If Ever(15)

"What happened?" Hank leans over with his hands on his knees and peers at my ankle. The strap of my shoe is getting tight. I reach forward to loosen it, but Dominic brushes my hands away and deftly unbuckles and removes the torturous shoe.

"You know me, tripping on air."

Hank nods as if that makes total sense.

"Oh my God, girl. What happened to your feet?" Dominic frowns at my bruised feet with the missing toenails. Sonya and Hank lean over the camera guy's shoulder for a closer look.

"I told you my feet hurt."

Dominic rubs his forehead and looks away.

"I've been bitchin' about my bunions," Hank says. "I don't know how you dance with those mangled feet."

Sonya pushes closer. "Oh, honey. You need to tape your feet. I'll show you how."

"First can we deal with her ankle?" Dominic interrupts. "How does it feel now?" He slides an ice pack under my ankle and carefully lays another on top.

"It doesn't hurt like before." I slowly point my foot and then carefully rotate it. "Should I try to walk on it?"

"No!" Dominic glances over my head at the producer then shakes his head. "We better have a doctor take a look."

With a groan I close my eyes. I'm finally having a good time and now I might be out because of a stupid injury.

"You'll be good as gold and hoofing it again before you know it," Hank predicts. "If it were bad, you'd be begging for Percocet and a stiff drink."

I shoot him a smile and hope he's right.

Sonya pats my shoulder. "Hank is right. It's probably just a mild sprain. Don't sweat it."

"Thanks." This is the first time one of the pros has gone out of their way to be nice to me.

Together they help me to Dominic's car, and he drives me to an urgent care clinic. After a whole lot of waiting around, some poking, and images captured of my ankle; it's deemed a mild sprain. With my ankle wrapped and iced, Dominic delivers me home with take-out tacos and a bottle of high-powered meds to keep the inflammation down.

"I can stay, it's no trouble," he offers again, setting down a glass of ice water.

"Dominic, I'm fine. I'm allowed to put weight on it." All I want is to be alone and wallow in my uncoordinated misery.

"But don't!" He puts his hand out.

"Relax. You set me up with everything I need. I'll only get off the couch to go to bed. I promise. Go home to your girlfriend." There are meds, ice packs, and my laptop all within an arm's reach.

"All right. Call me in the morning and let me know how it feels."

"The doctor said I'll be okay to dance if I take it super easy for the next day or so."

"Be sure to follow the directions on icing and meds. Promise?"

I grin. "Promise."

"I'll see if I can get you out of heels for a while."

After he leaves, I imagine all the other contestants being showered with the love of their families at next week's show. I polish off three beef tacos before calling Anna to whine about my bad luck. After her pep talk, I decide to be positive and believe Dominic and I still have a chance.

I start wracking my brain for a song to use as my celebrity choice. With my ankle cradled by a bag of frozen peas, I scroll through the play lists on my phone and Youtube videos on my laptop.

And then I find my song. It's obscure. Likely no one will have heard of it, but I watch the video over and over like I did when my college roommate showed me TV shows from her semester abroad in England. The British guy singing performs with so much angst and emotional pain that I'm mesmerized all over again. If ever there were an anthem of my life, this is it. Dominic will probably hate the song and fight me to pick something else. But I love it. When I hop my way to bed that night, I dream of the haunting melody and lyrics.





Dominic lets me sleep in and picks me up around eleven for a short rehearsal. My ankle is sore, but doesn't hurt if I walk slowly. Still, I don't want to do anything to jar it and make it worse, nor does he. I've brought my laptop to show him the video of my song choice. I wanted him to see it before our producer and camera guy showed up, but they're already here and ready to go.

Dominic and I sit on the floor and lean against the wall as I cue up the video. "It's probably a lot different than what anyone else will have," I say.

"That's usually a good thing. Who's it by?"

"His name is Thomas Evan Oliver."

Dominic's brow furrows. "Never heard of him."

I laugh nervously, because I really want Dominic to like my choice. "He's from England. This video's a few years old. I looked him up last night and found out he went to New York after that to perform on Broadway." I don't mention that I spent hours watching videos of him, including one of him performing solo on the Tony awards earlier this year.

I click play and slide my laptop between us. The song begins with the actor singing to his stern-faced father in an empty theatre.

Dominic glances at me with doubt.

"Please, just give it a chance."

He turns up the volume and watches. I keep quiet, praying he doesn't hate it. When the song ends he glances at me and hits replay. This time he closes his eyes and listens to the music, like he's imagining the choreography. I watch the singer lose himself in the emotion of the melody and lyrics, just as Dominic keeps trying to get me to lose myself in our dances. For me, this song is the heart-wrenching story of my life, and even though I've watched it dozens of times, it's hard to peel my eyes away from the screen.