My mouth hangs open as he tucks his fork into the eggs. "Are we expecting company?" I look around the diner, feigning disbelief.

  "Very funny, a regular comedienne over here. No, you know I'm a big boy." He winks. "I need my food. It helps keep me lean. And for stamina."

  The lusty smirk that spreads across his lips at that last statement turns my insides to jelly, and I was only under him less than an hour ago.

  The delicious scent wafting up to my nose catches my attention, and I pick up my fork. As the first bite of buttery, fluffy pancakes melts onto my tongue, I sigh. I'm not sure if the pancakes are actually good, but its been so long since I've had carbs, that the taste of them in my mouth makes me all tingly. Sex and carbs? Today was the perfect day.

  "Good, babe?" Miles eyes are full of laughter as he peers across the table at me. I nod, not even opening my mouth to speak as I wash down the next bite of my pancakes with milkshake.

  We eat in contented silence until most of mine and all of Miles's food is gone. It's 1:30 a.m. by the time we finish.

  "So, where to now?" Miles jokes, swinging my hand back and forth in his.

  "Bed. Take me to bed." I fall into the crook of his shoulder, brushing my hand back and forth across his abs as we walk.

  "Your wish is my command, princess."

  And as we fall asleep in Miles's bed, my back pressed to his giant front, I float peacefully to sleep. My last thoughts are of Miles, swaying me gently around a huge, empty dance floor.

  26

  Miles

  March 15. The worst day on fucking earth.

  I wake with a start and a pounding headache. Looking at the clock, I almost forgot what day it is. Maybe I can just go back to sleep and when I wake up, it will be tomorrow.

  But I'm so fucking restless its no use now. I trace the lines of my tattoo, feeling the raised ink through my skin.

  Jason.

  His name will be running through my brain on an endless loop today, I won't be able to think about anything else.

  I remember when the police came to our door, that Tuesday night. It was around dinner, my mother had taken her food in her room, and I was sitting at the opposite end of the table from father. I remember the doorbell, the irritated sigh as he yelled, "Theresa, get the door!"

  I remember our housekeeper, a second mother to me, running in, a panicked look on her face. "Mr. Farriston, the police are at the door." Her thick Spanish accent pierces my brain even now.

  My father moved, striding to the door in that usual arrogant way of his.

  I remember following him, knowing I might get in trouble for leaving the table but doing it anyway. I remember weaving myself behind Theresa's legs, watching as the police spoke to my father.

  The words "car crash," "drunk driver," and "dead" imprinted on my brain forever.

  I remember my father holding the wall for support, his knees buckling under the pressure of the blow he'd just been dealt.

  I remember him saying, "He can't be dead. Jason can't be dead."

  And then I remember the world going black.

  Even now, 14 years later, I still have nightmares about that day. The day I found out my brother was dead.

  I jam the pillow over my head, ignoring my 10 o'clock alarm signaling I need to get up and get my ass to macroeconomics. My phone vibrates under my hip, where I must have tossed it when I fell asleep last night.

  Chloe: Morning, baby :) we still meeting for lunch today?

  Fuck. I don't even want to get out of bed, not even for my perfect girlfriend.

  Miles: Sorry, gonna play hooky today. Maybe tomorrow.

  My phone dings instantly.

  Chloe: What's wrong? Do you feel okay?

  No, not at all. But I'm not physically sick.

  Miles: Yeah. Just tired. Have a great day, babe.

  I put my phone face down on the desk, silencing it and flopping back on my bed. Turning my head into the pillow, I pulled the comforter over my head to block out the early spring sunlight pouring through the slits in my blinds. Damn cheery world. Couldn't everyone just go into mourning with me for today? Was it so much to ask?

  I tossed and turned for what felt like hours, imagining Jay's voice and face in my head. His image was different now, warped after so many years, a vague shape with features. It was why I hated myself so much on this day. I could barely remember his face anymore. He was the only person in my life who loved me and I couldn't even honor his memory properly. I was such a shitty person.

  Looking at the clock, it was still only 10:38. Fuck. How was I ever going to make it through this day?

  Glancing around the room, my eyes landed on the mini-fridge. Alcohol. That's what I needed.

  Sleepily ambling over to the fridge, I pry it open. Three beers, a half handle of whiskey, and an old orange juice. Well, better not pussyfoot around.

  I grab the bottle of whiskey, foregoing any kind of glass, and haul it back to bed with me. I turn on ESPN for background noise, if anything to drown out the thoughts in my head. I jack up the volume, hoping to push out the remaining thoughts of death, uncap the bottle, and take a huge, burning sip.

  The whiskey flows down my throat like searing-hot lava, scarring and ripping at my insides as it goes. It feels good. It feels numb.

  I sit there, on my bed, pretending to watch sports shows, until suddenly its 2 p.m. and the entire bottle of whiskey and all three beers are empty on my floor. I notice the wretched smell coming from my armpits and decide to go shower. Except that when I stand up, the floor slips out from underneath me, sending me crashing into a pile of dirty practice uniforms and worn out bats I've stacked in the corner. Pain immediately rips through my elbow, and when I look down, my vision hazy, I can see the blood dripping down my arm.

  "Fuck." I shoot up, still unsteady as I trip into the hall and stumble into the bathroom, making it to the shower before I can cause anymore harm.

  I strip, haphazardly climbing into the tub/shower combo. It'll be a miracle if I don't break my neck.

  The cut on my arm stings and pinches as I soak it under the hot spray, the pain muted from the effects of my alcohol bender. The cut is probably worse than I think, but I just can't feel and I don't really care. I complete the necessities, carelessly squirting shampoo into my hair and washing my armpits and balls with soap. That should be good enough.

  My buzz is still going strong when I make it back to my room, throwing on the first clothes I can find and grabbing my wallet and keys.

  The door to my room flies open, Owen holding his ears. "Dude, do you not hear that?" He stomps to my TV, manually pressing the volume button until the roar I hadn't realized was echoing through my room goes silent. I just shrug at him, stumbling to grab my phone where I left it next to the bed.

  "What's wrong with you, Farris?" Owen gets into my space, shoving his face close to mine. "Oh, Jesus. You reek of whiskey. What the fuck have you been doing? It’s two o'clock."

  I push past him, way past done with this interrogation. I need more to drink.

  "Where are you going? Did something happen with Chloe?" He's following me through the house, ghosting me as I pull on my fleece. Before I can turn, Owen grabs my arm, right on the elbow I just tore open.

  "Fuck! Jesus, let go of me!" My voice sounds like a drunk's, I can register that much. And I'm swaying. "I'm going out. Chloe is fine, don't go fucking crying to her either, Benedict Cumberbatch!"

  "I think you mean Benedict Arnold..."

  "No, you're a fucking traitor! Running to your girlfriend every time I do something, tipping off my girlfriend. Just leave me alone!"

  With that, I slam the door in his face, the bright sun slapping me in mine. I shield my hand in front of my face, and walk with quick strides towards downtown. I need Sammy's now more than ever.

  * * *

  The gleaming bottles behind the bar are swimming in front of me as I pick my head up out of my hands.

  "Another!" I shout halfheartedly at the weekday guy behind the bar. He's new and I don't know him. Which is good, because if this was Ricky, he definitely wouldn't have served me a drop.

  "I think that's more than enough, buddy. How about I call you a cab?"

  Prick. I look down at the half-drunken tequila on the rocks in front of me, not remembering when I switched from bourbon to that. Fuck it. I slam back the entire contents of the glass, not even feeling the sharp, acidic burn rolling down my esophagus. I'm not sure what time it is, but it’s now dark outside, which has to be a good thing. Means this fucking day is almost over.

  The door to the bar opens with a bang, the glass windows in there rattling from the impact. I look up, my drunk-ADHD getting the better of me, to see my girlfriend standing there, a worried expression on her face.

  Fuck. I knew it was only a matter of time before she found me.

  "Hiya, toots!" I splay my arms wide, motion for her to come join me.

  Chloe walks to me hesitantly, her gym bag slung around her shoulder, her dark pea coat covering her white tights. She's been in the studio.

  "Hi, babe. Where have you been all day? I've been calling and texting you." Her eyes are pure worry, her motions not as calm as I'd like them to be.

  I pull my phone out, see it light up with dozens of texts and calls. Some from Chloe, others from Owen and Clint.

  "Ah man, sorry babe, must not have heard it. I've been here. What do you want, let me buy my baby a drink!" I motion for the bartender, who ignores me and snorts as he wipes down the counter.

  "Babe, it’s okay. How about we get you home?" Her voice is gentle, coaxing.

  "I'm not a fucking child, Chloe. You don't have to treat me like one." My harsh words slap the air.

  "I'm not saying that. But I wanted to spend some time with you before I go tomorrow."

  Shit, her New York trip. I forgot about her audition in my selfishness. Shit. She shouldn't have to be dealing with me.

  "Sorry babe, you go on. I'll be fine. Go sleep before your plane tomorrow." I pick up the glass again, ready to take another sip, before realizing its empty.

  "No, I'm taking you home. I'm not going to sit there worrying sick about you." Her pained expression causes me to move, to press my lips to hers. I pull back, seeing the real fear in her eyes.

  "Alright, let's go." Chloe is the only person on this earth that I'd do something for, even if I didn't want to do it.

  By the time we get home, Chloe is carrying me up the steps. The world is spinning, my feet slipping on every step up to our porch.

  "Jesus christ..." Owen grabs my haggard body when Chloe drags us through the door, taking the pressure off of her.

  "I'm fine!" I push off him, standing wobbly on my own two feet. They're all sitting in the living room, staring at me. Like some damaged puppy. "What the fuck are you all looking at?!"

  I storm off towards my room, quickly followed by Chloe, who walks in and quietly shuts the door as I'm throwing random things around the room.

  "Miles, please talk to me?" She looks stricken and confused, the purple of her eyes so light that she looks ill.

  "I don't want to talk right now...please, can we do this tomorrow?" I beg with her, plead her to just leave me. I can't be with her right now.

  "I don't want to leave you like this...just talk to me." She comes for me, taking up my hands in hers. The move fills me with warmth, and all I want to do is reject it. I need to stay in my dirty, horrible bubble.

  "Don't, Chloe." I push her hands away.

  "Really, Miles? Really? I thought we were done with this." Her voice spikes, anger rising in her tone.

  "Jesus, can you just get out!? Can't you see I don't want you here right now?" I match her ire, giving it right back to her.

  "Well I'm going to be here! Because that's what we do for each other!"

  I run my hands through my hair, trying to calm my simmering blood. "Well I. Don't. Need. You." Too late. I say this inches away from her face, deathly quiet and slow.

  "Yes. You. Do." A fat tear rolls from the corner of her eye. "Why won't you just fucking admit that already? You need me, and I need you. We take care of each other! That's what people do when they're in love!"

  The outburst knocks me on my ass, literally. I fall into a sitting position on my bed, shocked at the sudden litany coming from Chloe. Chloe, who is always calm and collected. Who never fires back at me.

  "What did you say?"

  She's panting, her face is flushed and angry. "I said I love you, you stupid jerk. What is so wrong that you won't just let me?"

  She's screaming by the end of this, her face a mess of tears. I can't even bring myself to say anything. Chloe is pulling on her fingers, trying to swallow back the worst of her tears. I still can't speak, drunk and blindsided knocking the wind out of me.

  It seems like minutes go by before she turns on her heel, leaving me in my empty bedroom. I just let the girl I love walk out of my life without so much as a word.

  27

  Chloe

  "Are you ready, Bella?" Mama squeezes me shoulders as we assess my makeup in the mirror. It’s a special type of magic that foundation and cover-up works. You can barely see the bruise-like circles rimming my eyes.

  "As I'll ever be." I give her a small smile, the only expression I can muster.

  I study my makeup in the mirror, the way my bun is pulled higher on to my head today to account for the hairpiece I've added. The bodysuit I wear is a deep, dark maroon, with a long gauzy tutu that reaches the floor. My whole body is bathed in the dark red, like I'm one big, deep stab wound. Which is also how I feel.

  I haven't cried since I stormed out of Miles's bedroom last night. I haven't slept either. I really haven't done much but sit in the airport, on the plane, in a cab. Numb, unfeeling, just staring out into space.

  I love you. How stupid could I have been? I shouldn't have said it, not then. Miles could barely stand upright. Why he'd gotten so bombed, I'm not even sure. It shouldn't sting like alcohol over an open wound that he didn't return my sentiment. But it did. It hurt so bad that I felt like I couldn't take a deep breath. It felt like my body was shutting down organ by organ, like the pain ripping through me couldn't even be real.

  I'd jumped on a plane eight hours after running out of his house, headed to New York for my audition. So I had to push this to the background, had to grieve later. Right now, I had to go out and give the performance of a lifetime.

  Standing, I run my hands down the smooth cotton leotard, going up on my pointe shoes to stretch out my calves, to make sure my shoes were completely broken in and to my liking. I'd burned these ones, scraped them with a steel brush, and showered in them to mold them to perfection. Ballet was an art form, and if I didn't get this painting perfect, my whole future was in jeopardy.

  "You're going to do great." Mama stares at me lovingly from the corner where she sits. "You have been training all of your life for this. Ever since you were a little girl, twirling around the restaurant. I couldn't stop you from dancing, and after you took your first lesson, I never did. God gave you this gift, this blessing. He put you here to show everyone else just how beautiful ballet is, and you did it perfectly every time you step out onto the stage."

  She moves to me, taking my hands in her's and pressing a kiss to my forehead. "Whatever happened in the past day, you need to push it out of your mind. Don't think about anything but this dance. And no matter what happens, remember. We are so proud of you regardless of where you end up. No matter if you're a prima ballerina or a chorus girl. Or if you stop dancing altogether. You're our daughter and we love you. Never forget that."

  Her words opened up my heart just the tiniest fraction, allowing some of her warmth and good to invade my body. It was exactly what I needed to go out there and take what was mine.

  "Chloe Trabucco? You're on deck," the coordinator came back to let me know. I shook out my whole body, rolling my neck in that way everyone does when they are about to head into a battle. Because that is what this felt like.

  I kissed mama one last time, and then headed up for the wings of the stage. I turned my back to the big wood floor in front of me. I never watched the other solos; not at competition, not in practice, and definitely not here. I psyched myself out enough without adding other dancers to the mix.

  The girl's music was upbeat, a loud symphony beat similar to the nutcracker. It was too cliché. I knew I needed to wow these judges, to really show them what I was made of. Soon, her music ended and she flurried past me in a fluff of white tulle.

  I pushed my shoulders back, took a deep breath, held up, and pointed my toes as I glided out onto the stage.

  "Ms. Trabucco, yes?" The older man at the table asked. I recognized him as Simon Hutler, the program director at SAB. He was the one who made final decisions on who stayed and who went. He was the head honcho.

  "Yes, that's right. Thank you so much for having me." You had to play these auditions polite, but not too over-the-top enthusiastic. I'd even taken a seminar on how to nail a ballet audition. This world was more cutthroat than any.

  "You came highly recommended by Madame Vivienne, and have a top spot at Grover. We are excited to see what you've prepared for us." Natalie Pinroe addressed me directly, and I thought I might die on the spot. She smiled, and I couldn't tell if it was genuine.

  "Yes." I nodded to the person manning the stereo, taken that it was my cue to go on and dance already. I got into my starting position, and waited as the first few slow, heartbreaking violin strings rang through the regal hall.

  This piece hadn't been intentionally picked, but I'd come across this song as I was researching and choreographing, and could not get it out of my head.

  The crescendo picks up, and I begin to move, lifting up onto releve and bourreeing across the stage, my arms loose but composed, floating on the air like sad willow tree branches. I let the music take me, the sad, lilting melody speaking for the pain in my soul.