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I pressed my lips to her hair. Breathed her in.
She stirred. Shifted slightly. Her voice came, soft, cracked. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes, I do,” I said, voice rough. “You’re mine, Red. All of you.”
She didn’t answer. Just stayed pressed to me, her hand curling into my shirt.
Finally, she spoke. Voice barely above a whisper. “My family … we were always saving.”
I listened. Held her tighter. Let her words spill.
“Skimping was religion,” she said. “Mom clipped coupons like they were scripture.”
Her voice trembled. “We reused foil. Patched jeans. Watered down apple juice.”
I knew that life. Echoes from my own childhood. Before the billions.
“Sullivan’s Island wasn’t always rich,” I said, low. “Dad worked odd jobs. We ate what we caught.”
She nodded against me. “Mom painted. Never sold. Said it was for her saints.” Her laugh was bitter. “Emmaline learned to budget before she could read.”
I brushed a curl from her face. “You learned to survive.”
“More than that,” she said. “I learned to want. And to know I couldn’t have.”
Her words hit hard. I knew that hunger. The ache of reaching for more.
“We had hand-me-downs,” I said. “Shared one bike. Fought over who got the flat tire.” She lifted her head. Eyes red, but steady. “You get it.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I do.”
She leaned back. Still in my arms. “Ballet was my way out. Not just surviving.” Her voice softened. “Every pirouette was a fuck-you to poverty.”
I tightened my grip. “You made it beautiful.”
She snorted, soft. “Beautiful’s expensive. Shoes, classes, leotards. I worked doubles.”
I knew that grind. “I fixed radios for cash. Anything to keep us afloat.”
Her eyes met mine. A flicker of understanding. Shared scars.
“Mom never came to my shows,” she said. “Said she couldn’t afford the gas.”
My chest ached. “Dad came to one of my games. Fell asleep in the stands.”
She laughed, small, real. “At least he showed.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Until he didn’t.”
Her hand found mine. Fingers lacing. “Your mom left. Mine stayed but … wasn’t there.”
I nodded. The weight of it heavy. Our pasts mirrored, jagged and sharp.
“Emmaline was the fixer,” she said. “Kept Mom fed, bills paid. I was the dreamer.”
I brushed my thumb over her knuckles. “You’re more than that.”
She looked away. “Dreamers don’t last. They break.”