Chapter 9
Rayne
This Is Me Trying—Taylor Swift
I can’t concentrate. Not with Easton in the same room. He’s not looking at me, but I’m still too aware of his presence. Much too aware. Especially considering we’ve only been texting and have just seen each other in person once, which barely counts because we didn’t really talk to each other.
I can feel his presence. There’s a warm tingling sensation in my stomach, a nervous restlessness that feels like fear but also a little bit like hope.
He distracts me, and I know that’s not good.
I can’t keep up with the others at all. The pace set by Mr. Conrad, which Easton has adapted to on the piano, is much too fast for me.
I know all the exercises, I’ve done them a thousand times in the past: plié, relevé, échappé.
I know how to place my feet and move my arms. Unfortunately, my body won’t cooperate.
My muscle memory isn’t working properly.
The months of practice that I’ve missed make themselves painfully clear after just a few moments: Everything hurts, and I’m out of breath far too quickly.
Beads of sweat form on my neck and forehead, my pulse races, and now I remember why dancers don’t just dance but also do cross-training and cardio.
We need endurance and coordination, and our muscles have to be strong.
Mr. Conrad is watching me. I can feel his gaze on my back.
Every now and then he comes over to correct my posture, straighten my hips, and apply light pressure to my shoulders.
He doesn’t remark on my mistakes, even though he does with everyone else’s.
Maybe he feels sorry for me. Or maybe he doesn’t want to completely demotivate me on my first day.
I hope it’s the latter, because I’m not here to be pitied.
I’m here to learn and improve. I’m here to honor Mom and her talent.
I keep going, tensing the muscles in my stomach and the insides of my thighs a little more, lifting my heels a little higher in half-pointe while struggling to keep my balance.
The fact that I also have problems while holding the barre says it all.
It’s not enough, not like this. I have to try harder.
When we move from the barre to the center of the room, the thin fabric of my leotard is already sticking to my body and my face is red, while everyone else looks exactly like they did at the beginning of the class.
A little warm, perhaps, but not as exhausted as I am. Unfortunately, I’m not surprised.
“You’re doing great,” Zoe whispers to me as we stand in the middle, waiting for Mr. Conrad to tell us what to do next.
I grimace and force a smile. She’s lying and we both know it, but I’m still grateful to her for trying.
Mr. Conrad comes to stand in front of us, and I should be concentrating on him, but from where I’m standing, I only have to turn my head a tiny bit to see Easton.
I’d like to say that it’s easy for me not to watch him, but that would be a lie.
I’m captivated by the way he sits at the grand piano, with his back straight and his head slightly lowered.
Dark hair falls over his forehead. I can only see his profile, but I can still make out the expression of concentration on his face.
He’s biting his lower lip, and I remember a photo on Instagram where all you can see is his smile. He has a gorgeous smile.
He looks up and his eyes meet mine in the mirror, and for a moment time stands still as he just looks at me. His gaze is clear and uncomplicated; there’s no anger in his eyes, not even any disappointment. My heart skips a beat.
I nod at him, a reflex and a response to his silent question. We need to talk.
“Rayne, did you hear me?” Mr. Conrad’s voice makes me jump, and my cheeks turn even redder.
I’m burning with embarrassment. I hastily take my eyes off Easton and look to Mr. Conrad, who signals for us to begin.
After just a few seconds, it becomes alarmingly clear that I can’t do what he expects, and I hate that Easton is here to watch me fail.
I’m pretty sure I know what he’s thinking.
What are you doing here?
I don’t know what he would think of my answer.
* * *
When Mr. Conrad ends the lesson, my legs feel so weak that I’m afraid they might collapse at any moment. I’d like to say that it’s just because my muscles are overtaxed, that I’ve overdone it. But there’s another reason for it, and I walk straight toward him.
This time I can’t run away, and I don’t want to. At least I don’t think I do. My fingernails dig into my palms, and I’m so tense it hurts.
Calm down. Everything will be fine. He knows you.
Except he doesn’t know me, not really. He still doesn’t know who I am. I told him my first name, but he has no idea who my father was. Or does he? In any case, I have to tell him now; I have no other choice. Everyone else knows, and I want him to hear it from me, not through some stupid gossip.
But how do you tell your best friend that you’ve been lying to him for months?
Easton has turned his back to me. He’s still sitting at the piano, but now he has his phone in his hand and is texting. Unfortunately, I want to know who he’s talking to, even though it’s absolutely none of my business.
“Hey,” I say, and I can barely speak. My voice is shaking and sounds all choked.
I shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other, too aware of the curious glances from my classmates.
I don’t want to worry about what they think, but I do anyway.
They don’t know that I already know Easton, so they’re probably wondering why I’m talking to him.
To be honest, there aren’t that many real possibilities.
Maybe all my worrying is just an attempt to suppress the fear that he might not even want to talk to me at all. He might just get up and leave . . .
He turns toward me, looking surprised but pleased. There’s a gleam in his eyes, and my heart slows down a little. I suddenly feel calmer, and the tension in my shoulders eases.
“Hey.”
“I—” I falter, suddenly at a loss for words. My mind has gone completely blank, and then I blurt out something totally inappropriate. “You didn’t answer.”
He stands up, and he’s so much taller than me that all at once I feel terribly small. Now he’s definitely going to leave. I screwed up again. God, what’s wrong with me?
But he doesn’t. He just puts his phone in his pocket and then fidgets with a bracelet on his wrist that I never noticed before. I haven’t seen it in any videos or photos.
“I know. I’m sorry—”
“You don’t have to apologize,” I say hastily, because he really hasn’t done anything wrong.
I, on the other hand, have messed up a lot.
“I’m sorry I didn’t answer you. I behaved terribly, and I completely understand if you never want to talk to me again.
But if you do still want to be friends, it would mean a lot to me,” I say, too rushed to censor my words.
He laughs softly. It’s a gentle, warm sound, and it sends flashes of heat through my body. Only now do I realize that I’ve never heard him laugh before. I like his laugh, and I want to hear it again. But he quickly becomes serious, and his gaze is so sad that my throat tightens.
“I need to talk to you, Rayne.” He’s saying my name, and again, it sounds different than I imagined. Different in a good way. So good that I get a fluttering sensation in my chest. I think it’s my heart. “It’s not your fault, you don’t have to explain,” he continues.
“Yes, I do.” All at once, it’s shockingly easy to talk to him. “I have to explain a lot of things.” Above all, I have to tell him who I am and why I’ve been so distant over the last few months.
“Okay.” His hand starts to move toward me, and then he pulls it back. Like he wanted to touch me but stopped himself. I feel a twinge of disappointment. But we’re definitely not ready for that yet. We’ve only just started talking to each other.
“Do you have time later?” I ask him. I’m suddenly aware of where we are again, and that we’re not alone. It’s neither the right place nor the right time, especially with everything I want to tell him. Not to mention that my next class starts in a few minutes.
“Yes,” he says, without hesitation.
I breathe a sigh of relief. “Okay, good.”
“Would you like to come over to my place? The guys aren’t there, just my sister. I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t want to. I just thought—” he breaks off, his cheeks turning red. It’s kind of cute that he’s the one blushing now.
“No, that sounds good. I’d love to.”
“Okay, good.” He repeats what I just said, and it’s clear he realizes it because his blush deepens. “I’ll text you the address, okay?”
“Sure. I have to go to another class. See you later.”
“Around eight?”
“Sounds good.”
“See you.” I smile, and it feels almost like it used to. Maybe I haven’t completely forgotten how, after all.
He walks past me toward the door, but before he steps into the hallway, I stop him again. I can’t help it.
“Easton, are we still friends?”
He turns back to me, a crooked, familiar smile on his face that puts butterflies in my stomach.
“Always, Birdy.”