My Summer with New York

Too Close

Rose's POV:

It's been nine days since my big fight with Colby. It's been nine days since he left, and it's been nine days since we've talked. I constantly question if him and I are even together anymore. Pierre and the other dancers could tell something was wrong that night, but lately I've closed my heart off to the feelings of regret I'm feeling. My instructor asks me constantly if I need to take a break; the answer is always no. If I stop dancing or talking or doing anything simple, the memories of Colby fly back into my head with such a force. Staying home isn't even an option anymore. When I'm there all I see is Colby laying naked beside me, Colby laughing at something I said, or Colby staring at me with his eyes full of nothing but love and admiration. The way his eyes looked at me the night of our big fight will haunt me until I die. He looked so angry almost as if he could've killed me with that one look.

As my alarm goes off for morning classes, I repeat the same mantra I have been for days now: You're fine. You're breathing and you're alive. Just hold off the tears until you get home. You're stronger than you think. Become a robot. Don't feel or think. It's pathetic, I fully realize that, but I doubt I would get out of bed if I didn't say it. Mother and father have been warily watching me carefully. They see me as some fragile piece of glass that could shatter into thousands of pieces at any second. I quickly throw on my leggings and my dance shirt before I walk out to the kitchen. I can hear their hushed whispers before I'm even in the room. "She's not getting better Beck! She needs help." My mother tells my father. She must truly be worried about me if she's calling my father Beck. "We can't force her to get better right away dear. Give her more time; it's only been nine days." He tells her. My father says the word nine days as if it's some sort of curse. He says it as if it's going to be what destroys me. I choose this moment to walk in the kitchen. They send each other panicked looks before slipping into an uneasy silence. "How's school going Rose?" My father asks me. I shrug. "How is Isabelle adjusting? We haven't seen her around here in a long time." My mother says. I shrug again. They sigh collectively but don't try to bring me into the conversation anymore.

My first class ends at 9:00 in the morning. I have until 12:30 before my next class begins. I drive home in complete silence because lately all the songs have remind me of Colby. I walk silently up the stairs to my apartment, ignoring all of my neighbors who try to communicate with me. There's a note on the door from my mother telling me that Mitchell the intern is here working in my father's study. The intern has the door unlocked and also has a note waiting for me. It says the same thing as my mother's did, but she probably told him that I've been unstable lately. Bitch. I walk to my father's study to see Mitchell bent over a case file, and he still hasn't noticed me. I use this moment to notice things I've never noticed about him. He has brown hair that's cropped short on the sides but still lengthy on the top, surprisingly he has stubble covering his face, and his skin is surprisingly dark for someone in New York.

"Are you just going to stand there and stare at me all day?" He asks me without looking up at me. "I wasn't staring. I was here to ask you something." I say back. "You're doing more staring than asking sweetie." Mitchell says as he finally looks up. His eyes are a soft brown, and they already have my full attention. "Would you like something to eat? I'm going to cook before I head back to school?" I ask. For the first time since Colby left, my voice has that sharp tone it always has. Mitchell must catch it too because he smiles. "What are you making?" He asks. "I was probably going to make sandwiches." I admit honestly. "Aren't you supposed to have like some strict dietary policy?" He jokes. I smile because he's not the first person to assume that. "Yes but I never follow it." I tell him. Mitchell laughs and closes the case file. "I'll sit out there with you while you make them." He says. I don't answer him, I just turn and head into the kitchen. I pull out sub rolls, ham, turkey, chicken, lettuce, tomatoes, mayonnaise, mustard, and a small bag of potato chips for both of us. I begin to make my sandwich, and I can feel Mitchell's eyes on me as I do. "Are you not going to eat?" I ask him. "You're not making it?" He asks instead. I roll my eyes and tell him that he can make his own sandwich. It's surprisingly easy to be with Mitchell, and for the first time in days, I feel happy.