Chapter 6 #3
Grinning, I shove the note into his hand and watch him disappear.
I sigh. Considering I have limited experience with men, I’d say things seem to be going pretty well.
Until I left LABT, I’d never had any time to date.
Since then, I’ve gone on a handful of blind dates, not including Liz’s cousin, but none of them lasted more than an evening.
This is the first time I’ve had drinks with a guy where I don’t have to wrack my brain for random facts about football or ask him endless open-ended questions about himself.
Our conversation flows so naturally. Not to mention, we’re both contributing to it.
I’ve even managed to forget that I’m in a pub.
Checking my phone, I spy a message from Liz.
Liz
How are you getting on?
Min
*Winking emoji*
Liz
That good?
Min
Let’s just say I’m open to going out for drinks again.
Liz
It’s a miracle. You’re actually considering a second date!
Min
It’s not a date.
Liz
Fine. If it’s not a date, then what would you call it?
Min
I don’t know.
Liz
It’s a date.
Min
*Rolling-eyes emoji*
Liz
Anyway, if it’s going well, don’t let me distract you. Have fun. I’ll quiz you all about it tomorrow.
Shoving my phone into my pocket, I glance up to see Sam holding an enormous slice of chocolate cake. It’s coated with thick layers of creamy, rich chocolate and vanilla frosting topped off with a red cherry.
He sets the dish down on the table. “I hope you weren’t texting a friend to come and rescue you, because I’m not ready for tonight to be over yet.”
My heart flutters. Neither am I. “It was a friend, but she just texted to see how I’m doing.”
“And what did you tell her?”
I glance at the cake. “That I hope we can do this again.”
“Brilliant. How’s tomorrow?”
My head shoots up.
“Since you said you’ll be working earlier, how about dinner after you get off work?” he continues.
“Din . . . din . . . dinner,” I sputter.
“Yeah. You know, as in food that isn’t a Tesco meal deal,” he jokes.
“I’d love to, only how about we meet in the morning? I don’t want to keep you out late if you have to be up at five the next morning. What time are you normally in bed by?”
“Nine or ten depending on how long my kit takes to polish.” He slides a fork in my direction. “But I don’t mind losing a little sleep if it means spending time with a beautiful girl like you.”
I want to melt when I hear those words. No guy has ever uttered something that sweet to me. Does he really mean me?
“Your kit is your uniform?”
“Uh-huh.”
I picture him sitting in a locker room, whistling as he takes a cloth and polishes his sword. Thinking about all the muscles rippling in his arms as he carefully works the cloth into all the tiny crevices leaves my body hot. I have to see him again.
“How about a compromise?” I suggest boldly. “What if we met for coffee in the morning and again for dinner?”
“A double date? I like it.” His lips twitch. “Name the time and place and I’ll be there.”
“Eight at the Barbican Conservatory?”
“Deal. Now how about you tuck in to this cake?”
“You don’t have to ask me twice.”
I take my fork and attack the corner of the dessert that’s facing me. It slides in nice and easy, like a knife slicing butter. As I take a bite, I can tell I’ve found a new favorite food.
“Mmm,” I groan. “I taste brownies, caramel, and something creamy . . .”
“It’s pudding.” He chuckles. “This is the pub’s version of a Death By Chocolate trifle.”
“It’s delicious.”
“Glad you like it. It’s a lot to handle, but I figured you were a chocolate fan, and we could polish it off between the two of us.”
“I definitely love all things chocolate.” I smack my lips together. “If I could, I’d eat dessert for every meal.”
“You could, you know,” he teases.
“Yes, but I wouldn’t be a functioning member of society if I did. I’d be galloping around London like a thoroughbred racehorse.”
“There’s nothing wrong with that.”
I close my eyes and shake my head. “Other than chocolate, what are your favorite desserts?”
“Victorian sponge cakes and carrot cakes. It depends on my mood. And you?”
I make a mental note to look up what a Victorian sponge looks like. A carrot cake, I’ve seen and eaten before.
“Um . . . key lime pie?”
We spend the next few minutes exchanging some of our favorite things. I make an effort to commit each thing to memory. His favorite color is blue. His candy of choice is Aero mint-chocolate bars. The food he most looks forward to is a Sunday roast.
“My turn.” He grins. “What is your favorite way to relax at the end of a long day?”
“Um . . . three things: a hot shower, watching SearchTube videos, and coloring in an adult coloring book.”
“Do you watch anything in particular?”
“It’s more for the background noise. I have eclectic taste.” I shrug. “Sometimes it’s old episodes of Project Catwalk, other days it might be a person going shopping at the Bicester Village outlets, working in their garden, or even a gymnastics video.”
I push the plate toward Sam so he can enjoy the final bite of cake. I’m stuffed, and while I’m hyper now, as soon as I get home, I’ll probably crash and burn.
“My sister Sarah is a gymnast. She’s quite good too. I have a couple videos if you’re interested.”
“Sure,” I say.
Like the proud brother he is, Sam whips out his phone and opens the photo app. “This was the video Sarah sent me from her last competition a few months ago on the asymmetric bars. That’s her favorite event.”
He taps Play. I watch as Sarah, a girl with strawberry-blonde hair and the same brown eyes as Sam, explodes off the springboard to catch the bar. She floats through a series of impressive handstands, releases, and pirouettes, and ends her routine with a stuck double tuck dismount.
“Wow, you weren’t kidding. She’s at a really high level.”
“She’s a member of the junior national squad.” He puffs out his chest. “At the rate she’s going, I think she could make it all the way to the Olympics.”
“And how old is she?”
“Fourteen.” Scrolling through to the next video, I notice a screenshot of a girl in a peasant-dress costume. My throat goes dry. “I can’t show you a video of Sarah without showing you Celine too. She’s twelve, and she’s a dancer. I recorded this at her dance studio’s fall recital.”
The video begins and zooms in on a petite girl with dark brown hair on a stage.
Just as I suspected, I hear the familiar tune from the classical ballet Giselle.
My heart aches at seeing Sam’s sister perform the same steps, balances, and turns that I once did.
She has lovely turnout and the high arched feet any ballerina would kill for.
She has a lightness about the way she performs. If she wants to, she’s well on her way to becoming a professional.
It’s the first time I’ve watched anyone dance in the four years since I left LABT. The corners of my eyes grows tight. My vision is dotted with moisture, and my breath hitches. As discreetly as I can, I take my napkin and bring it up to my face, letting the coarse cotton rub over my skin.
As Celine strikes her ending pose, Sam sighs contentedly, then glances in my direction. His expression shifts from happiness to concern.
“She’s very good for her age,” I manage.
“Minerva? Are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine. I . . . that is . . . seeing ballet makes me emotional. I just need a minute. I’ll be right back.”
Not waiting for an answer, I flee the table for the safety of the bathroom. For once, I don’t hear Artem’s snake-like voice or flash back to that horrid day. Instead, I’m filled with sadness and a sense of longing.
When Celine was dancing, I didn’t see Sam’s sister.
I saw myself. Her excitement and energy reminded me of what I used to feel when I danced.
It’s brought back memories of the happier times when I was a kid and dancing because I loved it.
For a single moment, I’d rediscovered a part of myself I’ve been missing.
Looking at myself in the mirror, I study my reflection. There is a spark in my eyes. Hope. Maybe there is a chance I can open myself up to ballet again.