Brutal Obsession (60)

I imagine my mother walking away from me, leaving bits and pieces in her wake. I’m the thing she keeps trying to leave behind, and something keeps picking me up and returning me to her. Only to be set down again.

It’s okay—I can take her hint. She doesn’t return my phone calls, she only calls or texts me when she absolutely has to. Like with Mia. And the newspaper article.

“Besides,” Mia adds, “walking would suck.”

I choke on my laugh. She’s got a point. She gestures to her car, and I slip into the passenger seat. She pulls away from the curb, and we’re well on our way before she glances over at me.

“You know I broke my ankle?”

I start. “What? When?”

“My prima ballerina years. I was nineteen and voracious. At a particularly brutal rehearsal—in which I was chasing my dreams and cast as principal—I took a bad leap. I landed wrong, and the thing snapped under my weight.” She goes quiet.

We’ve all heard horror stories of that happening, but I didn’t realize it had happened to her.

“I was out for a year.” She peeks at me. “I wanted it so badly. I went through three surgeries before my ankle was able to hold up. Now, I’m not advising that. I’m just saying, it might be a no for now—but because of something that could get better. Not because of the accident that broke your leg.”

I nod once and fix my gaze on the side window. Vermont is very pretty. There’s more snow covering the ground here, and most of the pine trees are lush, dark green. I can see why, of all the places, a specialist orthopedic surgeon chose to come here.

“It’ll be okay,” Mia says again. “You looked nervous about the insurance. Are you?”

“Mom and I aren’t in the best place right now.” I sigh. “If she finds out, then it’ll be a nightmare. And since I’m on her insurance…”

“You’re doing this yourself.”

“Yes.”

She nods, then glances at the folded paper in my grip. “I got you this appointment, and I didn’t realize your situation with your mother. Let me take care of this one. I can’t do the rest—I have limited funding for the ballet—but this? For you? No question.”

She holds out her hand for the bill.

I stare at her. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to. I want you to dance again, Violet. I think it would be a damn shame if the world never saw you on a stage again. Think about telling your mother about the water therapy. Get the nerve pain under control. I’m sure some of it would be covered by her insurance.”

An ache fills my chest. So tight, I don’t know what to say for a long moment. But slowly, I extend the paper toward her. She takes it, reads the total, and nods to herself. She stashes it in her cupholder.

“Promise me one more thing.” She grins. “When you’re back on your feet, call me.”

I nod and climb out of the car in front of the hotel. I lean down once I’m out and meet her gaze. “Thank you for everything.”

She frowns. “This feels like a goodbye.”

“It is for the next six weeks. Maybe more. Who knows if I’ll be good enough by then. Maybe I’ll need another six, or eight, or twelve to get back in dancing shape.”

Bitter. I’m so fucking bitter, I taste it on my tongue like ash.

“We’ll get you there,” she says.

I close her door and turn away. The damn lump is back in my throat, cutting off my words, and the backs of my eyes burn. I make it into the hotel, get my key card after giving the receptionist my name, and trudge upstairs.

The game started fifteen minutes ago, which means I should be alone. Thankfully. I swipe the card and trudge inside. The room is nicer than I thought it would be. Two queen beds, the drapes pulled back to reveal a beautiful view of the ski mountain.

I text Willow to let her know I’m back and contemplating crashing.

Willow



There’s a sky bridge on the third floor that will take you to the stadium. Paris is taking attendance and has already asked where you are.





I groan and turn right back around.

Five minutes later, I’m in the stadium. Luckily, Willow waits for me right on the other side of the booths, and she hands the guy my ticket. I smile at her as he allows me through.

“How was it?” she asks. “Did he tell you anything good?”

My smile wobbles. I don’t know whether to feel hopeful or defeated. Right now, the two emotions are warring in my head—and defeat is winning.

“Oh, no.” She stops us. “Do you need a hug? Or a distraction? Or—”

“Distraction,” I manage. “Definitely a distraction.”

She nods. “Okay, well, let’s go watch the Hawks kick some Knights’ ass, right?” She lets out a loud whoop, drawing some stares.

The Knights are red and white, and the attendees all wear those colors. We work our way around the outside of the stadium, passing kiosks selling popcorn, beer, ice cream.

“Wow,” I mutter. “We got the good view in our room, huh?”

She shakes her head. “This town is crazy for hockey.”

I don’t bother to acknowledge that Crown Point is, too. We just hide our crazy a little better.