Brutal Obsession: Chapter 15

Willow and I follow Knox, Jacob, and Greyson into our apartment. Jacob has a metal baseball bat in his grip, just in case there’s someone still lingering. Knox and Greyson walk in empty-handed.

They split up and search our apartment, checking over every square inch. Willow and I ignore their orders to wait outside and go with them. I follow Greyson down the hall to my room. He finds it with unerring accuracy, which makes me wonder if he was behind that first time it was destroyed.

“See anything familiar?” I lean against the doorjamb.

He moves in a small circle, taking everything in like I did to him.

This morning, I woke up alone in Greyson’s bed. I don’t think anything happened, but I don’t remember the rest of the night. One minute, I was coming on his fingers and then falling asleep… and the next, I woke up in his bed, with sunlight streaming in through the window.

He sees things I don’t want him to, of course. The things I swept off my desk. The glass stand for the globe on the floor. He goes to that and lifts it, hefting it in his palm before setting it on my dresser. He rights the papers, flipping through them before shuffling them into a neat stack and leaving them on the edge of my desk.

“I don’t think your burglar did this.” He continues straightening, so much so that I wonder if he has a compulsion to do so. He puts my texts in a pile from largest to smallest and adds it to my desk. Then he gets on his knees and reaches under my bed.

When he rises, he tosses me the ball of glass that rolled away last night.

The miniature globe.

I catch it and look down. More blue has come off, revealing murky, raised lines meant to be valleys and peaks. The world in three dimensions. She used to spin it idly at night. She said she didn’t think she’d ever get the opportunity to see the world, and this was as good as it was going to get for her.

“Something important to you?”

I shake my head and set it down beside the stand. I intentionally step away from it—and, in fact, him. No need to give him any more ideas about me.

What I do want to do is ask him where he slept. Why he didn’t push the issue.

My throat is sore, and my body aches. Too much excitement, too much strain. My leg hurts worse today, too. The temperature has dropped further, necessitating jackets and hats and gloves. More snow is in our near future.

I find Knox, Jacob, and Willow in the living room.

Knox looks at me and shrugs. “We didn’t see anything of use,” he says apologetically. “I’m sorry.”

“What should we do?” Willow asks. “Is it too late to call the police?”

Jacob shifts. “I mean… Violet should’ve called them last night.”

I wince.

“My dad’s a police chief. It’s just, the sort of after-the-fact thing is hard, because leads go cold. We’ve already trampled over most of the house, you know?”

“He wore gloves.” I sigh. “But I get what you mean.”

“Next time,” he says helpfully.

Greyson strides out and shakes his head. “Nothing unusual in her room.”

Willow makes the decision for us. “We’re fine,” she says to them. Mainly Knox.

I don’t think he was gallant enough to sleep on the couch… just saying. She’s got the same just-fucked look that I sported last night. Part of me is proud of her. She deserves to have a fling. Some fun. She’s never been that type. She’s always wanted commitment.

And most guys in college are hesitant to, in their words, tie themselves down.

She used to say I got lucky with Jack, but now I’m not so sure luck had anything to do with it. We both got comfortable.

“Okay,” he acquiesces. “But if you need anything, you call the police and us.”

Greyson grunts his agreement.

And then they leave, and Willow locks the door behind them.

I go into my room and flop on the bed. I’m tired and vaguely hungry and in desperate need of another shower, but I just want to sleep for a million years.

Willow joins me. She crawls up next to me and lies on her side, facing me.

“Spill,” she says.

I open my mouth to deny everything, but I end up telling her the whole story. Even the most embarrassing parts about Steele and Greyson in the locker room. I leave out the gritty details, like them both coming on my face…

“Jeez,” Willow whispers. “No wonder you’re tired.”

“Yep,” I agree.

We both doze after that and wake up when her phone goes off. She blindly reaches for it behind her, finally finding it and bringing it in front of her face. She swipes it open, reads something, then tosses it facedown between us.

“Now you’ve got me curious.” I snag it before she can stop me.

I scan the text from Madison—she’s on the dance team, the one who was playing tonsil hockey with Jacob last night. She’s also the best friend of Paris.

I drop the phone, and Willow cringes.

“I didn’t know,” she says. “I just saw them together that one time, the first night you got back.”

“It’s fine. It’s not like I’m on the dance team anymore.” Oh, fuck. I bolt upright and grab at Willow’s hand. “My mother texted me last night. She said Mia Germain, the director of the Crown Point Ballet, contacted her.”

“Bitch!” Willow squeals. She sits up, too. “What the hell? You waited until right now to tell me?”

“I’m sorry, I forgot! A lot went on last night.” I laugh and grab my phone, scooting back to sit against my headboard.

Willow sits up, too, and hunches toward me.

I dial Mia’s number, and I hold my breath. I put it on speaker to put Willow out of her misery. Otherwise, I’d just have to repeat the whole conversation back to her.

It rings twice, then clicks as it’s picked up. “Ms. Germain’s line, this is Sylvie. Can I help you?”

“Hi, Sylvie,” I say. God, my palms are sweating. “This is Violet Reece. My mother contacted me saying Mia reached out…”

“Oh, hi, Violet.” Sylvie’s voice turns cheerful. “Let me patch you through. One moment.”

There’s a dial tone, and then it rings again. Willow grips my hand hard.

She knows how much this could mean. I don’t have any hope of them taking me back—I mean, not like I am. But maybe there’s a chance. Or… an opportunity to work with her in another manner. Or something.

“Good morning, Violet!” Mia’s warm voice comes through my phone. “I tried your old number, but it seemed you changed it. I apologize that I had to go through your mother. How are you doing?”

I had to change my number after the crash. I kept getting weird texts and calls from random numbers, making it impossible to block them all. Not to mention I lost my phone in the accident—it was smashed beyond repair. The phone company was able to transfer some of my old pictures and contacts, but I lost at least a week of data. So changing my number a week or so after that didn’t seem like that big of a deal. In the grand scheme of things.

“I’m good, thank you. How are you?” I always feel formal around her, even when she told me last year to call her Mia instead of Ms. Germain—what I’d called her for the past five years previous to that. It’s not stiffness in my voice, exactly. More like… I respect her too much to be casual.

“Good, good. Listen, your mother explained the situation with the doctor.” Her voice drops, and a door in the background closes. “I’m so sorry to hear about your leg. However, I have a relationship with some of our own physicians, and I was wondering if you’d like them to take a look? They know the particular strain a dancer puts on her legs.”

My heart leaps into my throat. “Oh, I’d—”

“I’m in New York for the next week to secure sponsors. We’re finishing with Swan Lake next month and opening auditions for Sleeping Beauty a few months after that.” She pauses. “If you’re able and cleared by our doctors, I’d like to see you audition. To see if we have a role for you.”

“Wow. Honestly, I didn’t expect…” A lump forms in my throat. “Sorry. Thank you.”

It’s my turn to grip Willow’s hand like my life depends on it. She leans into me, silent support, as my eyes burn with tears.

I can’t lose it now. “They told me it was impossible with the pain.”

Mia exhales. “I’ll be honest with you, Violet. It very well could be. However, your mother mentioned that the orthopedic surgeon you saw was one of the best in the country, but the doctors on your team weren’t versed in dancers. Do you want to hang up your pointe shoes on one opinion?”

“I don’t,” I answer. In a fucking heartbeat.

“Good. Dr. Michaels practices in Vermont. Let’s meet with him in two weeks and go from there. Okay?”

“Okay. Thank you.” I hang up and drop my phone, then promptly burst into tears.

Holy shit.

I’m not ready—and I need to be. I need to prove that, in a month, I can get back into some semblance of fitness. I have a feeling they’d be a little generous, coming off an injury, but not that much.

And everything rides on this.

Willow throws her arms around my shoulders, squeezing me tight. “You can do this,” she whispers in my ear. Just a secret passing between us. “I’ll help you. Whatever you need to chase your dream.”

I hug her back and close my eyes. There’s a weird giddiness in my chest, separate from the emotions I’ve been holding on to for the last six months. The grief of losing dance isn’t gone, per se. But maybe it doesn’t have to be forever.

“Call your mom,” Willow urges. “She’s going to have something bratty to say, but she’ll be happy for you.”

I hesitate. “Yeah, but then she’ll want to come up here. You know, visit. Or worse, try to attend the appointment and taint it. Or she’ll try to make sure I’m eating well.”

I give her a look. Not too long ago—I think it was our freshman year—my mom noticed I had put on a little weight on a video chat. Nothing crazy. In her words, my face seemed wider. So she rushed up and got rid of all the sugar in our apartment.

Even Willow’s stash of chocolates.

She threw out the salt, too, citing the fact that salt can make your body hold on to water weight. Instead, she filled our fridge with greens, plain chicken, fish. So many salads. Enough that I thought I might turn into a rabbit and take Willow right along with me.

“Good point.” She sighs and crawls out of bed. “Okay, fine. Maybe only tell her after that appointment.”

Unless she ignores my call altogether, which she has been doing since I got back to campus last weekend. Out of sight, out of mind.

Easy come, easy go .

I have the urge to get rid of the globe and delete her number from my phone. But that’s dramatic… and overkill.

Drama is Paris and her weird claim on Greyson. I gesture to Willow’s phone. “Just tell Madison that Paris can have him. I don’t really give a shit what she does.”

Another bald-faced lie, but whatever. It’s not the first one I’ve told, and it won’t be the last. Willow gives me a look that tells me she knows I’m lying, and she’s judging, but she still types it out and hits send.

“How are you going to get to Vermont?”

I grimace.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. What’s going on with you and Knox, huh? I thought it was just a little hookup…”

She has the good grace to blush. “I don’t know. At least Greyson didn’t have him waiting for you in the locker room.”

“Ew, no. I would’ve refused on the grounds that you’re my best friend, and we don’t do that to each other.”

She smirks. “Pretty sure Greyson would’ve been more than happy to bury you for that.”

I shrug. “Worth it.”

We go to brunch and talk about normal things. When we return home, the rest of the day is spent on the couch, watching movies and struggling through the homework we’ve been putting off. In my environmental economics class, we have to pick a project and do a presentation on it at the end of the semester. Some of our homework is leading us in baby steps toward it. Pick something that’s impacting the environment—water pollution, for example, or subsidized crops. My mind spins at how little I know about the world and how humans are steadily destroying it.

We make dinner, and I stare at the food. My appetite is nonexistent. It doesn’t help that my focus keeps getting yanked back toward ballet like a yo-yo.

Willow gives me a look. “Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?” I know what she means, though. And yet… I can’t help it. I want to be ready for an audition so fucking bad, I can practically taste my dreams reviving. I have to stop myself from pressing my hand to my stomach.

She shakes her head. “You’re going to do what you want no matter what I say.”

“You said you’d help.”

“Figured you’d go about it in a healthy way, is all,” she mumbles.

I nod once and grab a plate. The television fills the silence, but that’s it. I sense her wanting to say something else, to try and make it better, but there isn’t anything she can do. She’s waiting for me to assure her. So I do.

“I just need to make it,” I tell her in a low voice. “After that, I’ll ease up. Okay?”

She rises abruptly. “I love you, and I want you to chase your dreams. But, Violet? I don’t believe you.”

I spend the rest of the night watching Mia Germain choreography. Old videos of her teaching open classes, of the ballerinas who excelled under her guidance. They went on to dance for famous companies that toured around the world.

My heart aches with desire.

I hadn’t let myself go there, and suddenly it all seems like…

It’s there again. It’s a possibility.

Hope is this dangerous thing. It’s quiet and warm and it stays locked away until we feed it, and then it bursts into flame. It can consume us.

It will very well eat me alive.