Page 17

CHAPTER 17

SUNNY DISPOSITION BY CAROL ADES

Brianne Archer:

I sit in the middle of the dance studio, stretching myself as far as my body will go. I already had dance class and cheer practice today so I’m warmed up at this point, but it doesn’t hurt to continue to make sure my body is ready to move. Parker walks into the studio, kicking his shoes off instinctively, his eyes are on me and then they’re not. I haven’t seen him since Friday night when he showed up at my house to make sure I didn’t get crushed or hurt.

In perfect Brianne Archer fashion, every moment from Friday between the two of us has been on constant replay in my head like a horror movie. I’m picking apart every detail to see if maybe there’s something I missed. Something that flipped Parker’s switch to make him flirt with me or care about me. Maybe Bellamy was talking about me and it made him realize that he’s got to take care of me now. Or maybe my brother threatened him… but that doesn’t seem like Bellamy’s speed.

“You're not in your normal…” he says first and I furrow my eyebrows.

“What?” I ask and he motions to me.

“You're not wearing tights and the black body suit thing,” he tells me.

“Oh… Yeah, I came straight from cheer practice. Leah had called it randomly so I didn’t have much time to change,” I explain.

“If you need to do that you can,” he tells me and I shake my head.

“Since it’s not a normal dance rehearsal or class, I don’t need to be in uniform. As long as you don’t mind what color I wear,” I joke.

I’m wearing a white sports bra with a black sheer workout shirt over the top and spandex shorts that are my favorite color green.

“I don’t care… But do your professors really care?” he asks and I nod.

“Cheer practices that are called by our coaches are uniform based. We wear certain practice shirts and outfits on certain days. And as for dance, it’s very strict, especially in the professional world… But it makes sense as to why,” I admit.

“Why?” he asks, getting ready to stretch just like I am.

“As harsh as it may seem, ballet is basically about perfection. In the dance world, your whole being is supposed to be smooth, sleek, one line. So tights help with that, always pink, never black. Leg warmers on until you are warmed up, then you have to take them off. As for leotards, they require black or pink because neither color is distracting. Miss Laurent, my professor, prefers black. She said it moves better with the body and helps show the lines of our movement better. So, I strictly wear black leotards on ballet days but I have plenty of different colors for solo rehearsal or personal practice,” I explain.

“Interesting,” he nods and I can’t tell if he truly wanted to know or not.

He sits next to me, starting his stretches, already more flexible now than he was a few weeks back.

“Is this helping? All of these classes?” I ask him, being the one to speak.

I told Dakota I needed to talk to him but this is a professional setting. We both decided on that and agreed, so I can’t talk to him here. Maybe after… If I can bring myself to do it.

“It is… You are. Not that I get to play yet, but I still practice with the team every week” he admits, but doesn’t let his look linger on me as he brings his body down to stretch his back.

I stretch myself too, easily splitting my legs and completely flattening my torso forward so it touches the ground. I hear an exasperated sigh. I look over my shoulder, my eyes hitting Parker, and his eyes practically devour me. He looks me in the eyes with hazy desperation.

“It’s infuriating… This,” he stares at me and I furrow my brows, pretending that his gaze isn’t affecting me at all.

“What?” I ask.

“You. How easily your body just… does all of this,” he mumbles.

Maybe I’m making this up. I have to be, right? The way he looks at me could be… Nothing. His eyes linger and I know I didn’t make that up. I stare at his face. He looks at me and unabashedly smirks. It’s subtle, but I do see it. I can’t help but fucking see it. Like an idiot, I look away. Professional, like I asked. I stand up from my split, forcing my mind to focus on the task at hand—making Parker better.

“Okay, we’re going to do some across the floor work after we warm up on the barre, okay? You know the same warmups we’ve been doing, so get into position,” I tell him. “We’re doing Tendu and Fondu.”

“Like cheese?” he asks and I sigh.

“I’ve been over this,” I remind him.

“No, we’ve never talked about cheese, I would remember that,” he tells me,

“It’s not about cheese,” I tell him as the music starts. I face him, holding the barre gently. “Tendu, do you remember that?” I ask and he shakes his head.

“Teach me,” he nods his head and I ignore his lingering stare that’s far more intense today than it was at any of our past rehearsals.

His eyes scour my body and he clenches his jaw the farther down they go.

“Tendu, it’s the extension of your leg, front side or back. I know we’ve done these before,” I show him all three ways, every direction. “Your foot massages the floor like so.”

I show how, my pointed foot brushing the wood dance floor under me, the satisfying scrape of my ballet shoe showing me how perfectly I’ve done the move. I bring my foot back into fifth position.

“And what about the cheese one?” he asks and I huff.

“It’s not cheese. Fondu in ballet means to melt. So take your form that you were in with Tendu and,” I demonstrate and he nods.

“Oh yeah, we’ve done that before,” he tells me and I clench my jaw.

“You’re infuriating today,” I inform him.

“Just like you. Because you told me Friday that I didn’t hurt you at all but I’m seeing now that you lied,” he says as he practices the Tendu first, his form decent, but definitely needing correction. I walk around him, straightening his arm and I bend down, turning out his sickled foot.

“Guide with your heel when you move your foot forward. When you’re returning it back, you guide with your toes, understood?” I inform him.

“Don’t ignore me,” he speaks, his eyes forward so he can keep his form correct.

I don’t give him the satisfaction of moving to where he can easily look at me, knowing that’s probably what he wants.

“I’m not ignoring you. We’re not talking about this. We never talk during our lessons, so why start now?” I ask, keeping my arms behind my back.

“Because—” He starts to lose his form and I snap.

“Ah! No, get back into position,” I argue but he doesn’t listen.

He turns his entire body to me, ballet stance gone, but football player definitely in the room. He reaches for me, his rough callused hands brushing under my arm to lift it softly.

“Here,” he informs me as if I don’t know. “And here.”

He bends down now, his other hand on the back of my thigh so he can look at my purple knee. The bruise is starting to turn green which means it’s healing.

“Who says they came from you?” I argue.

“Did they?” he asks, looking up at me from the floor.

The innocence and intensity of his eyes send fire through my veins. My body is completely betraying me, but how could it not? Parker Thompson is on his fucking knees in front of me with his hands touching my skin. There’s care and compassion in his voice. I’m ignoring the annoyance that I also hear but I can’t ignore the confusion in my own head. Why is he doing this?

“Parker…” I clench my jaw.

“I want you to be honest with me. That’s all I’m asking for. You don’t have to like me or want to be around me. You can tolerate me but please don’t lie to me, Brianne,” he mumbles.

“Fine,” I clench my jaw.

Parker doesn’t really talk. He doesn’t really do anything but what he’s told. He keeps quiet and to himself, so for him to ask this of me, for him to be so persistent, I don’t know how I could say no. I lift my shirt that I specifically wore because it was dark. If I had worn a lighter sheer shirt it would’ve shown the deep coloring on my hip bone that’s also yellowing and greening around the edges. Parker’s fingers touch my skin and send shockwaves through my entire body as the pads of his fingers graze my ribs.

“Brianne…” he mumbles, his eyes staring at the angry bruises.

“I said I was fine because I am. I’ve endured far worse bruising from being a cheerleader my entire life. Do you know how many times they’ve dropped me out of a stunt? I’ve broken plenty of fingers, and toes. I fractured my elbow. I survived. I’m okay,” I tell him, only hoping to get his fingers off of my body because it’s affecting me in every way it shouldn’t.

“I did this though,” he mumbles.

“It was an accident,” I admit.

“One that I should have avoided,” he admits.

“One that you made better by not letting the other player completely crush me. You were very quick in making sure that you protected my head and my back which were the most important things. I don’t get padding as a cheerleader. It happens,” I tell him and he clenches his jaw as I move back.

“I’m fine,” I tell him, keeping my voice more firm. “Across the floor, let’s go,” I instruct, ignoring the way he stares at me.

I back away, his hand no longer in contact and my eyes still on him before I fully turn around. He follows me. I stand on one side.

“Grand Battement,” I start and explain the movement, showing him.

I have lost my focus. I’ve lost my edge. I’ve lost every sense of control I had over this situation because he touched me. That alone is reason to run from him, to never give him another chance. Parker is dangerous because he’s practically undeniable. Now that my mind and my body know what it’s like to be with him, to be touched by him, to be seen by him, it’s hard to forget that. I’m still going to try, even if it’s one of the hardest things I’ve forced myself to do. I told myself no because he used me for some weird fulfillment. I can’t forget that, even if I do want to talk to him. Even if It’s gnawing on me to figure out what the hell his deal is and why he’s pretending to care so much. But if I know one thing, it’s that even if my mind is made up now, it will change in an instant… I want to talk to him but I need to fight that urge.