My phone buzzes on the floorboards, and I roll onto my stomach and grab my cell. I notice the name on the screen before I press the speaker button. SHAY.
“Hey,” I say, my face all smiles.
I can hear the sound of weights hitting benches and muffled chatter in the background. It’s safe to assume he’s at the gym. “Hey,” he replies. “So from your text earlier, I take it you’re not coming back.” His dejection sinks my stomach, my smile vanishing.
This morning I texted him a picture of my new view: the side of another stucco apartment complex. I thought it’d be funny. Especially since I told him I was apartment hunting last week. But maybe I should’ve known he’d be sullen. Friday he sent me a link to off-campus apartments in Columbus, Ohio.
I guess it’s just wishful thinking on my part—that he’d see the positives of why I’m here.
“I told you I wasn’t going back home,” I mutter, picking at the sheet on the mattress, dazed. My parents called for my new address so they could mail me some boxes of things: clothes, dishes, and stuff I took to college. When I gave them the address, I mentioned how it’d be easier to ship boxes to my “friend’s” place than have to pay The Masquerade the fee to receive large packages.
They bought the lie. They had no reason not to. I’ve always been truthful with them. Maybe that’s why it hurts to even think about.
“At least tell me you didn’t sign a year lease, Thora,” he says.
“I’m going month-to-month.”
“First smart decision.”
Ouch. I stay quiet, squinting at the ceiling. I know he’s just trying to leave a door open for me, so I can return to Ohio. But I need to be all in here. When he throws you a lifeline, don’t grab it. Even if it’s hard.
Shay sighs in frustration. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“It’s okay,” I breathe. “How’s conditioning?” Partly wanting to divert the discussion and partly wanting to hear more about him.
“Alright. Coach wants me to up the difficulty on my pommel horse routine.”
“You should,” I tell him. “You’re good enough to do it.”
“Thanks.” Voices escalate, and he muffles the phone as he talks to someone else. When he returns, he says, “I have to go. Some of the guys want to grab subs for lunch. Talk to you later?”
“Yeah.” We say our goodbyes, and I sit up, already wearing workout clothes.
Before I click off my phone, I notice the time.
Almost three.
My eyes grow and I spring to my feet, already late. I’m supposed to train with Nikolai today. I mentally calculate the bike ride to The Masquerade. If I don’t pedal fast, I’m going to be later than late.
I check my texts that I must not have heard.
Where are you? – Nikolai
Call me. – Nikolai
You’re breaking a fucking rule. – Nikolai
I text back: On my way. So sorry!
Last night, I grabbed my suitcase from his place, and he walked with me outside The Masquerade. I didn’t have to wait long for a cab, and he kissed me before I climbed in and left. I have trouble containing this smile in remembrance. I even subconsciously touch my lips.
I’m falling for him.
But I haven’t seen Nikolai since then. He had to practice with Elena this morning, so he scheduled a later time to train me.
I don’t know how things are going to be. I guess I’m about to find out. I just need to get there first.
* * *
By the time I arrive at the gym, my forehead is dripping with sweat, my cotton pants sticking to my legs, butt and thighs. I rode my bike (another thrift store find) as fast as I could without breaking the rusty, old thing.
Halfway there, I feared the chain would fly off. My one thought was: don’t fall off. Not don’t be late. My mental energy can’t turn back time. I’m just happy that I’m here, in one piece, with a bike also in one piece.
I spot Nikolai sitting on a large blue yoga ball, his eyes flitting to the clock with agitation and maybe some concern. He clutches his cell tightly.
When I approach with hurried feet, his head swings my way, pieces of his hair falling over his red bandana. I throw up my hands. “I’m so…sorry…” I lose my initial thoughts at the relief in his eyes. “You didn’t think…” something bad happened.
He stands. “I have no idea where you live, Thora,” he reminds me. “Just don’t be late again.” He gives me a harder, stricter look, delivering the lines with finality. Then he takes a few steps closer, with a much more intense gaze.
Butterflies swarm my insides. Stop smiling like a fool, Thora.
I bite my gums so hard. And I nod. “I will…I mean, I won’t.” Why? Why am I screwing this up right now? “You know what I mean…” hopefully.
He crosses his arms over his bare chest, his brows raised. “Think you can hold your weight today?” He’s all no-nonsense, seriousness—business.
Right.
He’s determined not to step in the way of my goal, and that means keeping things as professional as we can in the gym. Good, I think.
“I’ve been practicing on the aerial hoop,” I tell him, “so I hope so.”
“We’ll see then.” He leads me to the pole.
I stare up at the thirty-foot vertical structure that stands between me and the aerial silk. You can do this, Thora. I exhale a tight breath and step out of my cotton pants.
“Use your core,” he reminds me. “Don’t put all of your weight in your arm.”
I grip the pole. You can do this.
There is so much that says I can’t. But I’m going to try—with everything I have. I begin the climb in thin acro-shoes, using the tips of my toes and hands as I quickly make the ascent.
“Stop at ten feet,” he calls to me.
I gauge that height and halt not even halfway up. I exhale through my nose and tighten my clutch. Then I begin to extend my legs out, toes pointed. The muscles in my forearm burn and my body shakes.
“Use your core, Thora,” he says again.
It’s natural to want to use my arms as the force behind my power. I shut my eyes, exhale again, and try to focus on my abdomen, flexing and extending my body outward. In a curved line. You need to be horizontal, I tell myself.
I have to lift more of my weight. And I need to release one of my hands.
It seems impossible.
Try.
I will.
Two more breaths. My muscles constrict as I raise my body another degree. Every tendon burns. Sweat beads off my forehead.
No longer vibrating, I dig deeper and channel strength in my quads, in my core.
I am horizontal. Then I slowly release one hand. And I immediately grab the pole again. My legs drop like someone poked a balloon, busting whatever helium kept me afloat.
I feel heavier. Sagging in defeat, I slide down the pole, careful the friction doesn’t burn my bare thighs. I touch the blue mat and finally meet Nikolai’s narrowed gaze.
“You look upset,” he says.
“I just thought today I’d be stronger.” I feel like I’m wasting your time when I fail. It’s not a good feeling.
His eyes smile. “Today you were much stronger than yesterday. And tomorrow you’ll be even stronger. That’s the great thing about practice, myshka, you can only go up.”
I’m weightless again. It’s rare that someone else boosts me more than I do myself. “Thanks. I’ll try again tomorrow then.” I figure he’ll want to do some sort of workout: dead lunges, crunches, sit-ups, pull-ups—