anxiety and stress make my heart go crazy, and I’m getting light-headed. The loss of control closes in again, and only one thing will help.
“Uhm, Rita, could you show me to my room, please?” My abrupt standing shocks her before she nods.
“Aren’t you hungry, though?” She grabs the tray to bring it inside.
“No, I ate on the flight, and I’m just feeling a little light-headed. I think I need to lie down if that’s alright?”
“Of course! Plane food is nearly as bad as hospital food. Dinner will be ready soon. I’ll knock when it’s finished.” In response, I force myself to fashion my lips into an expected smile as she leads the way through the house and up the stairs.
I feel horrible nearly slamming the door in her face, but I need discipline. I need routine. I need to dance.
Closing the blinds, I tear open my suitcase and strip, then slip into my leotard that’s one size too small—it used to be two sizes too small—and lace up my pointe shoes.
Popping in my AirPods, I hit play on my practice list, blasting fast-paced music to keep me moving and in shape. It’s the harshest on my body to keep up with, and when the opening notes for "Tequila" by Dan and Shay play, tears stream down my cheeks, and my body flows without thought.
One song turns to two, then three, and my muscles begin to quiver as Taylor Swift’s "Shake It Off" comes on as number eight. Sweat pours down my body, my toes ache, and my knees fight not to buckle; I need to refocus my energy. And it’s not until I’ve run through the thirty-song playlist twice that hands lift me in the air, and our two bodies land on the bed with a soft thud.
Shaw hovers above me, looking angry and no doubt swearing a blue streak, but I can’t hear a word he’s saying. After ripping the pods out of my ears, his stormy gaze darkens.
“What the fuck, Monroe? You’ve been up here for over two hours dancing like this?”
His heart pounds against my chest, and I have this insane desire to lay my head against him and listen.
“Yes,” I answer.
“What the hell for?” I look away from his knowing gaze. “Uh-uh, look at me. Why are you doing this? Your body is not meant to withstand this kind of torture. Especially when you aren’t healthy enough to tolerate it.”
“I dance for six to eight hours every day. I’m well-equipped to handle the physical strain.” I lift my chin in challenge.
“And the mental one?” he bites back.
Shaw isn’t wrong. With this type of rigorous workout or routine, I should be mentally stable. I’m anything but that—barely holding myself together—but it’s likely why I do it. Ballet is the glue that keeps me together; it adheres all my tiny shattered pieces together.
“I need ballet.”
“Like I need another hole in my head.”
I don’t know how to respond, so I stay silent. It’s always been easier to remain quiet than to fight and argue. Getting my point across to people is difficult anyway. Usually because they don’t want to hear what I have to say.
“Think of this as vacation. Whatever you do on the road doesn’t happen here. No ballet, no prancing around like a piece of meat. Be yourself, Monroe.”
I flinch as if I've been physically hit because my own identity doesn’t exist. I live my mother’s failed life—competing for her, dancing for her. Smiling for her.
Pretending for her.
“You have no idea who you are, do you?” Sympathy softens Shaw’s gaze, and I divert my eyes once again. He lifts himself off my body, and at once, I miss his weight. At the time, I didn’t realize it, but it brought comfort—something I’m sorely missing right now.
When his fingers untie the silk of my slippers before sliding them off my feet, tears spill from my eyes again. Not strictly due to his tenderness, but also to embarrassment. I know what he’ll see—my bloody toes, my blistered feet. It’s never a pretty sight after such an intense session.
“Fuck. Monroe, is this normal?” I don’t look down, just shrug. “No more fucking ballet. Not while you’re here. You need to heal, woman.”
I only agree because he won’t stop until I do. I won’t listen, though. He doesn’t understand the pressure. The intensity of having one singular thing I can control. I need this like I need to breathe.
“Come on.” Shaw pulls me up from the bed, wraps an arm around my waist, and slowly directs me to the hallway bathroom.
Lifting me onto the counter, he reaches into a drawer for a washcloth, and steam doesn’t take long to billow up from the sink after it’s turned on.
We don’t speak as he gently holds one foot above the heel while dipping the cloth in water, then carefully washing the blood off my toes.
He must have questions, wondering why I would do this to myself, but refrains from asking, so I’m grateful.
Scars mar my feet from the abuse they’ve endured over the years, and as I notice Shaw’s features strain, I question everything about myself. Which is probably why I also open up to him about my training so easily now.
“I was dancing before I learned to walk.” At least, it’s what I’ve always been told. “My love for ballet expands beyond the pageants and my talent. When I dance, I’m free. It’s the only time I’m free.” My eyes shift to the water, swirling a light pink, tinged with my blood.
Shaw’s silence unnerves me. With anyone else I’ve met, I’ve never desired filling the void…revealing my secrets. He’s changing all the rules on me.
“I trained with a prima.” Ophelia Vasyli was intense, driven, caring. “She treated me like a little girl but knew before I did that my love for the art was imprinted on my soul. She had no idea what my life was like, but understood my story, nonetheless.”
“And what is your story, Monroe?”
Quickly, my eyes lift to meet his imploring stare. “I have no idea.”