Total pages in book: 166
Estimated words: 157273 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 157273 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 786(@200wpm)___ 629(@250wpm)___ 524(@300wpm)
Stab. Push. Pull. I stitched as if the thread could hold closed the decade-old wound of grief that never quite healed.
Bad ankle be damned, everything tonight had to be perfect.
Mom was coming, and the flaws would be all she remembered from the performance. My hand trembled, and the needle poked through the fabric and bit the tip of my finger. I swore at the sharp sting, whipped the digit to my mouth on instinct, then checked for damage. Thankfully, the skin was insulted but not broken.
Everything in my life had led up to this moment. Every hour at the barre. Every broken toenail—and toe, every month of rehab after the accident, even the tendinitis that never seemed to actually heal. For this role on this stage with this company, I’d sacrificed my body, my time, my mental health, and any semblance of a normal relationship with the very woman I was desperate to make proud tonight.
I’d sacrificed him. A familiar ache pulsed in time with my heartbeat, far more painful than the needle’s bite. Or had he sacrificed me? My hand paused.
“You all right over there?”
The music muffled Eva’s question, so I popped out an earbud and looked over my shoulder at where she sat perched on the only chair in my dressing room. My little sister’s sharp brown eyes locked with mine in the vanity mirror as she lifted her lip liner mid-application.
“Allie?” She arched a painted eyebrow. Eva may have looked like the sweetest of us with her heart-shaped face, dainty features, and round eyes that could feign innocence with startling plausibility, but she was the quickest of the Rousseau sisters to strike when wounded . . . or just inconvenienced.
It was only fitting that she looked the most like our mother, seeing as Mom had a talent for drawing first blood.
“I’m fine.” I presented a polished smile. Fixating on Mom right now wasn’t an option. If I did, my heart would race, my breathing would falter, and my throat would close up like . . .
Crap. Arching my neck, I swallowed the growing knot in my throat.
Like that. I breathed in through my nose and out through my mouth to dispel the knot and quell the rising tide of nausea that always gripped my stomach before performances. It felt like a tsunami tonight.
Eva’s eyes narrowed slightly in the mirror. “Why don’t I believe you?”
Like hell was I giving her any reason to worry about me, not during her first performance as a company dancer. I knew of at least four other pairs of sisters who danced in the same companies across the United States, but we were definitely the only ones in the Metropolitan Ballet Company.
But there should have been three of us.
“Nothing to stress about.” I turned my attention back to my shoe, leaving the left earbud beside me on the soft gray blanket as the orchestra moved into the variation in the right. Push. Pull. Focusing on the methodical movement of needle and thread, I went over the variation’s choreography in my head. It was one of my all-time favorites—not that favoritism made it any easier to perform.
There. That was the instant adrenaline had stopped masking the pain in my ankle last night during dress rehearsal, causing me to hesitate and lose rhythm. I was pushing too hard, but the role demanded it.
“How’s the Achilles?” Eva asked like she could read my mind.
“Fine.” Any other answer would have Eva running to Vasily within seconds, in the name of sisterly concern.
“Liar,” she muttered, rustling through her makeup bag, her movements becoming increasingly agitated. “Where is it?”
Pull. With one ear open, I could hear the music blending with the soft click of Eva’s makeup brushes on the counter, the rustle of my warm-up pants as I shifted positions slightly, and the hum of the space heater in the corner of my dressing room, which warded off the late-January chill that had taken up residence backstage at the Metropolitan Opera House.
“Where the hell is my lucky lipstick?” Eva’s voice pitched toward the roof.
“Check my bag.”
“You don’t wear Ruthless Red!” That bordered on shrill.
“No, but you do.” I glanced back at her. “And I love you.”
Her shoulders dipped. “And you knew I’d lose mine.” She let go of her makeup bag and reached for mine, a corner of her mouth rising.
“And I knew you’d lose yours.” I nodded.
“Thank you.” Her relief was almost palpable.
Lacey knocked gently on the doorframe, clutching her favorite clipboard, and I took out my other earbud, losing the music entirely.
“Thirty minutes to places,” Lacey informed us. “Oh, and your sister is—”
“Right here,” Anne interrupted, leaning into the open doorway with the wide, easy smile she’d inherited from our dad, along with his hazel eyes and the golden brown curls she’d pinned into a sophisticated updo. Eva and I favored our mother in the hair department, with strands darker than any espresso I’d ever seen brewed, and while Eva’s were pin straight, my waves could only be tamed by a bagful of products and regular maintenance at the salon. Anne’s curls always seemed so effortlessly perfect.