Chapter 37

Thirty-Seven

SARA

As I flickedthe dance studio lights on, the room sparkled to life. It was Wednesday and my second night there—alone. The first night hadn’t gone quite as I’d expected. I’d foolishly hoped that by simply strapping on my old dance warmups, I would glide through the dance floor, twirling, bending, and rolling as if I never stepped off the stage. Yeah, well, I should have known better. Reality hit me hard when I tried my first leap and fell flat on my ass. Luckily, it hadn’t been my face.

I deserved it.

Years of training taught me that even a couple of weeks, or just days, without dancing or working my muscles, affected my ability to move. Seemed four years absent of dance hadn’t only affected my skills, but also my brain.

Even after rigorous stretching, I was stiff as a board. I had no depth of reach, no straight lines. Aghast, I stared at my winded and sweaty self in the wall mirror and nearly wept. Defeat was not something I took lightly, and right about then, I was feeling pretty beaten. Yep, I was no longer the polished dancer who took people’s breath away.

Once upon a time, I could dance with my eyes closed.

Now look at me.

I wasn’t completely delusional. I knew my skills weren’t going to make a comeback out of nowhere. Still, the harsh reality of how badly out of shape I was broke my morale. Crushed it. All my years of training lay by the wayside. I’d been reduced to a beginner. It was a brutal truth that ripped through my soul.

I was beyond rusty.

I was appalling.

Last night, I’d grabbed my things and stormed out of there, ready to give up again.

Tonight, I was determined not to. Fierce determination coursed through my blood. I wasn’t doing this for me. It was for my mom. Last night had been about reminiscing, but this was the start of something different, and I refused to be weighed down by my past.

As it’d always been, I began by focusing on my reflection.

Wearing black, form-fitting stretch shorts and matching midriff shirt, I imagined a new routine forming behind me. I saw a specter of myself, gliding across the dance floor. A pirouette here, a grand jeté there, maybe even a pas de chat. I carefully calculated and recorded every movement to memory until it felt as real as if I had danced it. I plugged the headphones into my ears and let the routine take over my body.

The long stretches helped, but they hadn’t been enough. My legs no longer reached beyond my waistline. Pointing my toes triggered constricting tentacles around my calves, excruciating cramps that dropped me to the floor in seconds. The imagined routine dissolved into a discombobulated mess. I felt the music in my veins. I heard the beats pumping with my heart. I knew what I wanted to do, but my body simply did not respond.

The perfectionist in me couldn’t handle the failure. I didn’t want to do something unless I knew I could excel at it. Dancing had been no different than breathing. I’d never struggled so much to accomplish one roll. Everything now took too much effort.

Maybe it’s too late for me.

After several more floundering attempts at a weightless land from a leap, I called it a night. My ass was bruised and my legs were sore. Tomorrow would be another day. I threw my sweat suit over my dance clothes, grabbed my bag, and left.

Before shutting off the lights, a chill ran down my spine. A shadow moved and disappeared through the back door of the studio. My blood iced. Rather than go inspect, I exited the studio through the entrance behind me and hurried home.