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7
Emilie
When the studio door clicked open, Emilie’s heart lightened.
Mrs. Linda, her old dance teacher, grinned at her, shaking a set of keys. Her gray hair was completely white, but other than the color of her hair and some added wrinkles, her favorite mentor didn’t seem to have changed. “Glad you called and I had some time to meet you. This place is all yours now.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Linda.” Emilie glanced around with stars in her eyes. The place looked amazing. So many years had passed, and yet, nothing had changed.
“I have to leave, but I’m so glad you’re buying this place. Too many people wanted to repurpose the building, but I waited two years, hoping an old student would get the place running again.”
Emilie leaned against the wall. If her dance teacher knew her true intentions, to sell the shop as soon as she left, Emilie would be embarrassed to even stand in front of her. The promise she and Dean had made only an hour before flashed through her mind. A year of commitment seemed right. Any less and she wasn’t giving her new life in Danvers a fighting chance.
The studio had been a part of her life since she was four, and it felt surreal to hold the keys to the building that had sculpted her into the person she was today. Mrs. Linda had given her a huge discount on the building, and with more than a year’s worth of savings in her account, she could actually pull it off. “I’m excited to get things rolling. I thought there would be a lot to do, but so far everything looks great.”
Mrs. Linda beamed and clapped her hands. “I didn’t want the studio to be spooky after sitting empty for so long, so I sent some workers in to spruce up the building. The stage area has had a major facelift as well. All yours now. Good luck. I’m excited to see what you can do.”
Emilie gave her a hug and let Mrs. Linda out, locking herself in.
First on the agenda: take a tour to assess what needed to be done. After a glance around the building, she found everything in working order. The walls were freshly painted, the floors recently waxed. Bouquets of fake flowers and pictures of dancers added a gentle touch.
The bathrooms worked, and the three rehearsal rooms remained as ageless as they’d been the night of her final rehearsal. The stage area had been widened and now included more rows of audience seats. In a few months, she’d host her first performance, if she could find dancers in time. If she were lucky, her dancing would be improved as well. Lots of work to do!
The narrow halls were long and spotless. She checked out the two adjoining offices where she’d keep track of business and have parent meetings. They were in working order but in dire need of new technology. The costume closet was organized and the old stereos at the side of each rehearsal room were in mint condition.
Mrs. Linda had left a dream for her to take over, and the former dance teacher’s overwhelming support lifted her spirits.
After turning off the lights, she headed to the main dance room and dropped her keys by the door. This place had been her haven for so long. Even after a couple of vacant years, it smelled the same: the familiar scent of pinewood and floor wax. Odd combination, but she loved it.
Everything was the same. The wooden barre which gave her so much grief over the years, the tile and wood floors which probably had splashes of her DNA in multiple places, even the water fountain had its familiar metallic taste which dancers never balked at in the middle of a rehearsal.
Silence enveloped her, bringing her safely to a spot mentally she understood. Her body shook with a desire to move. Lyrical dancing was her specialty, but she loved all forms of movement. Once again, she wanted to be connected to the floor and space. Her toes pointed the way across the floor. The movements were fluid at first as she leaned, turned and stretched, then more erratic as she thought about Finn and Ava and Dean.
She wrapped her arms tightly around herself, pushing away the thoughts she couldn’t handle. When her mom got sick, when her dad left, when the rumors about her family started, the inevitable breakup with Finn, her mom’s death. All through that, the dance studio was the one place she’d celebrated her successes and dealt with her pain.
Her breathing grew labored while she rushed across the floor, ignoring the mirrors and the windows and anything that connected her to elsewhere. Just her and the movement.
She spun in circles, the world revolving faster with every turn as she remembered the day her mother had urged her to follow her dreams. Even in her sicker moments, her mom always supported her dancing. She came to every recital, scraped to earn enough to send Emilie to dance school, and never got to see her daughter succeed as a dancer. Her mother had left Emilie everything she needed to start a new life, but it wasn’t enough.
I want my mom.
Emilie froze, the stillness more startling than the movement. After a second, she dropped to her hands and knees and wept, letting her tears wet the old dance floor. For six years she bottled up everything, never allowing herself to deal with her mother’s death. Instead, she moved away, distracting herself with practice and schedules and performances.
To fix my dancing, I have to fix my heart.
The answer was so clear, it was as if a voice had spoken the words to her. If she dealt with the past, her dancing would improve, she had no doubt. Just in the last year whenever she danced, she imagined her mother watching from a distance. Instead of comforting, her mom’s presence was unnerving and ominous. Emilie had taken breaks at practice, time off, even missed a show, but nothing helped. Only the thought of dealing with her past eased her mind.
Her tears flowed freely, and she succumbed to them, tucking herself into a ball and letting them pool underneath her face.
It’d been years since she’d cried in that room. Though facing her past seemed monumental, she held to the small ray of hope that it was the key to moving on.
She wasn’t sure how long she stayed there, curled in a fetal position, but when the tears stopped, she stood, ready to face her challenges. When she did, she caught a glimpse of Dean’s truck parked outside and hurried to lock up. At least she had Dean.
When she opened the truck door, his still body rested against the side of the cab. A loud snore cut across the silence, making her jump. She covered her mouth to keep from laughing. “Dean, wake up.”
When he didn’t respond, she climbed in and shut the door with a sharp snap. Not even that woke him up. A faint memory came to her; his mom had once said that kissing him awake was the only thing that worked.
What a ridiculous idea. She clapped loudly a few times. Not even a flinch. She leaned over and cleared her throat loudly. Nothing.
