Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 137433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 137433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 687(@200wpm)___ 550(@250wpm)___ 458(@300wpm)
“Talk me through everything that’s happening.” I hear him sitting down. “I’m here. I’m present. I’m with you.”
Will was a star baseball player in a prestigious private school in NorCal.
His cocaine addiction lost him not only an amazing spot at an Ivy League school but also his baseball career, his girlfriend, and eventually his parents, whom he had stolen from repeatedly.
It took him six years to get where he is today. And still, not all of his relationships are mended. Plus, instead of being a pro baseballer, he is here sponsoring other recovering addicts and working a nine-to-five job selling solar solutions. Not that there’s anything wrong with doing that. But it wasn’t what he wanted to do.
Clearing my throat, I admit, “I’m just a girl, standing in front of a tutu at a storefront, asking herself not to walk in and buy it.”
The cultural reference flies right over Will’s head, because he isn’t Lev and didn’t watch Notting Hill with me while massaging my feet after I won a ballet competition in eighth grade.
“Remind me why it’s bad for you to wear a tutu dress?”
I huff out the obvious response: “Because dancing led me to use.”
“No,” Will replies solemnly. “You led yourself to use. Not ballet. Ballet was an innocent bystander. Ballet didn’t force you to go pro. Ballet didn’t force you to push yourself to the brink.”
“But I did.” My knees buckle and I hang my head down. “I did all those things, and now I will forever associate ballet with my downfall.”
“Disentangle those two, then. Doing something you love is good, Bailey. I coach the little league baseball team for the elementary school near my house. And I don’t even have a kid!” He laughs miserably. “Which is kind of creepy when you think about it. Sometimes your downfall isn’t really your downfall. It was just something that happened in the background when you were in a very dark place.”
I’m silent for a moment. I can’t look away from that tutu.
“And hey!” Will says desperately. “Remember you told me when we first met that one of the reasons you loved rehab so much was because they let you teach a dance workshop to other patients one hour a day, five times a week? Your eyes were shining when you said that. Maybe it’s time to rethink your passion, you know?”
They say those who can’t, teach, and maybe that is true.
But it is also true that some people can perform but find the experience of giving back more fulfilling. Not everyone wants to be the flower. Some blossom by being the gardener.
I’m that kind of person. A nurturer. A giver. Watching a thirty-five-year-old surviving alcoholic doing her first arabesque, to me, was more fulfilling than taking the stage when I competed in the nationals.
Teaching people the joy of dancing, the beauty in the body language, is no small feat.
And if I can show one or two Baileys in this world that it is okay to love something without letting it kill you—then I’ll have done my part.
“Teach,” I mutter under my breath. “I should teach.”
“There she is.” I hear the smile on Will’s face. “You’re already teaching, aren’t you? Tutoring. Helping. Assisting where you can. This is your calling, Bailey. Don’t ghost it. Answer it.”
Resolute, I step into the store, buy the tutu, and purchase a new pair of pointe shoes.
Old man Gaston, the owner of the store, tells me he missed me. That he is happy I dropped out of Juilliard. That ballet is a passion, and passion can’t be taught.
When I get back to my tiny apartment, I flatten my back against the door, slide down to the floor, and press the shoes against my nose, inhaling.
The scent of glue, leather, and hope hits my nostrils and I hum with pleasure. The satin gleams, the shank untouched and full of promise.
For the first time in a long time, I know what to do.
I slide the shoes on. Wrap the tutu around my everyday clothes.
I’m air. I’m fleeting. I’m everywhere. I’m invincible.
And start to move for the only person whose tune I dance to from now on.
Myself.
CHAPTER 44
Bailey
My Lev-less (read: heartless) existence is bearable. In the same way sugar-free, water-based oatmeal is bearable. I’m in a constant state of flavorlessness.
Three more weeks pass after I bought my new pointe shoes before I gather the courage to slip Lev’s apology letter in the mailbox. I ran out of excuses and, frankly, damns to give.
Yes, I’ve been horrible. Yes, I’ve done horrendous things.
Yes, I’m willing to work hard to repent for them. But I can’t turn back time.
And we both need this closure, even if that means shutting the door to friendship—anything. I’m tired of being in the dark.
After getting the address from Dean, I send him the note and force myself to forget about it. Kind of like an audition.