“Your past doesn’t control your future, Abbi. In fact, your past doesn’t have to dictate anything about your life if you don’t want it to. Right now, you’re letting your past make your decisions for you. You’re letting it hold you back. You can’t compare a tiger to a leopard – they might be the same species, but they look and act differently.”
“So I shouldn’t compare Blake to Pearce just because they’re both males.”
“Precisely. I’m not saying you should throw yourself head first into a relationship with Blake…”
“You’re saying I should make the choice about how I feel and act, instead of letting my past do it for me.”
“Correct.”
“But what if I don’t want to feel anything for him?”
“Then that’s your choice. But think very carefully before you make a decision. After all, you never know when something beautiful might happen.”
Chapter Twelve – Blake
I should have kissed her.
I should have lowered her to the ground sooner, brushed that stray lock of hair from her face, and bloody well kissed her.
But something stopped me. Something in her eyes – a wariness, a hesitance – it hit me full force in the gut and it made me stop.
There’s more to her depression than she said. It doesn’t take a genius to work it out – she’s hiding in plain sight, keeping a part of her buried under the weight of her sadness.
Just like Tori.
But is she? Is she like Tori? No one believed her. I was the only one that ever listened to her, that ever believed there was truly something wrong with her. Mum brushed it off as teenage attention seeking, while Dad claimed it was merely her hormones and she’d get over it soon. Aren’t sixteen year old girls extra dramatic, after all? According to my parents, yes, they are.
But not to me. I was the one who crept into her room at night when she cried and held her as tightly as my twelve year old body could. I was the one who came away with mascara-stained t-shirts and wet jumpers.
Even Kiera, a year younger than Tori, never believed her. She believed Mum, believed Tori just got the overdramatic gene. Allie, Laura and Jase were all too young to understand. Hell, they were too young to even notice. I’m pretty sure I would have been had I not have spent every spare second with her.
But I still never understood completely. I never truly got how deep her pain ran, how stinging each rejection from our parents was, how much every word from the bullies that tormented her cut her. Every word cut into her spirit deeper than the blades she took to her skin. They took more out of her than every drop of blood she spilled.
I don’t get it even now. I don’t understand why she never said anything – to me, to anyone. But I hate it; I hate that she suffered alone, silently, and that she died the same way. I hate the fact I was too late.
Every single f**king time.
I was always one step behind. Always one minute too late. And always one dream ahead.
I’m determined not to be that person with Abbi. I’m determined not to be one step behind her. I don’t even want to be one step in front. I’ve known her for three weeks, short enough that I still remember the first time I saw her in the studio, but the only place I want to be stepping is right alongside her.
In time with her.
On the studio floor.
On the stage.
On her damn American sidewalk.
Dance steps or normal steps – I don’t care. If she cries, I don’t want to let go when she’s done. If she tries to run, I want to chase her and catch her. And if she tries to let go, I want to make her hold on.
~
“I feel like all I ever do when I’m not in work is be with you,” I tease, opening the door.
“That’s because you keep calling me,” Abbi replies, stepping into my apartment and looking around. “I was considering having a date with my pajamas and the movie, Ghost, tonight, but then you said you were cooking. I couldn’t resist. It’s Chinese night in my house tonight and I’m really not a Chinese food person.”
“Really?” I shut the door. “How can you not like Chinese?”
She shrugs. “I just don’t, so it was a no brainer. Greasy take-out food, or home cooked goodness. At least I hope it’s good or I’ve just wasted my time coming here.”
I smirk. “I’m a chef, so I’d like to think it’s good.”
“Really? And to think I can barely make toast.”
“Good job it’s me cooking. Can’t have you choreographing on a stomach filled with burnt toast now, can we?”
“Hey.” She points at me. “Okay, you have a point.”
I laugh. “Take a seat… Well, anywhere. You can sit in the front room and shout at me, or in the kitchen and talk to me.”
“Let’s go for talking,” she says, perching on a chair at the kitchen table.
I throw her a smile over my shoulder and grab a knife from the block on the counter. I set it on the side and put the chicken and potatoes in the oven dish.
“What are you making?”
“A summer chicken dish.”
“It’s not quite summer yet. It’s a bit slow this year.”
“Eh, it’s close enough. Besides, it won’t matter when you taste this.”
“Cocky,” Abbi accuses playfully.
“No, confident.” I grin at the garlic I’m crushing. “My childhood nanny used to cook this, and I made her write it down when I was ten so I’d be able to make it one day. I was the really annoying kid that was always under her feet when she was in the kitchen, and she agreed on the terms I left her alone. She didn’t say how long I had to leave her alone for, so I was back “helping” her the next day.”
“You had a nanny? Wow.”
“It’s not that great. Honestly, I’d rather my Dad played football with us more than once a year.”
“Where in London does your family live?”
“Chelsea.” I put the dish in the oven, check the temperature, and lean against the counter. “My dad is a lawyer with the family firm, and my mum has her own shoe label. Both of them work stupid hours, so they had no choice but to hire a nanny. It means none of us ever wanted for anything except them.”
“Really? You never saw them?” Abbi leans her elbows on the table and props her chin on her hands.
I shake my head. “Not really. Especially once Dad realized I had no intention of following in both his and Granddad’s footsteps by becoming a lawyer. He was pretty pissed off when I decided to become a chef. His parents are old fashioned, and I think Granddad engrained into him that only women should be in a kitchen.”