Page 5 of Burning Bridges Duet

I mean, the man is scorching hot. He’s big, at least six-foot-three, bulky but not too much, with tattooed arms and a surprisingly kind face. He has hazel eyes and dark brown hair that’s short on the sides but a bit longer on top and matches his stubble. His nose is crooked and looks like it’s been broken one too many times, but honestly, it just adds to his appeal. He’s rough, but I like it. He’s a real man. He’s wearing black khakis and a black long-sleeve Henley with the Tanner Fitness logo on his chest. The sleeves are bunched up, so I have a view of his lickable tattooed forearms.

Fuck, I’m staring.

“Yes, I’d like to set up a membership. Chris told me there’s one for just the dance floor, but I’d like to get the gold membership, please.” It’s the most expensive option, with courses and trainers included, but I really don’t need it. I’ll just use the dance studio. Still, I learned from my father that when you want to feel welcome somewhere, you should always be generous with what you can give.

“That’s great, thank you so much. I hope you’ll enjoy training here. We’re always trying to improve ourselves, so if you find something that isn’t perfect for you, please let us know immediately,” he tells me, handing me a sheet of paper and a pen. Our fingers touch when I take them from him, and my gaze shoots up to his. He’s already staring at me intently, so I look back down to fill out the form. I just write down my name and tick off what membership I want to buy, then hand him my card. He eyes the black plastic for a second but says nothing, just types something into his computer and swipes my card before handing it back to me.

“Your number is 84413. Please memorize it, as it’s the code you’ll need to check in and the number on your locker. I hope Chris has shown you everything important. Otherwise, feel free to talk to me or any other trainer around here anytime. Do you need anything else before you feel ready to get started?” he asks me.

“Nope, thank you. That’s all. See you!” I say, waving to Chris like an idiot before turning around, walking out of the building and getting to my car. I sit in the driver’s seat and put my head in my hands.

Why can’t I act normal for once?

FIVE

As Liam twirls me around on the dance floor, I can feel the excitement and joy radiating from him. We’ve just won the national championship, and adrenaline is still pumping through our veins.

“I can’t believe it, angel! We did it!” Liam exclaims, pulling me into a tight embrace. I laugh and wrap my arms around his neck. We’re both sweaty, but I don’t care. He pulls back to look at me, his eyes shining with love and admiration. “You’re the love of my life. Together, we can achieve anything.”

My heart swells with love for him. I feel so lucky to have found my soulmate in my best friend, someone who not only shares my passion for dance, but also loves me for who I am.

“I feel the same way, Liam. I can’t wait to see what we accomplish together,” I say, smiling up at him.

As the music fades away and the other competitors congratulate us, Liam takes my hand and leads me off the dance floor. I know that this moment will be forever etched in my memory as one of the happiest of my life.

I sit up panting, drenched in sweat, then rub my eyes before stretching my arm out to reach for my phone on the nightstand. It’s three am, and I can’t decide if the nightmares from that day or the pleasant dreams of good memories are worse. The nightmares fill me with pure terror and leave me shaken for hours, but when I dream of the happy times I shared with Liam—and there were many before he morphed into the person he is today—I begin to question myself. Was it partly my fault? Could I have done something different? Could I have prevented all of this?

He was my best friend, soulmate, and the love of my life, until he wasn’t. I didn’t see the signs until it was too late and I was in too deep, but with him, I couldn’t help it. I’d loved him since I knew what love was, but it’s hard to mourn his love in light of what he did. The love I had for him was gone long ago anyway. He made me lose it with the way he treated me, but it’s hard to forget the boy he once was.

I wipe away the tears from my eyes, knowing I have to stop this train of thought or today will be a mess. I get up, pull on my dance clothes, and brush my teeth before tying my hair up into a ponytail. After grabbing my gym bag by the door, I step out into the night, ready to try and dance out these feelings.

Standing on the dance floor, I take a deep breath. I’m completely alone in the studio, which I’m thankful for. I open my eyes, feeling the cool breeze from the air conditioning rush over my skin. It’s been nearly a year since I last danced, since I felt the rush of adrenaline and the thrill of performing, and it’s been even longer since I felt truly happy. I remove my sweatpants to have a better range of movement but decide to keep the oversized sweater. My knee aches as I stretch all my stiff muscles. It still hurts from the injury that ended my career.

I remember the excruciating pain from that night, as if it happened yesterday. It was overwhelming, and I thought it would never go away. Then came the surgeries, one after another, to try and fix my shattered knee. I remember the uncertainty, the fear, wondering if I would ever walk again, but the most devastating blow came when my doctor told me that I could never dance professionally again. My knee would never be strong enough for that. It was like a punch to the gut, stealing my breath away. Dancing was my passion, my purpose, my reason for living. I had always dreamed of choreographing for other dancers when I was too old to keep up, but to hear that it was all over way sooner than I’d planned nearly killed me.

I never wanted the fame. All I’d ever wanted was to dance, to express myself through movement, to touch people’s hearts with my art. When my knee was shattered, my dreams and my rhythm of life shattered with it, not to mention the overwhelming grief for my family. For months after it happened, I couldn’t even bear to think about dancing. Every time I tried, the pain, both physical and emotional, was too much. I felt like I’d lost a part of myself, but my therapist urged me to try, to see if dancing could be a part of my healing process. She reminds me every time we talk that dance was my whole life, that it was my passion since I was a little girl, even before Liam and I became a team, and she’s right. When I was dancing, nothing else mattered.

I start the music, and as the opening notes of “Narcissist” by Lauren Spencer Smith fill the room, I take a deep breath and let my body remember the movements. I feel the familiar ache in my knee, but it’s almost like a badge of honor, a reminder of how far I’ve come. The choreography I came up with for this song was in my head for weeks.

I move across the stage. It’s difficult, and there are moments when I falter, when the pain is too much to bear, but I keep moving, keep pushing myself, because I know that this is what I need to do. This is my path to healing, to finding myself again.

As the final notes of the song fade away, I sink to my knees, tears streaming down my face. It’s not just the physical pain that makes me cry, but the emotional release, the knowledge that I’m finally starting to heal, and I know I have dance to thank for that.

I rub my tired eyes, feeling the strain of another all-nighter with the studio’s books. Between the dance classes I teach and some employees having to take sick leave, the last two weeks have been wild, so I had to help out everywhere. I’m just about to call it a night when I see someone entering the studio on the camera feed on my second screen. Surprised, I watch as a brunette makes her way to my dance studio. We’re a twenty-four hour gym, but honestly, the only people who make use of that are mostly gym bros working out late or early in the morning. I almost never encounter anyone at this time of night.

She connects her phone and takes off her sweatpants. After stretching for a few moments, she just stands there in the middle of the floor with her eyes closed. I hear the muffled sound as the music starts, then she begins to move. Her movements are unsure at first, but it’s obvious that she knows how to dance.

I can’t keep away, so I make my way over to the studio. As silently as possible, I open the door. The room is dark, with just the light over the stage on. I don’t know the song, but the music is haunting, just like this beautiful creature dancing her heart out up there. She’s mesmerizing. Her brown hair is up in a ponytail, and she’s wearing an oversized green sweater. Without the sweatpants, she’s only left in tight shorts that look more like panties. My gaze wanders down her sexy tanned and toned legs, then stops on her right knee. It has pink tape on it, like some athletes I’ve seen use, but from her upper thigh to her shin is a big, ragged scar. What happened to her?

The longer she dances, the more confident she gets, her movements becoming more fluid, more graceful. It’s like she’s dancing herself free of something, lost in the music, but with some moves, I see pain etched on her face. Still, she’s pushing through the discomfort, using it to fuel her performance. I’m not an expert in any dance other than hip-hop and break dancing, but I know what she’s doing is called contemporary. It’s not my thing, but I’ve always appreciated watching it when I came across it. It’s a special kind of dance that requires a lot of talent and emotion to execute properly.

As she moves across the stage, I can see that she’s pouring everything she has into this dance. With every step, every turn, it’s like a piece of her soul is being laid bare, and I can feel the raw emotion behind it. As I watch her dance, I just know she’s personally experienced what the song is talking about. It’s moments like these that make me appreciate the beauty of dance, how it can communicate so much without a single word. Watching this beautiful stranger move across the stage, I feel a sense of awe and respect for our art form.

As the song comes to an end, she gets to her knees, looking up at the ceiling with tears streaming down her face. She sobs once, and I take that as my cue to leave just as quietly as I came in.

SIX

When I’m in choreography class later that morning, I’m relieved to have made my little nighttime excursion. The teacher announces that we need to demonstrate a sequence of dance moves that should not go together but do in our opinion. Everyone gets up in front of the class to demonstrate what they think works for this assignment. Most of them are good, but in some cases, I still think the moves just don’t work together. My favorite is from a classmate who matched some hip-hop and tango.