The Game Series (51 page)

It means the dream. The light.

And, I realize as I get up and grab my ballet clothes, fingering the leotard, it means I fought the urge.

I beat the blood.

~

I stand in
arabesque en pointe
in front of Blake. He wraps an arm around my waist just below my ribs, and his other goes around my leg above my knee. Slowly, he tilts me downward, bending one of his knees, and I bend my standing leg into a parallel
passé
. My core muscles are tight, my back arched, and my gaze is drawn upwards to meet his.

He smiles, and I return it. He holds me there for a minute, his hands warm on my body, his eyes never wavering from mine, before he easily lifts me upright and back onto
pointe.

“Lifting you is like lifting a feather,” he comments. “It’s hard to believe you have enough muscle in your tiny little body to hold yourself in that position for that long so easily.”

I lower my feet back into first position, my smile still playing on my lips. “Surprise.”

“Indeed. Shall we try the first few steps? See if it works?”

I nod. “Sure.”

Blake steps up to my side and places a hand on my stomach. The fingers of his other hand slide across my back and curl around my waist, raising with me as I move back
en pointe.
I try to hide the tensing of my body at his touch, try to hide the irrational sliver of fear snaking through my body.

Slowly, he begins to walk around me, moving me around, performing our opening
promenade.
As we spin, I move my arms into third position and bring my right foot extended just in front of my left knee in the
attitude
position. My eyes are focused directly in front of me, but I know Blake’s steps are precise and at exact intervals. I also know he’s doing it as easily as he breathes. We’re the same in that dancing is almost unconscious for us both. It just happens.

We move into the rest of our
entrée
, dancing together as if we’ve done so our whole lives. The familiar feeling of letting go comes over me, and I close my eyes, losing myself in our movements both alone and together. Now, Blake’s touch is no longer threatening. It doesn’t scare me, not when the moves are all I can feel.

The moment ends too soon, and I come crashing back down to reality. My ankle throbs as if to remind me of what life really is and my chest tightens. I take a long, deep breath and try to remind myself that I’m safe. That this is ballet. That Blake won’t hurt me – that he can’t hurt me here. That no-one can.

But it doesn’t work. The panic rises in my chest, a tiny ball of it swelling and pulsing until it consumes my core, twisting and turning in my stomach. My deep breaths become short and sharp, my eyes burn with tears and my hands shake uncontrollably. Blood pounds through my body, strengthening the throb at my ankle, rushing to every part of my body scarred by my past.

Each scar burns. Each breath is harsh. Each blink drops a tear.

“Abbi.” Hands frame my face. Soft, delicate hands. “Abbi. Come back, honey. Breathe… No, no. Slowly. In… One, two, three… And back out. That’s it. And again. In… Two, three… Out… In… One, two, three.”

Bianca’s voice cuts through the fog swirling in my mind. Her hands against my cheeks ground me and slowly pull me out of myself, bringing me back to right now. Stopping me falling further into my past.

I look at her through blurry eyes. She smiles, dropping her hands to mine and bringing them together. She places my left wrist to my right fingers.

“Feel. Remember,” she whispers. “You’re still alive – you’re still here.”

I do. I slip my fingers inside my sleeve and press the pads of them to my pulse point harshly. My pulse thuds against them, lightning fast, and I count five beats of my heart for every breath I take, reducing the beats until both have settled to normal again. Bianca hands me a tissue, and I dab under my eyes, realizing we’re sitting in her office.

“Bad day?” She strokes my hair from my face.

I nod. “Really bad. I thought maybe tonight would help, but for the first time, I was wrong.”

“What started it?”

“I… I don’t know,” I answer softly, looking out of the small window behind her desk. “I haven’t had an attack in weeks. I usually notice when they’re coming and I can fight them, but this one just hit me. It came on so suddenly I didn’t even realize until it was too late.”

Bianca nods slowly. “Call Dr. Hausen and speak to her about it, Abbi. I know you don’t want to, but you need to figure out why it happened and why you couldn’t stop it.”

“I know.” I pull my gaze back to her. “Can I leave early? Please?”

She takes my hand. “Of course you can.”

I call Dad and ask him to come and get me when she leaves the room. Time seems to drag as I wait for his message that he’s outside. When it comes, I grab my things Bianca brought in for me and leave the studio. Dad asks me no questions as I silently climb in the back seat, bring my knees to my chest and hug them. I lean my head on the top of my knees and look out of the car window as he pulls away from the red-brick building.

I can’t remember the last time I felt as out of control as I did today.

“Fuck it!” I drop the spoon for the fifth time tonight.

“You wash your damn hands with butter before you got here or what, kid?” Joe hollers.

“Might as well have,” I grumble, bending to pick it up. I throw it in the sink and take another clean one from the rack. My pan on the hob starts to bubble frantically, and I rush over to the cooker to find the rice I was cooking boiling over.

“
Shiiiiiit
,” I hiss, turning the gas off and taking the handle of the pan. I empty it into a colander in the sink and look at the bottom of the pan. There’s half an inch of rice stuck to the bottom, and my body deflates. I knock my head against the standing fridge next to the sink.

Hard.

Joe puts a hand on my shoulder. “Look, Blake, I don’t know what’s going on with you tonight, but perhaps it’s best if you leave early. We’re quiet for a Friday and you’d be taking off in an hour anyway.”

“No.” I shake my head, grabbing a scouring pad to clean out the pan. “I’m good, Chef. Really. I’ll finish out my shift.”

“Son.” He squeezes my shoulder. “Go home. No good you being here and beating yourself up every time you make a mistake. Get yourself a good nights’ sleep and come in here tomorrow for your lunch shift, alright?”

I sigh, drop the scourer, and nod. “Got it.”

He pats my back a few times and disappears back into the main kitchen area, yelling at Matt. I pull off my chef clothes and shove them in my bag, leaving the stifling building in record time.

There’s a chill in the evening air when I step outside, and I breathe in deeply and gratefully. My steps are slow and lazy as I make my way home, my head somewhere up in the clouds. The waning light doesn’t bother me as I trundle through Brooklyn’s streets. I notice nothing and nobody around me.

All I can think of is a pair of blue eyes, wide and frantic. All I can focus on is the fear and confusion that glazed them over, clouding them until they were barely recognizable. All I care about is that she’s okay.

My craziness is made worse because she wasn’t in class yesterday. Because Bianca just shook her head with a hint of sadness when I asked where she was. Because somewhere in the back of my mind, I recognize the fear that shone in her eyes. I recognize the panic, the painful tears that dripped from her eyes, the heartbreaking shaking of her body as I carried her from the studio to Bianca’s office.

And the sobs. I recognize the body-wracking sobs because I listened to my sister cry them for months.

Every minute we spend together, I see more and more of Tori in Abbi. But I also see something Tori never had – a spark. It’s a spark that holds an honest to God dream.

Yesterday though… There was no spark. Every bit of light in Abbi’s body went out. She was a different person – there was no fun glint in her eye, no amused smirk, and no sarcastic comments. The shadows that hide in the depths of her eyes took her over completely.

The way Tori’s used to.

I have no idea why Abbi broke down; all I know is that I want to know. I want to know why she fell apart, why someone who’s so silently strong had a moment of such crippling weakness. And I want to make it better. Something about her is so endearing I can’t help but be pulled in by her – I can’t help but want to want her.

I want to hold her waist as she gets lost in the dance. I want to spin her round e
n pointe
until she doesn’t know which way is up anymore. I want to lift her above my head and dance her across the stage so gracefully she believes she’s flying.

I want to take the tears and the pain and change them into a smile and happiness.

Maybe that’s why, when I enter my apartment, I change into a polo top and jeans and call her number without a bloody clue what I’m gonna say to her.

“Hey,” I say softly when she answers.

“Hi.”

“You weren’t at class yesterday… I wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“I…” She pauses, and I swallow as I wait for her reply. “I know it’s getting late, but I thought of another place to show you in Brooklyn if you want to see.”

I don’t miss her avoidance of answering my question, but something in me hopes she’ll talk more if we’re face to face.

“I think I can deal with that. As long as we don’t meet at Whole Foods again.”

“No… No Whole Foods. Promise.” If I didn’t know better I’d swear she was smiling a little.

“Where to then?”

“Brooklyn Promenade.”

~

I climb from the taxi and get my first look at the promenade. Directly across the East River is the lower Manhattan skyline on backdrop of the setting sun. I stop for a second, staring dumbly at the golden hues of the sunset crawling across the sky, only broken by the towering skyscrapers. Brooklyn Bridge stands to my right, stretching across the river, and I can’t help but wonder if I’m looking at one of the most amazing things on this side of the Atlantic.

I draw my eyes away and look to the actual promenade. Benches stretch along the length of it, backed by trees and dimly lit lampposts every few feet. Couples, families and groups of friends stroll up and down the promenade, some sitting on the benches. They’re all laughing and joking, and I walk behind the benches on a search for Abbi.

I find her a good few feet away from the majority of people here. She’s sitting on one the back of one of the benches, her feet on the seat and her elbows on her knees. Her hair is swept to one side and tucked behind her ear, giving me a perfect view of her profile as she gazes out at the city.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she asks, turning her face towards me.

“Yeah,” I reply, not taking my eyes from her. “Yeah. It is.”

She stares at me for a beat before looking away again.

“This doesn’t look like somewhere you’d hide.” I climb up onto the bench next to her, perching on the back the same way she is.

“Sometimes the best hiding place is in plain sight.” She smooths her hair back around her neck when a breeze sends it flying, peering sideways at me. “How many people do you think you walk past every day that are hiding from something?”

“Point taken.” I nod.

“I come here to remember that life goes on. It’s always so busy; the promenade is always full of people, cars are always racing over Brooklyn Bridge, and New York is always alive. Sometimes your world just stops, you know? And that’s when I need to remember its still turning.”

I don’t reply, instead watching the sun drop down even further. Gradually, one by one, the buildings of Manhattan begin to light up. The sunset is washed out by the brightness of the buildings reflecting both in the water and against the sky. Shades of orange, pink, purple and blue fill the sky behind the city as the artificial lights mix with the natural one, creating something I’m sure you can’t see anywhere else in the world.

I don’t reply, even as the colorful sky is taken over by the inky blackness of the night sky. There are no stars here, their light drowned out by the city.

“You asked me if I’m okay,” Abbi says, breaking my reverie. “I don’t know how to answer that. Sometimes I am, sometimes I’m not. Sometimes I don’t even know myself.”

I wait for her to continue, watching her as she fiddles with a lock of her hair.

“I was diagnosed with depression a year ago. It’s not something I usually tell people, but after Tuesday, I feel like you have a right to know.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything.”

“No, I do. You deserve to know this much, at least.” She takes a deep breath, finally looking at me properly. Her blue eyes are wide and earnest, completely clear of everything but a tiny dot of fear. Fear of what, I don’t know. I just know I see that fear.

“I don’t know what happened on Tuesday. The panic attacks… They kind of come along with my depression, and there’s always something that starts them. Usually I can feel when one’s coming and stop it, I can fight it, but I couldn’t on Tuesday. I haven’t had one for weeks now, and I have no idea what caused the last one. I guess I was lucky it happened when I was in a place where there was someone who knew how to calm me down.”

I scratch my nose, remembering how swiftly Bianca moved to her side. “Bianca was with you in seconds, and asked me to carry you into her office. No one really noticed – and she didn’t want you in full view of everyone.”

“Thank you,” she whispers. “For getting me out of the studio.”

“It’s okay. Really.” We both smile at each other. “Can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead. I can’t promise I’ll answer, though.”

“Warn a guy next time, can ya? You scared the shit out of me. I’ve been wondering if I’m really that bloody bad at dancing.” I wink at her, and she laughs quietly.

“That’s it. It must be your dancing. Why didn’t I think of it before?” She shakes her head. “I’m gonna have to talk to Bianca and get her to find me a new partner.”

I half-smirk, happy to see a light back in her eyes. “Shut up,” I mutter.

Her lips twitch with a suppressed grin. “I really want some ice cream. Let’s get some.”

“You realize it’s almost nine p.m., don’t you?” I raise my eyebrows at her.

Abbi shrugs, jumping up from the bench. “It’s never too late for ice cream. Especially not from Holly’s place.”

“Of course,” I mumble as I get up. “An ice cream parlor open at nine o’clock. Bloody Americans.”

“I heard that, freakin’ British,” Abbi replies, her cheeks twitching with the fight of a smile. “It’s perfectly normal for an ice cream shop to be open at this time. At least, it is if you’re Holly’s. I actually have no idea about any other places.”

I shake my head, completely amused, and follow her away from the promenade, leaving behind the bright skyline. She runs her hand along the bushes as we walk, and I wonder if that’s one of her little quirks. She did it with almost every bush and tree we passed in Prospect Park, too.

I watch her as she picks off a leaf and tears it up, sprinkling the ripped pieces on the pavement as we walk.

“What did that leaf ever do to you?” I ask, drawing level with her.

She glances my way. “It was in my way.”

“And the pavement deserved being covered in the leaf?”

“The pavement?” She smiles.

I rub my hand down my face. “The pavement. What we’re walking on. You know – the paved thing?”

“Oh. You mean the sidewalk.”

I stare at her. “Why the hell do you call it a sidewalk?”

“Because it’s at the sides of the road and you walk on it?” Abbi snorts, stopping outside a building with a sign lit up announcing it as Holly’s Ice Cream Parlor. “I have no idea. I didn’t call it that. I told you before, it’s not my fault if you Brits don’t talk properly.”

“I’m not getting into this again.” I push open the glass door of the building and let her pass through. “Not when I’m still trying to understand why anyone would eat ice cream at this time of night.”

“You don’t have to understand it. You just have to do it. Ice cream tastes best at this time of night.”

“Okay. I’ll take your word for it.” I look at all the names on the boards hanging behind the counter, then at the freezers in front of me. And drop my jaw. I’ve never seen so many types of bloody ice cream in my life, and I have no idea what any of the dishes on the board are called.

“You’ve never been to an ice cream shop before, have you?” Abbi asks me in a voice that says she thinks I’m completely hopeless.

Honestly, I’m a little inclined to believe her on the hopeless thing. London has been holding out on me, clearly.

“Never in my life.”

“I thought I heard your voice.” A young woman, no older than thirty, comes bustling out from behind a beaded curtain, and beams at Abbi. An apron is tied around her waist, and she wipes her hands on it, her brown eyes the same shade as her hair flitting between the two of us. “Oh dear,” she mutters, her eyes settling on Abbi. “He’s a newbie, isn’t he?”

Abbi nods. “Yep.”

“I thought so. He looks as lost as a penguin in the desert, that one. What shall we give him, Abbi?”

“I was thinking the chocolate sundae. The double one. With extra brownies.” She pauses, then nods. “Yep. That one.”

The woman – who I’m guessing is Holly – grins. “I agree. It’s always a good startin’ place. And you’ll have the Rainbow Splash?”

“You bet.” Abbi turns to me, smiling.

“I’d love the chocolate sundae, thanks.” I try for annoyed, but completely fail.

“See? I knew you would.” She dances across the parlor and sits on one of the high stools at a small round table, spinning to face me. “Everyone loves chocolate sundaes.”

I follow her over and sit opposite her. “So why didn’t you get the chocolate one?”

Holly brings over two glasses full of ice cream and sets them in front of us. One is layered with vanilla and chocolate ice cream, chocolate brownies, chocolate sauce and topped with a bit of cream and colorful sprinkles. The other is a mix of what looks like every color ice cream Holly has in the freezers, layered with strawberry and toffee sauce and topped with biscuit pieces, chocolate chips, and a whole pot of sprinkles.