Sure, I’d never be able to become one of the greats but maybe I can help other little kids.
I’m not saying I’d be Miss Honey or anything, but the idea of teaching instead of performing doesn’t sound like the end of the world. Not like how not dancing at all feels.
Who knows? Maybe I’ll hate it. Maybe I won’t even get the job but I’m so tired of waiting around for my spark to come back. It feels like I’ve been wasting away, just waiting for something. I don’t even know what, but I thought when it happened I would.
Maybe this is that something. Maybe it’s nothing.
But I can’t wallow away in anger anymore. I need to claw my way out.
“Why’d you do that?” I ask, not able to fathom Brian ever thinking about me outside of my mom or even Amiyah. I’ve never exactly made that easy to do.
“I know you don’t believe me when I tell you, but I do love you, Denise.” He chuckles softly, pulling my mother into his side. “We both do.”
I think I’ve always been aware of that, I just felt too broke. Too incomplete to believe that I deserved them, or anyone, to care about me when I hadn’t done anything to deserve it. I’ve been selfish, mean, and angry. And I’m just so tired of pushing everyone away.
“I’m sorry.” I chew on my bottom lip, really fighting the urge to cry. “I’ve been kind of an asshole.”
They both laugh. My mom steps closer, resting her hands on my cheeks. I lean in, suddenly remembering the feeling of the times I’d be upset growing up and my mother would soothe me in the same way. Her perfume still smells faintly of powder and peaches, reminding me of the summers she’d chase me and Amiyah through the sprinklers in our front yard.
“You don’t have to apologize for having feelings, sweetheart.” She kisses my forehead. “But it is okay to let people in. Life is sometimes a little easier that way.”
Yeah, I just wish I realized that sooner.
Twenty-One
Denise
Amiyah doesn’t even bother knocking, she just storms into my room instead, arms crossed and attitude written all over her face.
I remain lying on my bed, only briefly looking up from my laptop screen that’s playingAn American in Paris. Instead of fueling my dream of ever being able to dance with Gene Kelly, it reminds me of the night at Lou Lou’s with Lucas.
I’ve basically just been pretending that night was our last encounter and not when I basically told Lucas to fuck off. Sure, the denial probably isn’t healthy but I can’t bring myself to talk to him. To apologize. To admit that I was a bitch to him when in reality, I just wanted to wrap my arms around Lucas and tell him that I’m completely and utterly obsessed with him.
I’m not saying that I want to run off and marry Lucas right now, but there is something in me that wants to just allow myself to see if there could be something.
Maybe Lucas and I will just be better off as friends. Or maybe we could be something more. But even if we don’t work out, I still want to know more about his sisters. His parents. His favorite food. Whether he prefers sunrises or sunsets.
I’ve been scared to want Lucas because I don’t know all that entails but if I’m going to regret something, it might as well be giving us a chance instead of wondering about it my whole life.
And even though I know I want all of this, I keep seeing the hurt on Lucas’s face when I told him what we had was just about sex. I think it’s easier to just not reach out at all than it would be for me to try and him to push me away. I mean, he’d have every right to and I’d deserve it but that doesn’t mean it’d feel good.
Staring at his caller I.D. does nothing to help either. I spend most days staring at the screen, my thumb hovering over the call button but imaging the sound of the ringing or the ping of his response makes me sink to my stomach.
I’ll just stick to sulking and staring at his phone number for now.
Amiyah continues to loom over me, clearly unimpressed. “Since when do us Strykers spend our days rotting away?”
“Since this Stryker’s heart grew from being two sizes too small.” I bury myself deeper under my blanket, content with my bed rotting.
“Oh my god,” she groans, plopping down onto my bed. “If you don’t just get your ass up and talk to him.”
“And say what? I hurt him, Amiyah. I’m pretty sure he’s never going to want to talk to me again.”
She shrugs her shoulders. “I mean I wouldn’t blame him.”
I don’t hesitate in reaching behind me to grab one of the many pillows, about to chuck it at her head. She rips the pillow from my hands, throwing it onto the floor.
“You haven’t been at your own apartment in two weeks just because you’re afraid to bump into him.”