Brutal Obsession (35)

I drop the phone, and Willow cringes.

“I didn’t know,” she says. “I just saw them together that one time, the first night you got back.”

“It’s fine. It’s not like I’m on the dance team anymore.” Oh, fuck. I bolt upright and grab at Willow’s hand. “My mother texted me last night. She said Mia Germain, the director of the Crown Point Ballet, contacted her.”

“Bitch!” Willow squeals. She sits up, too. “What the hell? You waited until right now to tell me?”

“I’m sorry, I forgot! A lot went on last night.” I laugh and grab my phone, scooting back to sit against my headboard.

Willow sits up, too, and hunches toward me.

I dial Mia’s number, and I hold my breath. I put it on speaker to put Willow out of her misery. Otherwise, I’d just have to repeat the whole conversation back to her.

It rings twice, then clicks as it’s picked up. “Ms. Germain’s line, this is Sylvie. Can I help you?”

“Hi, Sylvie,” I say. God, my palms are sweating. “This is Violet Reece. My mother contacted me saying Mia reached out…”

“Oh, hi, Violet.” Sylvie’s voice turns cheerful. “Let me patch you through. One moment.”

There’s a dial tone, and then it rings again. Willow grips my hand hard.

She knows how much this could mean. I don’t have any hope of them taking me back—I mean, not like I am. But maybe there’s a chance. Or… an opportunity to work with her in another manner. Or something.

“Good morning, Violet!” Mia’s warm voice comes through my phone. “I tried your old number, but it seemed you changed it. I apologize that I had to go through your mother. How are you doing?”

I had to change my number after the crash. I kept getting weird texts and calls from random numbers, making it impossible to block them all. Not to mention I lost my phone in the accident—it was smashed beyond repair. The phone company was able to transfer some of my old pictures and contacts, but I lost at least a week of data. So changing my number a week or so after that didn’t seem like that big of a deal. In the grand scheme of things.

“I’m good, thank you. How are you?” I always feel formal around her, even when she told me last year to call her Mia instead of Ms. Germain—what I’d called her for the past five years previous to that. It’s not stiffness in my voice, exactly. More like… I respect her too much to be casual.

“Good, good. Listen, your mother explained the situation with the doctor.” Her voice drops, and a door in the background closes. “I’m so sorry to hear about your leg. However, I have a relationship with some of our own physicians, and I was wondering if you’d like them to take a look? They know the particular strain a dancer puts on her legs.”

My heart leaps into my throat. “Oh, I’d—”

“I’m in New York for the next week to secure sponsors. We’re finishing with Swan Lake next month and opening auditions for Sleeping Beauty a few months after that.” She pauses. “If you’re able and cleared by our doctors, I’d like to see you audition. To see if we have a role for you.”

“Wow. Honestly, I didn’t expect…” A lump forms in my throat. “Sorry. Thank you.”

It’s my turn to grip Willow’s hand like my life depends on it. She leans into me, silent support, as my eyes burn with tears.

I can’t lose it now. “They told me it was impossible with the pain.”

Mia exhales. “I’ll be honest with you, Violet. It very well could be. However, your mother mentioned that the orthopedic surgeon you saw was one of the best in the country, but the doctors on your team weren’t versed in dancers. Do you want to hang up your pointe shoes on one opinion?”

“I don’t,” I answer. In a fucking heartbeat.

“Good. Dr. Michaels practices in Vermont. Let’s meet with him in two weeks and go from there. Okay?”

“Okay. Thank you.” I hang up and drop my phone, then promptly burst into tears.

Holy shit.

I’m not ready—and I need to be. I need to prove that, in a month, I can get back into some semblance of fitness. I have a feeling they’d be a little generous, coming off an injury, but not that much.

And everything rides on this.

Willow throws her arms around my shoulders, squeezing me tight. “You can do this,” she whispers in my ear. Just a secret passing between us. “I’ll help you. Whatever you need to chase your dream.”

I hug her back and close my eyes. There’s a weird giddiness in my chest, separate from the emotions I’ve been holding on to for the last six months. The grief of losing dance isn’t gone, per se. But maybe it doesn’t have to be forever.

“Call your mom,” Willow urges. “She’s going to have something bratty to say, but she’ll be happy for you.”

I hesitate. “Yeah, but then she’ll want to come up here. You know, visit. Or worse, try to attend the appointment and taint it. Or she’ll try to make sure I’m eating well.”

I give her a look. Not too long ago—I think it was our freshman year—my mom noticed I had put on a little weight on a video chat. Nothing crazy. In her words, my face seemed wider. So she rushed up and got rid of all the sugar in our apartment.