Page 52 of With You

I run my nails across his scalp, gently urging his face closer to mine as I turn to press my lips to his. He smiles into the kiss, his teeth clashing against mine for a second, leaving me giddy.

“How was your day?” he asks, turning me in his arms so I’m facing him. I lace my hands together at the back of his neck, playing with the overgrown strands of hair that tell me he needs a haircut soon.

“It was fine,” I tell him. “I’ve been looking forward to this, though.”

“Me too,” he says, leaning down to kiss me again. River doesn’t let me reach up to him when I’m wearing my pointe shoes. Says I should save my energy for dancing instead of something he can give me so easily. It’s all too well he’s said it because my feet are hurting a lot more than usual today. I try to hide my wince as we shift backward, but River hears it anyway.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, concern lining his face.

I run my fingers across his forehead, down his nose, trying to erase that expression, but he doesn’t let it go.

“My shoes just hurt a lot today,” I tell him.

“Let me look,” River says before he goes to the corner of the room to retrieve a small stool.

I sit down, taking my shoes off to see spots of blood around my toe pads. They’re worn down, and probably needed replacing a while ago but they fit perfectly. I didn’t want to bother getting new ones and going through the annoying period where I have to adjust to them before they properly mould to my feet, so I’ve been putting it off.

River glances down, letting out a deep exhale as he moves to the other side of the room. He rummages around in one of the drawers, pulling out a first aid kit before he comes back to me.

He kneels down and suddenly I’ve never felt more self conscious. I don’t want him to see me like this. Don’t want to expose the bruised and calloused parts of me that probably matched the view of me he used to have, when I was nothing but harsh to him.

“You don’t have to do that.” I lean down, trying to stop him, but he ignores me.

He gently peels off the toe pads, discarding the pieces of tape that cover my feet from past wounds. He does it all like it’s the most normal thing on the planet, as if he’s helped me a million times before. He acts like he’s been in my room every night, going through the same routine, removing all the parts keeping me together.

River runs his hand across my ankle, heel, sole, until he takes it in his hand. Heat crawls up my cheeks. I don’t like this, it feels too intimate, so I try to break the silence.

“Didn’t your parents ever tell you it’s rude to stare,” I attempt to joke, to bring back our usual fieriness. I want him to say something back, a snarky quip, a sarcastic joke, anything at all to make me feel less exposed, but he doesn’t.

Instead, he takes an alcohol wipe from the first aid box, swiping it across to clear the blood as I clench my teeth. It stings, and although I’ve been doing this for years, the pain never lessens.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, but carries on.

Once the blood is all cleaned off, he finds some ointment and starts dabbing it across every cut and scratch. Each action is delicate, the gentle way his fingertips brush across my skin, the light pressure as he angles my foot in whatever direction he needs. It’s all too much.

“River, please stop,” I bite out.

He does instantly, his jaw tensing as he looks up at me.

“Let me do this for you,” he asks softly.

“It’s disgusting. You don’t need to.”

He scoffs at that.

“Disgusting?”

“They’re all cut up and bruised and ugly,” I ramble, hoping he’ll listen to me.

“Nothing about them is ugly. How can the thing that gives you so much strength, holds you up every day, and allows you to dance the way you do, ever be ugly?”

His hand travels up my leg, squeezing my calf as he speaks.

“How can the thing that helped bring us together be anything but beautiful?”

I look down at him, trying to figure out what I can say in response, but there’s nothing. For years, I’ve tried to show everyone only the best parts of being a ballerina. The pretty dresses and practiced moves that make it all seem so fun.

But I’ve never exposed this part to anyone. Never told Evie or Zena or my parents that I spend most nights with my feet in a bucket of ice water, attempting to ease the pain as my feet throb. Haven’t shown them all the bandages, torn and bloodied after every time I dance, whether it’s on stage or in the studio. Haven’t shown the bruises and cuts, the callouses built up from constricting my feet into pointe shoes and putting my entire body weight on a block of wood. It’s all too ugly, too harsh, too much to explain.