Page 39

The air is frigid early December in Edinburgh as I walk along the Water of Leith, a river cutting through Dean Village. It’s a neighborhood dating back to the 12 th century, which used to be known for its grain mills, but is now a quiet residential area famous for its cobbled streets, stone bridges, and medieval style architecture. The rest of the company went out to celebrate after wrapping up the Edinburgh performances.

Lisa swore she wouldn’t leave my side this time. She felt so guilty after I told her what happened, leaving out the part about Charles coming to my rescue. I told her it wasn’t her fault.

But nevertheless, after what happened in Prague, I declined the group outing. Instead, I find myself walking the quiet streets, breathing in the chilly late afternoon air. I want to think through some things.

Taking a seat at a bench by the river, I hold the small bouquet of roses up to my nose, smelling the sweet scent, and I smile. A dozen burgundy roses, thorns intact and tipped with gold glitter, carefully wrapped in black parchment paper. I read the note card affixed to it for the hundredth time.

To My Minx,

Congratulations on yet another successful performance. I wish I was there to watch you dance.

Stay warm in Edinburgh.

Yours,

Charles

P.S. Reason number twenty-one: Your fascination with carrots. Now every time I eat something with them in it, I automatically think of you. But then, I don’t need help with that. I think of you far too often.

My heart skips a few beats as I imagine him munching on a carrot at a restaurant inside The Orchid, his thoughts on me.

Charles left early morning after our night together in Prague. He gently roused me on the bed, the softest caress and the gentlest kiss, and said, “Minx, I need to go back to New York to take care of some things at the bank. I was supposed to go back last night…”

He didn’t finish his sentence, but I knew he stayed for me.

My brain is foggy from the events of the prior evening, after which he and I took separate showers before he wrapped me in his arms as sleep overtook me.

I was cocooned in safety. No more nightmares or shadowy whispers.

And so, that morning, I lazily blinked open my eyes and smiled at him and I saw him catch a breath, his beautiful blue eyes darkening, his jaw clenching before releasing.

“Thank you, Charles…for everything.” For being here, for letting me feel pleasure again. For being patient with me. “Safe travels.”

We stared at each other, not saying anything more, because honestly, I’d no idea where we stood. My emotions were a mess, my mind still trying to process everything in the light of day. He was right. I needed to think things through before we took things further.

But I know my body is ready now. I just need to open up my heart.

He swallowed, not pushing me. “If my schedule permits, I’ll try to be at the last performance in St. Petersburg. But if not, I’ll see you back in New York.”

Leaning down, he pressed a kiss on my cheek and whispered, “You’re not alone, Taylor. Not anymore.”

His words echo in my mind as I stare at his note, one from each day I’d receive from him. The first bouquet arrived the day after, tucked with a note of something he thought about during his day. He’d always end the note with a postscript…a reason why he thinks I’m wonderful.

Reason number one: The fire in your eyes when you dance—I feel like I’m chasing your dreams or vanquishing your demons right alongside you.

Reason number two: Your wit and dry sarcasm. Do you know they say sarcasm is the highest form of intelligence?

Reason number three: Bravery. Whenever I think of that word, I think of you. The way you face the world, no fucks given, the way you don’t let your past keep you down, the way you are clear in what you feel…love, hate, everything written on your face.

The notes go on and on, arriving early morning with a bouquet of burgundy roses, the thorns intact.

Roses are more beautiful with thorns.

The walls around my heart crumble. He’s wooing me with actions.

As always, I take out my phone and send him a text message to thank him for the flowers, and include a photo of what I’m seeing in front of me.

Taylor

Thanks. The performance went well. It’s a gloomy day in Edinburgh. I’m at the Dean Village. But my day is made brighter by your flowers.

After taking a quick selfie, I attach it to the text message and press send.

A few minutes later, he replies.

Charles

Go to Stockbridge after your walk. There are some great cafés and bakeries there. They might even have carrot cake.

I smile and type back a reply.

Taylor

What are you doing now? Is the bank doing okay? Has the press calmed down?

As far as I know, while my performance has been average, the international tour has been decently received. Belle kept sending articles about the press raving about my Odile, the strength in my thirty-two fouetté turns in the most famous part of the ballet, the Black Swan pas de deux.

I may not be the ideal white swan, but my black swan is shining, the dark feathers gleaming under the spotlight. But now, I’m wondering, why am I so focused on Odette when I do Odile well? The black swan’s routine is more technical, more difficult, more famous.

Am I focusing on the wrong thing?

Charles

The bank is doing fine. We’ve sent the first wave of proceeds to the organizations, which is the smallest thing we could do. And the press is giving me a break. The Patterson trial is wrapping up soon, and I was able to quash the photos from Prague.

My muscles tense at the mention of that night at the club. Charles texted me later he didn’t want me to worry about the photos taken by bystanders. That he’d take care of them.

Those photos could’ve put us in a bad light, even though I was the victim and he was my knight.

The press is ridiculous.

Taylor

Thanks.

Charles

I’m at the hospital visiting Firefly, then I’ll head to The Orchid to meet your brothers for drinks.

Frowning, I know from our text messages the last two weeks he’s taking it hard around the holidays because it’s his sister’s favorite time of the year.

Taylor

How is she? Still no change?

Charles

No. I’ve never told anyone this, but there are days when I wonder if it’s hopeless. If I’m selfish for holding her here for me, and not really for her. After all, I don’t think she’d want to be hooked up to monitors and tubes. But I can’t let her go.

My chest clenches in pain. I can’t imagine losing Grace or any of my girlfriends. I remember the agony it was to lose Mom, to get the call from the cops telling me there’d been an accident and she was killed on impact. It’s a pain I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, not even the bitch Carla. But to have this torture dragged out for years…losing hope and yet feeling guilty about it?

Taylor

Grace believes in shooting stars. She told me they were the gods peeking down from the heavens and that’s when they’d grant wishes. The next time I see one, I’ll make a wish for her and for miracles.

Three dots appear, disappear, and reappear.

Charles

It’s almost Christmas. The city is beautiful—all decked out in lights. How is it possible to feel alone in a place with over eight million people?

I grip my phone tightly, wishing I were there with him, because I know exactly how he feels—lonely, but never alone.

Charles

I miss you.

My heart spasms as my fingers hover above the keypad. I want to respond and text him, I miss you too . But something holds me back…I feel naked, even though I’m bundled in a black turtleneck sweater and a thick puffer coat.

But I’ll get there. I’m sure of it. I’m a fighter and I’ve taken so many strides forward. I’ve just gotten so used to protecting my heart, to being alone, it’ll take time to rework my thoughts.

Emerson has been quiet on the case. Two weeks ago, he texted me the photo of the financier who was killed in jail and I remember my phone clattering to the ground when I saw it.

It was the charming man who gave me the champagne. Emerson is on the right track.

Other than the photo, the last update I have from him is, he has located a few more suspects, all powerful people in elite circles, and he’s chasing them down. I’m just thankful so far, there are no photos of me and nothing on Sir Ian, who has been completely professional and kind. He’s taken it upon himself to give me more coaching on Odette.

“Work with what you have. Don’t force something you don’t have. Use your emotions as a source of power for your dance. Channel them. Harness them into something greater. Vulnerability can come in many forms, Taylor.” That’s what he told me last week.

My muscles still tense whenever I’m around him, but I’ve come to terms with that reaction. It has to be a trauma response not grounded in reality.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I slide my phone back into my pocket and clutch the roses tighter in my hands. I look at the surrounding scenery, soaking in the gloomy atmosphere. The Victorian style streetlamps flicker on and off, casting long shadows on the wet cobblestone pathways. The trees are barren, twisting against the gray skies.

Kids laugh and their parents murmur something as they walk hand in hand, wearing colorful coats. A little girl giggles as her dad hoists her on his shoulders.

I stare at the families, my heart pangs.

Leap. Odette did it with Prince Siegfried. You can do it with Charles , the wind whispers.

I take out his notecard and read it again. They say distance makes the heart grow fonder, and I think it’s true.

He has stolen parts of my battered heart with each angry glare and snarky retort, with his heated glances and blistering kisses.

I have already given him power to pulverize the rest of me without realizing it.

But he makes me feel safe. When he’s there, the monsters don’t come.

And I miss him.