Fading (26 page)

Yesterday, he had some free time before he had to go to the bar, so we met up for an early dinner at a sushi-go-round restaurant near my house. While we were eating, we made plans to go running again when I get off work today. So, I am quickly finishing up my end-of-shift routine so I can change before he gets here.

It's been a busy morning today, and I haven't had much time to stand around and think, which is good because I feel like I have been thinking too much lately. Jase told me to relax a bit, and that's what I am trying to do. I'm texting and hanging out with Ryan the way I would with any friend. But I'd be lying if I said that there wasn't something about him that intrigues me. Lately, I've been having that fluttering feeling in my stomach when he's around. I haven't had a relationship with a guy since high school, and I'm not sure that one even qualified.

I don't feel right even thinking about this. How can I? Plus, who would even want me if they even knew who I really was? I'm still a mess, and that damn bell above the front door reminds me of it every time someone opens it.

Jase brought up calling the detective the other day. He has never mentioned it before, but he said he never wanted to because he knew I wasn't ready. I'm not sure why he thinks I'm ready now. I'm not. I don't want to be. All I want is to lock that horrific memory up and burn it to ashes, not be forced to relive it over and over for others to hear. I told Jase to drop it, told him it would never happen, so he didn't say another word about it.

"Hey Roxy, I'm gonna go to the back to restock a few things before I leave, okay?"

"Yeah, thanks," she says over the hissing of the steamer.

I grab a box cutter and start opening boxes of flavored syrups and stocking the shelves. When I move on to the sugar boxes, I see Roxy come through the door with a huge smile on her face.

"So, that hot-ass guy is back and asking for you."

Sitting on the floor, surrounded by scraps of cardboard boxes, I say, "His name is Ryan."

"Well then, that hot-ass guy, Ryan, is here for you," she says teasingly with her hands on her hips.

"Thanks. Can you tell him to give me ten minutes?"

"You guys have a date or something?"

Standing up, I say, "What? No! He's just a friend."

"Mmm hmm." Roxy turns on her heel to walk back out to the front, and I pick up my bag and go to the bathroom to change into my running clothes.

When I walk out, Ryan is chatting with Roxy. He looks up at me as I'm walking over to him and says, "Hey."

"What are you guys talking about?"

"Your friend, Ryan, was asking about my tattoos." I silently thank her for leaving out the
hot-ass
part.

Ryan takes a step towards me and asks, "You ready?"

"Yeah, I just need to put my bag in my car."

Reaching out, he takes the bag out of my hand and starts walking to my car. I say 'bye' to Roxy as I follow him out.

I zip my keys up in the pocket of my running jacket, and we take off for our run from the parking lot. We head around the perimeter of campus before making our way through a few neighborhoods. I am mostly quiet as I listen to Ryan talk about work and the new bands that have been playing there during the week. Turns out that we pretty much have the same taste in music, and I find his reaction funny each time he discovers I like another one of his favorite bands.

We start making our way through some streets we haven't gone down before. I follow him and keep my pace by his side. My throat is beginning to dry out when I realize that neither of us brought any water, and I know we've already run at least three miles. I am more quiet than normal, and I'm sure Ryan notices when he turns his head and asks, "You okay?"

"I'm thirsty. We forgot water."

"No worries," he says as he picks up the pace, and we turn down another unfamiliar street.

I don't have time to question him when he slows down and starts walking up a driveway to a three-story building.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting you some water. Come on," he says while nodding his head toward the building.

I walk a few steps behind him, and he pulls out a key fob from his pocket. When he clicks the button, the garage begins to open.

"Do you own this building or something?" I ask.

Ryan turns back to look at me and grins. "This is my loft. I live here."

"Oh," I mumble, but I stop following him, not really wanting to go into his home. I try hard to control the anxiety that begin to race through me. I have been spending a lot of time with him and feel like he is trustworthy, but I can't seem to shake my nerves right now.

He motions for me to come, and I don't want him to think I'm some sort of basket case, so I swallow back my apprehension and follow him into the garage to the staircase leading up to the loft.

When we reach the top of the stairs, he unlocks the door, and we head inside to the large open space. The main room is completely open with a large kitchen along the back wall of exposed brick. The finishes in the kitchen are industrial and sleek, and two of the walls are lined with floor to ceiling windows. There are exposed beams on the ceiling, and the wooden floors are a rich wide-planked espresso. I wonder how he came to own a place like this; the square footage alone would cost a fortune.

"Here you go," he says as he walks back to me and hands me a bottle of water.

I take a sip and say, "This is a great place. How long have you lived here?"

"About five years."

He pulls his cell phone out of his jacket when it begins to ring. I can tell it's something about work when he starts talking. Telling the person on the other end to hang on, he puts the phone down to his side and tells me, "Make yourself comfortable. I need to take this call really quick. I'll only be a few minutes, okay?"

I nod my head, and he walks down the hall and into one of the rooms. I stand there in the middle of his house, not sure what to do. As I drink my water, I make my way over to Ryan's living room. It's filled with overstuffed furniture and a TV that is mounted to the wall above a large fireplace. I walk over to one of the windows near the corner of the room. I accidentally kick a stack of books, and when I bend down to straighten them back up, I see several large black photo mats. Leaning down, I flip one over and look at the beautiful black and white photograph that is a close-up of the curve of a woman's bare back. The lighting of the photo is exquisite.

I kneel down to flip through the others when I hear him walk back into the room. Before I can stand up he is at my side. I look up at him and say, "I'm sorry." Setting the photos back where they were, I stand up and he asks, "For what?"

"I wasn't snooping or anything, I just noticed these and was curious."

"Candace, I have nothing to hide. I told you to make yourself comfortable, and I meant it." He steps aside, sits down in one of the large, overstuffed chairs, and takes a swig of his water.

"Where did you get those?" I ask, referring to the photos.

"They're mine," he says.

"Yours?"

"Yeah. Sometimes I get bored and like to mess around with my camera," he says casually.

"That's pretty amazing for just messing around. You only shoot people?"

"For the most part, yeah," he says as he gets up from his seat and walks over to me by the window. He picks up the picture of the woman's back and looks at it as if he hasn't seen it in a long time.

"She a model?" I ask about the woman in the photo.

"No, just some chick I used to know." He sets down the photo and walks to the couch while motioning for me to join him.

I walk over, sit down next to him, and ask, "So, when did you get into photography?"

"When I was in college I took some art classes. So, one day I just decided to buy a camera and started taking pictures. Like I said, I pretty much have no clue what I'm doing. Just a little hobby of mine I mess around with every now and then."

"You ever do anything with them?"

"No."

"Maybe you should," I say, and he turns to look at me and repeats my words back to me quietly, "Maybe I should."

"You sure you don't want to come out to the bar tonight to see Mark play?" he asks.

"I told you, I have to work."

"I just picked you up from work."

"I know, but I have to go back. One of the girls quit and Roxy hasn't hired anyone to replace her, so I've been picking up extra shifts," I explain. "Plus, I'd probably be tired and no fun to be around."

"I can't imagine it not being fun to be around you," he says as he looks at me intently, and I begin to feel uncomfortable with his words. "You ready to finish the run?"

A smile crosses his face when he stands up and reaches out his hand to me. I sit there for a beat before I hesitantly place my hand in his. When I do, he gives me a slight tug and pulls me off the couch. He never lets go of my hand as he locks up and we walk down the stairs and out to the driveway. This closeness has my nerves twisted up, and I'm sure he can feel sweat on my hand. As we walk out to the street, hands still connected, he asks, "Wanna make it a long run, or are you ready to head back?"

I take a hard swallow before saying, "Long."

He gives me a squeeze before he unwraps his fingers from around my hand, and we begin to run.

School has been really busy. It's the last week of classes before finals. Aside from work, I have been buried in my books and getting everything wrapped up before the quarter ends. I'm going into all my finals with perfect grades, so I am sure I will still be able to maintain my four point GPA.

I did manage to meet up with Ryan Thursday morning for our run. I was starting to get really stressed out, so the run was just what I needed. Ryan was considerate and let me ramble on and on the whole time about my classes and everything that I needed to do to make sure I was ready for my exams.

But now that classes are officially over until January, I can start to wind down a bit. I only have three finals next week and a studio final. Everyone has learned the same routine, and we will perform in groups of four for our final grading. I have the dance memorized and perfected, so today when I go to the studio, I plan to just work on my solo. Ms. Emerson will be meeting me up there in a little bit to critique what I have so far. I am surprised that she offered to do this for me since she never gives anyone private instruction. So when she offered, I immediately said yes.

Ryan said he would meet me at the studio around four o'clock to grab a coffee before he has to go into work. I shoot him a quick text as I am heading out.

Leaving now. See you in two hours?

I'll meet you in the parking lot.

OK, catch you later.

When I arrive at the studio, Ms. Emerson is already there waiting for me.

"Hi, I hope you weren't waiting long," I say when I walk in and set my bag down.

Walking over to the stereo, she says, "Not at all. I just got here. Did you stretch at home?"

"Yes, but I need to warm my muscles up a little more." The cold temperatures make it hard to keep my muscles loose, so after my pointes are on, I slide on some leg warmers and loose long pants.

"Well then, let's do a little floor work before we begin." She flips on the music, and she joins me in the center of the room as we do a few adagio combinations.

I have never danced alone alongside Ms. Emerson. She is as focused as I am on arm placements and bodylines. We move gracefully together through the movements and repeat the combination a few more times before she asks for my music. I hand her the disc, and she gets the music set up as I take my spot on the floor in fifth position. When I hear the strings, I slowly relevè on my pointes and begin a series of chainès across the floor. I continue through my choreography, and when I get to the peak of my developè, I begin spotting my head as I go into a variation series of fouettès. I hear Ms. Emerson beating the counts by loudly clapping her hands. When I come to the end, all she says is, "Again." She clicks the remote, and the music cues back up.

I repeat my steps, and I focus in on the movements as I hear: "I need more, Candace...Hit that position, and hold!"
CLAP CLAP CLAP
"Piquè! Piquè! Come on! I need more from you!" I hear her stern voice through the loud music and follow her commands. When I come to the end, she repeats, "Again."