How It Feels to Fly(79)

“Swoony?” There’s a snicker in her voice.

I glare at her. “Confident. Like I actually had a chance at, you know, life. Despite how awful the past few months have been.”

“I hear that. So what, exactly, happened between you two the other night?”

“I, uh. I kissed him.”

“Whoa! Way to make the first move.”

“Yeah, well, it didn’t quite work out the way I wanted.”

“I didn’t say it was a smart move. No offense.”

I take another sip of bitter black coffee. “But I really thought he liked me! He talked to me and he listened and he seemed like he cared about me. He was there for me.”

“That was his job. He did the same thing for me.”

Hearing her say that so casually—it’s like someone’s jabbing an icepick into my sternum. It makes me want to argue with her. “You don’t understand—”

“Okay, tough-love time. Have you heard of this thing called transference?”

I shake my head.

“It’s when you fall for your shrink. It can also be where you treat your shrink like a parent, if you have daddy issues or whatever. But basically, because the person is acting really invested in your life, helping you figure things out, you start to feel like there’s a relationship there. But there’s not. They’re still your shrink.”

I frown. “How do you know about this?”

“My mom had an affair with her therapist a few years ago.” Zoe’s grip on the steering wheel tightens. “If you tell anyone else that, I will murder you.”

“Understood.”

“Granted, the guy was a—” She calls him a few nasty names. “He basically set her up. But that’s the reason my dad took her back after it was all said and done. She said it was transference—that she was getting something from the therapist she wasn’t getting from my dad. One more thing to work out with her next shrink, right?”

I’m still trying to wrap my mind around the concept. “It’s a real thing? People falling for their therapists?”

“Yep.”

“Wow.” I pause. “But Andrew isn’t a therapist.”

“He wants to be. He couldn’t stop talking about his psych classes. How interesting it all is, learning how people’s minds work.”

“Sounds like he talked to you a lot about school stuff. . . .” Once again, I’m a tiny bit jealous.

“I think he was trying to inspire me to find my own passion, once I quit tennis. Spoiler alert: it won’t be psychology. Anyway, does that make you feel better?”

It does—and it doesn’t. I still feel what I feel. I was still rejected by someone I really liked, only a couple weeks after being dumped by my previous boyfriend. I still have to look at every conversation Andrew and I had through a new lens. One that isn’t quite so rose-colored.

“You probably shouldn’t take my word for it. Having a messed-up mother doesn’t make me an expert.” She looks in my direction, changing lanes. “And I mean it: if you tell anyone about my parents, I will hunt you down.”

My phone rings. Both of us jump. Zoe looks at the phone, where I’ve dropped it in the cup holder, like it’s something alive. And vicious. I pick it up with two fingers and check the screen. It’s my mom. I let the call go to voicemail, but it starts ringing again immediately.

“I think they know we’re gone,” I tell Zoe.

“Don’t answer.”

I let it go to voicemail again.

Maybe Zoe can tell I’m wavering, because she says, “So tell me about this ballet camp. Why is it so important?”

I fill her in about summer intensives and year-round programs and apprenticeships and company contracts. That takes some time. Then we sing along to the radio some more. We stop for a quick breakfast, a bathroom break, and more coffee. We talk about our schools and our hometowns. The people we dance and play tennis with. The best movies we saw recently. And we drive, and we drive, and we drive.

I STAND IN front of the building, looking up. It’s all gray stone and mirrored glass, simultaneously imposing and sturdy and sparkling. The way the morning sunlight is hitting the windows, I can’t see in. But I know that the upper floors are all dance studios, built to look out over the city.

Bianca and I auditioned here together back in January. We stood in this spot. We took class in one of those studios. We got consecutive audition numbers so that we’d always dance in the same group. We spurred each other on with our energy and excitement. We calmed each other’s nerves.

Today I have to go it alone.

The anxiety rises up in my stomach. I gulp it back down.

I wish I had time to call Bianca right now. I wish I’d thought to call her from the road. With everything that’s happened since Thursday, I never got a chance to write to her. I pull out my phone and shoot off a text:

Auditioning again in Nashville today. Long story—fill you in later. Wish me luck!

“Are you going in, or do I have to carry you?”

I tuck my phone back into my bag. “I’m going in.”

Zoe nods. “Okay. I don’t really want to sit and wait for you, so I’m gonna walk around. Sightsee, or whatever. Text me when you’re done?”