11. Ashlynn
11
ASHLYNN
Dinner is a blur of clinking cutlery and polite conversation. Gilbert and Aunt Bonnie keep the bulk of the conversation going. They talk about mundane, surface-level topics that fill the silence without saying anything of substance.
My mind drifts, half-listening, half-lost in the echoes of laughter and whispers of the past. The decision to stay or leave weighs heavily on my heart, a choice between holding on to memories and forging a new path. I steal glances at him throughout dinner. Each time, it is to find his eyes already on me. The concern in his gaze is evident, and I wish everyone, especially him, would stop treating me with kids’ gloves.
Our eyes meet again, and I feel a rush of heat rise to my cheeks. They hold mine for a moment longer than necessary. There’s something in his gaze, a mix of admiration and something deeper, something that makes my heart race.
It’s just my shitty luck that the first person I actually feel something for — other than an overwhelming sense of disinterest, that is — is the one person I can’t have. Or rather, shouldn’t want. Even though the attraction is undeniable, an electric current running between us that I can’t ignore.
He and Aunt Bonnie are talking plenty, but those eagle-sharp eyes of hers stay on me. Somehow, she manages to keep the conversation light, but the tension is palpable. Every glance, every brush of his hand against mine as he passes the pepper, sends a jolt of electricity through me. It’s inappropriate. He’s my legal guardian, not the object of my desire.
But who says the two ought to be mutually exclusive?
Since I’d rather not know the answer, I keep my eyes on the food.
The spread is perfect: a light salad with mixed greens, cherry tomatoes, and a delicate vinaigrette, followed by grilled salmon with a side of steamed asparagus. The food looks and is delicious, but my appetite is barely there. I can’t focus on it. Not with him sitting so close, his presence overwhelming my senses.
As the meal progresses, the tension between us only grows. I find myself drawn to him, unable to resist the magnetic pull. The way his t-shirt clings to his shoulders, the casual ease of his movements, everything about him draws me in.
Only, it’s all one-sided.
I know I should find a way to control it, to push it aside. I try to concentrate on my plate, but my mind keeps drifting back to him, to the way he looks at me, to the unspoken words hanging in the air. The logical part of my brain tells me to keep my distance, to push these feelings aside and maintain the boundaries of our relationship, but my heart isn’t listening. The stubborn heart muscle has a mind of its own. All I can think about is how much I want him, how badly I need to feel his touch.
How impossible it is to have him.
When he disappears into the kitchen to grab the dessert, I take a deep breath, attempting to steady my nerves. And after dessert, I excuse myself, needing to be alone. This time, I wander through a different part of the house, my footsteps soft against the hardwood floors.
Eventually, I come upon Rachel’s Creative Wing, as she called it. The hallway leading up to it is lined with framed photographs and enclosed glass shelving filled with ballet trophies.
A gallery of frozen moments, featuring myself, Mom, and Rachel.
I pause in front of a picture of Mom and Rachel taken at Brookfield Dance Academy. Mom sports a radiant and beautiful smile, while Rachel looks at her like she is her entire world. I trace the glass with my fingertips, feeling an ache deep in my chest.
There’s one of Mom, mid-dance, her form perfect and graceful. There’s another of Rachel, her eyes twinkling with pride as she watched me on stage. Mom probably took this one, like she did a lot of the pictures on this wall.
I continue down the hallway, pausing at each picture, each memory. There’s a picture of me as a child, ten years old, standing in this very house, clutching a ballet trophy with a triumphant grin. Mom and Rachel on either side, their hands resting protectively on my shoulders. The weight of those hands is now gone, leaving an emptiness that’s hard to bear.
The walls seem to close in, the memories pressing down on me, making it hard to breathe. So I keep on moving, this time to our trophies. There are so many of them. Every trophy I won before the accident is here, and so are Mom’s and Rachel’s. Rachel used to joke that I’d surpass both of them, combined, by my seventeenth birthday. There are a lot more dance competitions now than back then, and I’m usually the one to beat in whatever division I enter. I like to win, and I’m unapologetic about it. I haven’t been keeping score on my trophy count, but if I had to guess, I’d say I hit that goal at sixteen. Most of them are at Bonnie’s place. The ones I had at Dad’s place are in storage boxes.
Would Gilbert mind if I moved those in here?
Finally, I find myself standing before a door I know all too well. The dance studio. Our sanctuary. The place where I could escape everything, where the music would take me away. I push the door open and step inside, the familiar scent of wood and rosin greeting me.
The studio is just as I remember it, with mirrors lining one wall and the barre standing sturdy and inviting. My feet move of their own accord, carrying me to the small closet in the back of the studio. Upon opening it, I am surprised to find a few pairs of pointe shoes and tulle skirts still there. I pick up a pair of shoes, their satin worn but still beautiful, and slip them on. They fit, barely. Oh well. No pain, no gain.
I walk over to the corner where the old entertainment unit sits, a stack of CDs beside it. My fingers hover over the titles before selecting one — Prokofiev’s “Romeo and Juliet.” Tragic and beautiful, it’s a piece that always resonated with me.
I pop in the CD and press play, and the room fills with the hauntingly beautiful strains of Prokofiev’s “Montagues and Capulets.” I take a deep, steadying breath and close my eyes, letting the music wash over me, drowning out the world. My body moves instinctively, muscle memory taking over.
Doing this without properly stretching is a bad idea, and I know I will pay for this in the morning. So I ease into it, starting with a few tentative steps, my feet sliding out and snapping back together in perfect fifth position, the precision drilled into me since childhood. The music swells, and I rise onto pointe, feeling the familiar strain in my calves. I move into a series of spins, each step precise and deliberate, my body whirling gracefully.
As the music transitions to the mournful “Juliet’s Funeral,” I let the sorrow of the piece flow through me. My arms extend into a graceful port de bras, and I execute a series of arabesques, my leg lifted behind me, reaching for something just out of grasp. I can feel the weight of the tragedy in every movement, the story of love, loss, and vengeance echoing my own.
For a moment, I’m not in this house filled with ghosts. I’m just a ballerina, lost in the beauty of the dance. As I leap across the floor, my body soars through the air with a controlled elegance. Each leap feels like a release, a moment of weightlessness in the midst of my heavy heart. I finish with a series of pirouettes, my body spinning faster and faster, the world blurring around me.
The final notes fade, and I come to a stop, breathless and trembling. The silence rushes back in, but it feels different now. It’s less oppressive, more peaceful. I look at my reflection in the mirror, seeing the girl I used to be and the woman I’ve become. The past and present blend together, and for the first time, it feels like I might be able to carry both with me.
The decision to stay or leave is still there, but it no longer feels like an impossible choice. I feel lighter, hopeful.
Maybe, just maybe, I can find a way to make this house a home again.
A place where memories of the past can coexist with hopes for the future.
There’s movement in the doorway, and I turn to find Aunt Bonnie and Gilbert standing there, watching me with expressions of awe and sorrow. I hadn’t realized I had an audience.
I wasn’t doing this for an audience.
I was doing it for myself.