The Darkest Corner of the Heart: Chapter 2

“Come on, princess. You need to eat something.”

If I make any sound as a response, it’s completely involuntary. I don’t want to be awake today.

Of course, half-assed answers never work with my older brother.

He finishes making a cheesy omelet (my comfort food) in the small kitchen of my studio apartment and turns to look—glare—at me, crossing his massive, tattooed arms over his chest. “Don’t you dare grunt at me, young lady.” He’s only half joking.

I give him another grunt because, again, I don’t want to be awake today, and he knows this. I lived under his roof for fourteen years, after all.

Normally he doesn’t like it when I’m being too irritable, so the fact that he only sighs and sits next to me in bed tells me everything I need to know.

I’ve missed a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and I should feel sorry for myself.

And I do. More than anything in this world, I do.

He places a warm hand on my shoulder. “How’s your ankle feeling?”

Like shit, Sammy. It feels like shit.

A shrug is the only response he gets, and the guilt starts eating me alive once more.

I’m never this difficult, not with him. I love my brother more than life itself; I don’t take for granted the sacrifices he’s made since the day I was born to a mother who wasn’t ready for a baby. He’s always been a brother, a best friend, a father, a protector to me. I would be lost without his love and support.

But…

Without another word, he goes back to the kitchen and grabs an ice pack from the freezer. He wraps a cloth around it and places it over my ankle as I look out the window and wallow in the quiet Norcastle morning.

The sky is clear, the birds are chirping, and sunshine filters through the white curtains Grace gave me as a housewarming gift. On the windowsill sits another one of her gifts—the coolest flower vase, shaped like a woman’s bust. Sammy thinks it’s horrifying. Ha.

“Your appointment starts in an hour. You should eat something before we leave,” he tells me in a patient voice. “I know you’re nervous, but I got you the best physical therapist in the East Coast. Doctor Simmons has years of experience working with athletes, and they’ve all fully recovered. You’ll be in good hands.”

Today is my first day of rehabilitation for my posterior ankle impingement. And no, this isn’t a nightmare—I’ve pinched myself more than once to check.

I’m lucky I don’t need surgery, I guess, which means the recovery process is supposed to be faster.

But it doesn’t matter, does it? I’m not getting into The Norcastle Ballet. Auditions are an exclusive, one-time thing. If you miss your chance, that’s it. They don’t hand them out like candy, and I’m not getting a second shot at it.

“I’m not hungry.” My voice sounds rough when I speak, maybe because I haven’t uttered a single word since my “good night” to him last night. There’s not much to say, anyway.

I also don’t care about this Dr. Simmons person—no matter how good he is, he won’t magically fix what I so stupidly messed up. But Sammy doesn’t need to hear that.

My brother takes a deep breath—one of his frustrated ones—and runs a hand down his face. Perhaps it makes me a shitty sister, but it’s only now that I notice the heavy bags under his eyes and the tiredness all over his features. My heart sinks.

I’m being an asshole. An ungrateful, inconsiderate asshole who gets more love and support in her life than she could ever ask for but still complains about what she doesn’t have.

After I hurt my ankle at the dance studio, I could barely move. Luckily, Kyle was still around the area and took me to the emergency room.

Let’s just say, neither my brother nor I have very good memories of the last time I was in the ER. Open wound to the head, anyone? Yeah, that wasn’t a fun day.

The hospital called him, and he drove for hours, nonstop, until he got here. He thanked Kyle and took over from there, driving me to my apartment and staying with me for the past few days. Buying groceries, cleaning, changing my ice packs and compression bandages, calling a rehabilitation center… He did it all.

Sammy left his wife and daughter behind to take care of me at the drop of a hat. He left Inkjection, the tattoo parlor he owns, in the hands of my uncle Trey and canceled all his appointments because I refused to listen when my leg started giving me trouble.

I didn’t listen. And now…

Now everything I’ve built since I was four is gone.

Serves you right.

“Sammy…” My voice is small as I hold out my hand, reaching for him like I did so many times when I was a kid. His features soften as he wraps his tattooed fingers around mine. “I’m sorry.”

He only shakes his head, as if I wasn’t a total mess. “Nothing to be sorry about. I’ll always be here for you.”

“I know, but—”

“Shh…” He squeezes my hand and gives me one of those reassuring smiles that always manages to put all my fires out. It doesn’t work today. “I don’t need you to apologize. I only need you to eat. Will you do that for me?”

I nod because that’s the least I owe him. Sammy squeezes my hand one last time before he grabs the plate with the cheesy omelet, and I almost tear up from the smell alone. “Here.” He sits back on the bed and passes me the steaming plate.

I take my first bite and zero in on the bags under his eyes again. It’s undeniable that, despite the exhaustion clouding his face these past few days, my brother is a handsome man. We may not have had the best luck with our parents, but we can’t complain about our genes.

At forty-seven, his muscular build is pretty much identical to how it looked when he became my guardian seventeen years ago. His frequent visits to the gym certainly pay off, even if he’s all sweaty and stinky when he comes back and tries to shove my head and his daughter’s under his armpits. He’s so gross.

Both of his arms are covered in ink, and so are his hands, knuckles, and the side of his neck, as well as some skin on his back and legs. It’s safe to say my love for drawing was passed down by him. I might not be as talented as my brother—he’s the most popular tattoo artist in Warlington for a reason—but I’m not half bad.

I mean, I designed the tiny butterfly he tattooed on my ribs last summer, and it looks amazing, so there’s that.

Aside from a few gray hairs here and there—that he insists Lila and I are totally responsible for—it looks like my brother hasn’t aged a day.

“Do you want to take a quick nap before we leave?” I ask him with my mouth full, something I know pisses him off, but I also know he won’t scold me for it today. “You can take the bed while I read on the couch or something.”

He shakes his head as I suspected he would. I love my brother, but he can be a stubborn ass sometimes. He’s been sleeping on my pull-out couch for the past week, which is definitely not comfortable enough for any six-foot-three man. “I’m good.”

I arch a skeptical eyebrow, not buying it. He only ruffles my hair and takes the plate from my hands once I’m done. “Want another one?”

“No, thanks.” However… “Can you get me a chocolate bar, please? Second drawer.” I beg with a pout and everything. It’s common knowledge in our family that as soon as any of us—Grace, Lila, or me—give him the puppy-dog eyes, he’s a goner.

Hey, it’s not my fault he’s a big softie underneath all that harsh exterior. I might as well take advantage of it.

“This thing has no real nutritional value and you need that to recover, but fine,” he says, giving in after some more puppy-dog-eyeing. See? It works. “But only because I want you to eat, and right now I don’t care what.”

“Sure, sure.” I make grabby hands as he brings the chocolate bar over to my bed, and he laughs. It’s the best sound I’ve heard in days.

My phone buzzes on my bedside table, and my heart drops. I know who it is because he’s been texting me nonstop for the past week.

I ignored Kyle’s first text, then the second, then the tenth, hating myself a little more every time as I let the ball continue to grow. I’m not ready to face him just yet. I have so much on my plate right now that thinking about Kyle too is unbearable. And if that makes me a shitty friend…

Well, there you go. Something else to add to the list.

Bad daughter? Check.

Ungrateful sister? Check.

Terrible friend? Check.

“Come on, peanut. You need to get dressed, or we’ll be late.”

Pushing the guilt away, I instruct my brother to pass me the clothes I want to wear from my wardrobe, and I insist on using my crutches to get to the bathroom by myself. Once I call out that I’m safely inside the shower, my mind plummets to the dark pit I haven’t been able to crawl out of for the past few days.

After I got injured, Kyle had to find a last-minute partner for his audition. Sandwiched between all the unanswered texts he sent me, I read that Polina had luckily been available. If Kyle had missed his chance because of me, I would’ve never forgiven myself.

Relief crashed into me when I learned he’d managed to film his tape, which was a good thing.

Because he got accepted for an in-person audition at The Norcastle Ballet.

I should’ve called him to congratulate him because truly, truly, I’m proud of him. I know how much he’s struggled to make it as a male ballet dancer among unsupportive family members and “friends” who would laugh at the sight of him in tights. Assholes, all of them.

I was there for Kyle when he broke down two years ago after he came out to his family. His father didn’t accept it at first. I wanted to be there when he celebrated his most important milestone yet, one he’d fought so hard for, one we shared—but I’m ignoring his texts instead.

I might be twenty-one, but I can’t seem to grow up.

Tears roll down my cheeks, and I place my head under the shower, hoping the hot water washes them away. But it won’t wash away the truth—I could have been celebrating my spot in the audition, maybe, if I had listened to my body. Now my body is making sure I listen to it.

“Princess? Are you okay?” The concern in my brother’s voice tells me I’ve been in the shower for too long.

“Yes! Just finishing up!” I call out, rubbing my eyes and hoping they don’t look too red and puffy once I get out.

I only shampoo my hair once, forget about conditioner, wash my body, and get out as swiftly as this stupid ankle will let me.

It’s not like I don’t have a plan B. Since there never was any guarantee of passing the audition in the first place, I had already looked into other dance companies I could join. However, because auditions are off the table until I recover completely, Grace suggested that I take a ballet teaching job in one of the nearby studios. I never envisioned myself being a teacher, but I need to do something with my life. Right?

My brother isn’t pressuring me to take a job or anything, even though I have one. It’s not much, only a waitressing gig I take a few nights a week to help cover my expenses since I live away from home and all.

He’s already sacrificed enough, and he has Lila to look after. Plus, now my rehab. It’s too much.

Until I decide if I want to pursue a career in choreography or teaching, or until I can join a dance company, I need to work if I don’t want to go back home to Warlington. Which I don’t because I love it in Norcastle.

I belong here. I can feel it.

Monica, the manager of the bar I work at, promised me I could have my job back as soon as I recovered, but I’m still not going to get paid for at least two months. I’m lucky that my family can financially support me while I sort everything out, but it doesn’t mean I like it.

“Princess?”

“Coming!”

The time to feel sorry for myself is over. At least for now.

Once my hair is half dry and I put on some of my most comfortable clothes, Sammy and I leave for the injury rehabilitation clinic. At least my building has a working elevator so he doesn’t have to carry me down seven floors—because he would totally do that. My brother knows no limits when it comes to helping the people he loves, even if he ends up with the short end of the stick.

The drive to the clinic is silent for the most part. Grace texts me good luck on my first day of rehab, and my stomach drops. Because that’s where I’m going today. Not to the dance studio, but to a rehabilitation clinic.

I destroyed my whole career at the age of twenty-one, and there’s no coming back from it. And no matter how great this Dr. Simmons is, he won’t be able to fix that.