Page 3 of Something Like Sugar (Pine Forest Something #2)

SHANA

I choke on the powder from the force of my slippers in the rosin box.

Tears fall in droplets, but that doesn’t stop me from leaping full force and twirling around in a series of moves that has me beholden to the earth beneath my dance floor. It’s just me and the space I create.

Grand Jeté!

Her lips on his skin.

Cha?né!

His hand in hers.

Fouetté, fouetté! Leap!

Not yours.

I fall forward into a deep lunge, pulling my body around in a frenzy of pain, jealousy, and absolute sacrifice. Before I know it, I’m flush with the floor, in a straight split that could cut the earth in two so precisely, it mimics how I feel in my heart.

Torn.

Half of me a sad, lonely child, and the other a fierce warrior of tomorrow…even if I don’t know what it may bring.

But I’m on my feet before the tears even dry on my skin, wiping them away as I storm to the dressing rooms. There, I unlace my pointe slippers and carefully cradle each swollen foot in my hands.

I’m rough on my feet. But they’ve always carried me through anything. Dance got me through my mom’s death when I was just a little girl with a pair of pompoms and no clue what terminal illnesses were.

But it seems those illnesses like knowing me , because they didn’t stop at one parent.

It’s dance that will get me through this again.

When I’m the last of my kind , dance will be here like it always is.

But I do need to live a little.

Maybe I should get out with the girls to Cowboys Paradise and take shots of colorful liquids and fire… or maybe just a beer to start, because that sounds super intimidating.

But I should be there.

Trying things. Meeting people.

Getting over this carnal deficit.

I shouldn’t be a twenty-eight-year-old virgin waiting for a fairytale someone to show up and make life better.

It doesn’t work that way, and I don’t know why I’ve let myself hide in my hoodie, as Devyn puts it, for so long that I’ve blinded myself to an entire world of dating and relationships. Or heck, even just a fling like Lemon.

I can already feel my cheeks heating at the thought of meeting a total stranger for physical reasons, and then what? Just never talking again?

That’s a thing normal people my age do.

Doesn’t make it any less weird.

But what’s the alternative?

What if Devyn’s right, and I find the perfect forearm , for lack of better terminology, and I blow it because I know absolutely nothing about sex?

Will people even want to date me if they know I’m a virgin?

What if I’m horrible at it? Is there an expiration date on when you can become decent at something like that?

Finishing up my massage and lotion routine, I shove my feet into a pair of cozy socks, and my favorite purple converse.

I flex and point, appreciating how the shoes form to my feet and allow for movement—even when bound, and it hits me then, why these shoes are so dependable.

But I can’t bring myself to put a voice to the words floating through my head. The ones somehow finding a common link between my trusty shoes and my… virgin problem.

The reason they’re so great at what they do is because they’re broken in.

I cringe, because it is cringe, and I open the door to the courtyard as I let that thought sink in. Goosebumps scatter over my arms and legs, the lace skirt and shawl barely providing me coverage from the chill of fall, but I like it this way.

The cold feels sharp and real.

Sometimes, I need the reminder that it’s all real.

That I’m not just floating in a time warp, plastic-wrapped bubble, immune to all there is and ever was. That I’m not just a girl in the mirror, spinning days into months and months into years, never making eye contact with the person staring back at her.

I think about it all the way through the courtyard, my heartbeat quickening when we pass Sugar Stable. I commend myself for not searching the window to see if he and his blonde pair of lips and legs are still there.

I hardly even think about her at all.

Not about the way she tugged onto his arm with both hands, nestling her perfect face into the crook of his neck, probably smelling his cologne, which I only know from years of friendship with his younger sister, and not because I checked his bathroom or anything, is Nautica , and it smells amazing.

But she was there to sniff it, whoever she is.

And she’s so pretty, I can’t stand thinking about the way she kissed his cheek or put her lips on his skin.

Skin that I don’t care about.

Skin that I’ve caught dozens of other preppy looking fling-a-dings pressing their lips against before her.

She won’t be his last.

For the same reason he can’t be my first.

Because people like him like people like her. And people like her know how to fuck.

Plain and simple.

That’s what I’ve got to learn how to do.

I contemplate ways one learns this sort of thing at twenty-eight, but I come short of nothing when I start considering there might be an app service.

A ‘ride’ share, perhaps?

I kick the ground with my sneakers, doing a double take when some of the rubber scrapes off the toe, but they’re sturdy enough they can take it.

Just like me.

I pull my spirits back up, where I tell my dance team girls they should always be, and remind myself that if I can deal with losing my mom before puberty and growing up learning things like tampon hygiene and bra cup sizes from the pages of magazines , then I can handle sex.

I mean, I have the parts. I understand the basic mechanics.

Is it that hard?

I scrunch my nose, embarrassed at my own sordid thoughts and thankful as ever that other people can’t hear them.

But when I finally reach the front door, the same yellow trim with white siding that’s been there since Mom was here to greet me, flakes off beneath my fingers.

Nothing lasts forever.

My energy shifts as I push open the door, sloshing off the fantasy of being out here and trading it for the harsh reality of what’s in there.

Because even in my current state of torment, and apparent sexual frustration, the weight I feel when I walk into my house and smell the threat of loss in the air, when I hear the beeps of monitors, sense the emptiness—it never disappears. I guess it’s not always a bad thing.

It gives me no choice but to face my fate.

I click the front door shut as quietly as I can and pad to the kitchen.

The fridge reveals three Honeycrisp apples and some frozen wa?es.

I’m not much of a cook, my whole life being spent in and out of cars on my way to dance rehearsals or competitions.

It was just me and Dad for so long that my diet is not what most would imagine for an athlete.

Tonight, I poke at the cinnamon flakes on my plate and find them less tolerable than usual. It’s just me I’m cooking for at this point. That’s why.

“Shaker, that you?” The raspy voice calls me from across the house, and I’m up in an instant, running and sliding on socked feet into Dad’s room.

“You’re awake!” I hold myself back from tackling him in a hug.

He’s not awake much these days. My cheeks pull into a wide grin, and I settle for a nuzzle and a seat next to his bed instead, minding the heart monitor.

He’s in end-stage care, and they have a sort of protocol for these home health situations.

The beeping is constant, the wires nothing more than reminders of doom. Those monitors aren’t going to save him. They’re just going to be the last thing we hear before he’s gone.

“I’m awake,” he replies, the edges of his eyes crinkling as he attempts a weak smile. “I have to tell you, before I get all gobby mouth again.”

“What is it?” I say, when he clears his throat and reaches for the water at his bedside. I position the straw into his mouth.

“A man came to see you. Didn’t say who he was. Looked familiar. You know how I am with faces.”

“Someone came by for me?” I set the water down.

I didn’t ask anyone to come by, and the only man I hang out with is Jeremy . He’d have simply texted me. “Good lookin’ fella.” He grins. “Left you that beautifully strange plant. Think he’s sweet on you.”

I scan the room before I see it. It is just how Dad describes it, beautiful and strange.

I cross the room, fingering the purple, bell-shaped leaves, hanging in symmetrical rows over a large potted plant. Digitalis Purpurea , a card at the base of the plant reads.

A familiar chill races down my spine.

Sugar Plums. Like you, a vision, dancing through my head. Dry your tears, sweet vision. I’ll be watching.

“Who did you say left these?” I croak, my throat suddenly a thick knot of emotions I can’t dance away.

My hands clench the paper so tightly my knuckles turn white, until Dad finally notices, grunting as he repositions.

“Hold on,” I say, rearranging the pillows and angling his bed. “Is that better?”

He smiles, chuckling softly, but it’s a laugh, and I’ll take it.

I smile too, and sit back on the chair, this time on one leg like a child. Dad takes a look at me perched there and laughs again. We stay like that for a minute, eyes locked, smiling.

I’m not ready to say goodbye to the man who looks like an older version of myself staring back at me.

Someone who taught me to ride a bike and lie about stupid things that don’t really matter, to decide what’s right and wrong, and to let music and feelings tumble out so they won’t be locked up forever.

He taught me to be the person I am today, and here he is, smiling , like he’s happy he’s almost gone.

Like he’s not any day away from his last breath.