Lifting a shoulder, Sawyer glanced down at his wrapped ankle. “It’ll heal up all right.”
Jude’s eyes didn’t leave mine. “I was talking about your other ankle.”
Sawyer paused, clearly thrown off guard. “It’s fine,” he answered.
“Do you want it to remain that way?” Jude asked, stepping forward, still watching me. Other than a bruise shadowing his cheekbone, he looked the same. I don’t know what I expected, but it just seemed like a person who’d spent almost a week in prison would come out looking different, and maybe they did, but for someone who’d been to jail a grand total of thirteen times now, it was just another day in the park.
“You’ve got your arm on something of mine,” Jude said, his eyes flashing when he looked at Sawyer.
“I believe that property changed ownership when you left it high and dry curbside.” Sawyer tried to cinch me in closer, but not before I weaved out from under his arm.
Turning on him, I leveled him with my glare before spinning around and giving Jude the same. I had not worked my ass off for the grades I had, or worked tireless summer days waiting tables, or paved my way as a strong woman to be reduced to some object two jealous boys could fight over.
“I am not a piece of property,” I said, lifting my finger at Sawyer. “I am not yours,” I said, before turning around and meeting Jude’s eyes. “And I am not yours.”
Saying that the first time around was infinitely easier, and that pissed the hell out of my parental I-know-what’s-best-for-you psyche. “Now both of you leave me the hell alone.”
I shouldered past Sawyer, shoving the mocha back into his hands—I didn’t want anything from him—before weaving through the crowded hall, trying to calm my heart. For the first time this week, it felt warm.
And I didn’t want to accept the reason why it was because I could feel his eyes on me the entire journey down the hall, and even after I rounded the corner, I could still feel his watchful gaze upon me.
I was tempted to skip first period, I was more tempted to skip the whole day, but I didn’t. I picked myself up by my bootstraps and reminded myself I wasn’t going to let two boys, mainly one boy, reduce me to one of those girls who flushed her life down the toilet. I was strong, I knew how to overcome, and damn it, I was better than that.
However, for where my mind was, I might as well have skipped first period. By the time the bomb siren bell went off, I hadn’t scratched down a single line of notes on Oliver Twist. Oh well, I’d read it two years ago and gotten an A on my synopsis then.
As I gathered up my books, I noticed every other student glancing back at me as they headed out the door. It was enough to put me on alert and more than enough to not want to find out what waited for me on the other side of that doorway.
The classroom had emptied, even Mrs. Peters had left, before I’d worked up the courage to shoulder my bag.
“Hey, Luce.” Jude took a couple steps inside the room, closing the door behind him.
I hated myself for wanting him to come wrap his arms around me and tell me everything was fine, that there was nothing we couldn’t overcome, and that last weekend had been some terrible misunderstanding.
I was a dreamer.
“I’m not talking to you,” I said, trying to walk by him, but he stepped in front of the door.
“And why’s that?”
Glaring up at him, I crossed my arms. “Don’t you pretend like nothing happened. You know why I’m not talking to you now or why I won’t talk to you ever again.”
“Eh, Luce,” he said, leaning against the door, “you’re kind of talking to me right now.”
I wasn’t in the mood to be trifled with, not even by Jude. “I’m not talking, I’m a note below screaming, and I’m only not-quite-shouting at you long enough to let you know I’m finished with whatever that thing was we had,” I said, having no designation to assign what had been ours. “I’m finished.”
Looking down, he searched the ground, stalling. “You’re finished?”
“Yep,” I said, trying to sound like I couldn’t care less.
“Does this have something to do with Diamond?” Fury etched its way into his face.
“No,” I said, trying to shove him away from the door. “It has to do with you.”
“Let me explain,” he said, gripping my arms.
I snapped away from him. “You could explain yourself until you’re blue in the face and there’s nothing you could say that would make me change my mind.”
The muscles in his neck clenched and unclenched. “So you’ve finally decided to take my advice and keep the hell away from me?”
“Finally,” I said, my throat clenching around the word.
He nodded his head, sliding his beanie down over his eyebrows. “Good,” he said. “It’s for the best anyways.”
Just as I was starting to believe my hurt couldn’t ache any more.
“Then I guess there’s nothing else to say,” I said, waving him away from the door.
He didn’t budge. “Yes. Yes, there is,” he said, looking up at me, his eyes the color of pewter. “I still owe you an explanation.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I said, trying to slide past him. “I’ll be on my merry way.”
Jude’s hand flexed over the door handle. “Not before I explain what happened on Saturday.”
I was close to breaking, close to letting him back in. I wasn’t sure if it had something to do with the way his eyes looked lost or the way I felt lost, but I was sure I couldn’t let him back in.
“I don’t need an explanation, Jude!” I said, shouting up at him. “I was there. I got to see the whole thing first hand. As far as I’m concerned, whatever our relationship was is over, and I’m done talking, screaming, and listening to you, so save your breath because I’m done wasting mine on you.” This time when I shoved past him, he didn’t stop me. And still, some part of me wished he would.
Jude shadowed me all day, which meant everyone stared like I was some circus freak and everyone steered clear of me and my six foot two, two hundred pound shadow. He didn’t say anything else, but it was clear he wanted to and it was also clear he was waiting for me to make the first move. I hoped he enjoyed waiting a lifetime.
I snuck out of sixth a few minutes early, racing to my car, exhaling only once I was out of the parking lot and no towering shadow appeared in my rearview mirror. An impossible mountain of things needed to be sorted out, requiring my attention so I could wake up tomorrow with a plan, but I couldn’t sort through that yet.
Only one thing was capable of drowning everything from my mind and, lucky for me, the dance studio was empty when I arrived. It was the same place I’d learned to dance. I’d gone from a tutu twirling toddler to a competent dancer with her sights set on Juilliard all thanks to the work ethic I’d picked up from my father, the grace my mom swore I got from her side of the family, and the saint-like patience of Madame Fontaine.
She opened the studio thirty years ago, turning a condemned building in the historic district into the most celebrated studio in the area. It wasn’t anything fancy, nor did she take on a lot of students, but Madame Fontaine had turned out more prima donnas than all of eastern Europe. She was a legend in the dance world, well known for her chew ‘em up and spit ‘em out attitude, but to me, she was a saint.
She was the only person I could talk to during a time in my life when no one else was capable of talking. She helped me find the light in any dark and threatened me with life and limb when I told her I was contemplating quitting dance. Only because I feared she was serious, I stuck with it, working through the pain, and soon found dance was not only masking the pain, but healing it. Dance saved me in ways my parents, doctors, and even I couldn’t.