Pirouette [h.s.]

chapter 8

// your eyes like a shot of whiskey //

// warms me up like a summer night //

Intoxicated -The Cab

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Just text him, Phoebe. Stop being such a wimp.

It's now Saturday afternoon.

Obviously, I've been putting off sending Harry that text.

It's not that I don't want to, it's just that every time I go to send something, my fingers freeze, and I can't type out a message. I've tried to channel Luna's confidence in me, but that's been impossible, too.

I have exactly two hours left until I'm done for the weekend and every single time I take a break, I go to my bag and pull out my phone with the intention of sending him a message.

That hasn't happened yet.

It's not the fear of rejection that's stopping me. He could straight up tell me to fuck off and I wouldn't bat an eye. It's the opposite reaction that I'm scared of. What if he wants to hang out?

This is precisely why I've only had one serious relationship, if you could even call it that. It was a simple teenage love, before anyone really knew what love meant. Jonah was my best friend and he told me I was pretty and so, through teenager logic, we were dating. But we never hung out outside of school. That was all my doing.

I was scared of my ability to stay interesting, I think. If Jonah and I hung out, I would've had to keep his attention; I would've had to talk and be something worth spending time with. And I wasn't. I'm not. So we never hung out, and we fizzled out during the summer when I kept turning him down.

If I text Harry and he says he wants to hang out with me, I have to follow through with whatever plans we make. I won't be able to just sit there quietly with him, communicating through breaths and glances like Luna and I do. I can't just be boring, I'll have to engage and be...something more than I am. And that's terrifying.

With a groan, I click out of the two shared messages with Harry and instead search for Luna's name.

"I can't do this. I've tried to text him every single day and I just can't do it."

Hitting send, I lock my phone and throw it back down against my bag. I find myself in the mirror, stretch out my limbs from my little break, and grab onto the barre in front of me. Don't think about him.

I start my mid-day warmup with some plies, relishing in the stretch that floods through my thighs. My legs shake ever so slightly as I lunge deeper before pulling myself up. I drop my head back behind my shoulders as I repeat the action and my eyes catch the blinking smoke detector on the wall.

Of course the stupid blinking light is green.

Green like Harry's eyes. I wonder if his eyes are always that green. They're light and deep all at once, like floating algae or sun-soaked moss or-

Phoebe Iris, stop it right now.

I throw one of my calves up against the barre, with my toes pointed towards the ceiling and hum through the burn.

Sometimes dancing feels like a series of fire and ice. Burning muscles and tight, slick movements. It's a weird duality. You have to look as gentle and beautiful as humanly possible, but it's grueling and you're dripping sweat and contorting your body in the strangest ways. That's why I love it so much. It's hard work, but the outcome is stunning.