Heartfall

By J.B. McGee

Ballerina Claire Ross has never been good enough. Not for the girls in the elite group of professional dancers in her class and certainly not for her brutally honest, overbearing ballet teacher. She definitely doesn’t like what she sees in the mirror. Simply put, she doesn’t love herself… so how could she possibly love someone else?

After twelve years of friendship, Sebastian’s adoring gaze holds more. They soon find themselves unable to resist the transition from friends to lovers.

When tragedy strikes, Claire finds herself in an unfavorable position. Regardless of the weight of the emotion, she must make difficult decisions that impact the rest of her life.

Will Claire see that her true love has been right in front of her? Happily ever after isn’t just for fairy tales. To get hers, all she has to do is trust - open her heart… and fall.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.B. McGee
• Release date: Apr 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524220167

Book preview

Prologue

LIAM

FOR TWO YEARS I’VE been working this job. Countless times I’ve safely ushered some of the most gorgeous girls from the dark parking lots to their dorms as a proud member of the Cambridge all-girls college security team. Never once have I actually wanted to date any of them. Heck, I’ve never even really wanted to get to know them. It’s easier to protect them that way. No distractions, no attachments. All that changed when I got called to the side stage in the fine arts building. That’s when I saw her, her foot arched, her entire weight on the toes of one foot while she bent and unbent the knee of her other leg, briefly touching the toe of that one foot down to propel her body into a spin.

My mesmerized eyes fixated on her, and every time her face flashed in front of me for a beat, I was pierced by her blue eyes that stood out against her dark features. Even with her spinning, her exquisite beauty struck me. Maybe because her black hair was slicked back into a bun and the only thing I could focus on was her face, not her graceful arms, not her strong, toned legs. Just her face.

She stopped at the exact time the music I’d drowned out ceased. The auditorium fell so silent the rise and fall of her breaths reached my ears. She arched her spine, let her head fall back, and extended one of her legs out to the side while resting her weight on her other knee. The mounds of her full breasts were pushed up to her long neck. She wasn’t like the other dancers. Instead of being so thin I could count all her ribs, she had curves in all the right places. I sucked in a breath as my brain conjured what it’d be like to run my hand from the side of her cheek down her neck, and then strum the delicate flesh of her breastbone before traveling further south. I exhaled, then inhaled, hoping to get a whiff of her scent, but she was too far away. Instead of applause filling the room, a man sitting behind a table in the empty audience leaned into a microphone. That completes your audition. Thank you, Claire.

Claire.

She stood and turned toward me as she pranced off the stage. Her eyes connected with mine, and no matter how hard I tried to pry them away or sever this instant connection that drew me to her, I couldn’t. The closer she got, the more her cheeks flushed. She tucked her head down as she passed me, and my body’s temperature must have increased by ten degrees as I inhaled vanilla, flowers, and Claire for the first time.

A scent I knew I’d never forget. One I’d crave.

In less than two minutes, I’d become attached.

In less than two minutes, I’d wanted more than I ever knew I could have.

In two minutes, I’d started falling.

Worse than that, I didn’t even know if I’d ever see her again.

Part 1

CHAPTER 1

CLAIRE, AGE 4

YOU SAID YOU WANTED to be a ballerina, Claire. That’s all I’ve heard for the past year. Mom lifts my chin. That you wanted to be a princess and twirl on your tippy toes.

My eyes fill with tears as I look around the room.

What’s wrong? Tell Mommy.

I shake my head and start to run for the door, but Mommy pulls me into her arms. Claire, don’t run away. Just tell me what’s wrong.

I’m scared.

She smoothes my hair back. There’s nothing to be afraid of, though, sweetie. Just be yourself.

But what if no one likes me?

A tall man walks up to me and smiles. Someone not like you? No. He shakes his head. I already like you, Claire. I’m Mr. Robins. I’d like to teach you how to twirl on your toes along with my new friend, little Tiffany. Would you like that? He looks like the prince from Sleeping Beauty, but with longer hair and dark brown eyes. He’s wearing tights and slippers with a baggy shirt. Despite being nice, I squeeze Mommy tighter.

Tiffany smiles at me and offers her hand, tilting her head, but I stare at her big blue eyes. Her brown hair is twisted in a knot on the top of her head. I’m not sure how she got it like that, but it looks like it’s tight, like it’d hurt. My mom just put mine in a ponytail. Would you like that, Claire? To come with Tiffany and me?

I shake my head.

Mommy laughs. You’re not here for people to like you, silly girl. You’re here to dance. Just dance. Chin up, Claire. She tilts my head up and swipes my tears away. You can do this. I try to smile. She kisses my forehead. You’re going to absolutely love it. The dance. She pushes me back some and puts her hand over the thumping beneath my leotard. It’s in here, Claire. It’s inside you. Go learn how to show it to the world.

My arms squeeze Mommy’s waist as tight as I can, but she pushes me away. Don’t go, Mommy.

I love you, my Claire Bear. Now, go learn how to be a ballerina.

CHAPTER 2

CLAIRE, AGE 16

I DON’T WANNA GO TO Nicky’s stupid company slumber party. I glare at some random, arbitrary spot on my pink wall, stretching my body across the floor between my spread legs, holding my hands above my head. Can’t we make up some lame excuse to miss it? Like we have food poisoning or something?

Tiffany, my best friend for the past twelve years, huffs. We have to go. That excuse only works so many times.

I stare at the ceiling. What’s the point of these anyway? It’s not like the entire company goes. It’s not fair Sebastian and Ben get a pass. Sebastian Reyes and Ben Dolin, the two guys in our company. Obviously, it’d be inappropriate for them to attend a slumber party, but I’m sitting here trying to come up with some excuse as to why it’d be inappropriate for me to attend. And me wanting to rip Nicky’s hair out probably won’t work, either.

Maybe this time it’ll be fun, Tiffany says. Momma taught me if I don’t have anything nice to say, then to just keep my mouth shut. So that’s precisely what I’m doing. Nicky and Audrina aren’t as bad as you think they are.

Mhmm. I can’t hold the sarcasm back even when my mouth is closed and I’m muttering. Have you forgotten what they did to Cayce at last year’s little slumber party?

She snickers. Claire. They did Cayce a favor.

Really? Can she actually hear herself? Is that what they call that these days?

Just sayin’.

I can’t believe you’re defending them. I straighten my body, arch my back, and twist from left to right, then lean over and grab my right ankle. They’re not nice people, Tiff.

Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow. I gotta go. Mom’s calling me.

Bye.

Speaking of moms. Mine tells me not to overanalyze things. So why do I find myself sitting here wondering why it feels like she didn’t really have to go, like she was sticking up for them, like maybe she’s their best friend instead of mine?

That’s just foolish, though. Because this is Tiffany. My Tiffany. Twelve years of having to pry us away from each other on Christmas Eve so we can spend twenty-four hours apart before we’re together again for another three hundred and sixty-four days. So, the very notion she’d entertain being friends with the mean girls whose sole purpose on this earth is to find ways to stab a knife in my heart is absolutely absurd, right?

CHAPTER 3

HOW WAS SCHOOL? MOM asks as I toss my book bag on the floorboard and slide into the worn leather bucket seat of her old Honda coupe.

I shrug. Good. Tiffany told me I should try out for cheerleading. That she’s thinking about doing it.

The car line barely moves as I buckle my seat belt. And do you want to do that?

I’m not stupid, Mom. Despite you hiding behind your hair, I can see you grimacing over the bills. It’s all you can do to afford for me to dance. Hence why she’s picking me up from school. She can’t even afford to get me my own car, even though that would mean she could actually have a lunch break that included eating instead of chauffeuring me around town.

The lines of her pale forehead smooth and she exhales as she grips the steering wheel a little tighter. She has long natural blond hair, and for some reason, it’s easier to see her features past it. You let me worry about the money. She glances at me, her blue eyes accentuated by the smoky lines of her charcoal eyeliner and brown eye shadow. Her nude lips form a small smile. If you want to cheer, then try out. I look nothing like her. Her eyes are a much lighter shade compared to mine. Hers the color of the sky on a clear day, mine the color of it on a bright night when it’s illuminated by a full moon. My father’s genes were clearly the stronger of the two. I don’t really remember him.

I’ll think about it. That’s what I told Tiffany. The line finally starts to move. Money aside, I’m not sure how we’d hardly have time to do both.

She nods, chewing her cheek. Sixteen years on this earth and I’ve figured out that’s what she does when she’s deep in thought. Don’t worry about it, Mom. I’m not going to do it.

I’m not worried about it. It will all work out. Do it if you want.

Okay. Raindrops start to fall on the windshield. Great. That explains why my mane is so uncooperative. I pull the visor down and drag the strands of my dark, frizzy hair into a ponytail, twist it into a knot, and secure it with the elastic from my wrist. Reaching down, I unzip my book bag to take my bobby pins case and secure any loose ends. Mr. Robins won’t like it if either of us do anything other than ballet, anyway.

Huh?

Cheerleading. He won’t like it if we make the squad. He’ll be livid. He always says you pick one skill and perfect it. For us, that’s ballet. It’s been ballet for twelve years. You don’t all of a sudden try out for cheerleading halfway through high school. I shake my head and throw my hands in the air. Who does that?

Mom turns into the convenience store she always stops at to get my afternoon snack before dropping me off at the studio. You. If you want. Don’t be a follower. She glances at me. I’ll be right back.

I’ll— She opens and closes the door. Everything in me should be thankful for the food she gets me before every class, for the gesture of her buying me a snack, for the fact she doesn’t want me to be hungry before dinner, but I can already hear Mr. Robins drilling in my ear about it. I’ll eat it anyway, though. I’ll likely consume every last unhealthy crumb of it, even if I have to hide doing it, because my stomach rumbles as she opens the door and tosses the bag in my lap. She puts the car into drive. Thank you for the snack.

You’re welcome, sweetie. I’ll pick you up at the end of your class. Be watching for me so I don’t have to come inside, please.

I nod.

The quick shop she stopped at is right across the street from the studio, so she comes to a stop in front of the old building in no time, and I lean across the console and give her a peck on the cheek while grabbing all my bags with one hand and opening the door with the other. Love you.

Love you, Claire Bear.

I kick the door closed. Stepping under the light pink awning that reads, Amelia Institute of Dance, I pull the French door and walk through the modest entrance. Benches line the glass walls. A tall black granite counter is situated in front of one-way mirrors that separate the studio from the waiting area so parents can watch their children dance.

The studio has gone through some changes since that first day standing in this lobby, but I remember it like it was yesterday. How on the way Mom had talked to me like I was a grown up about how there was another dance school, a bigger, more popular one, in Greenport, but this one was the best. And she only wanted the best for me. I can’t help but smile as I remember her telling me to go learn how to be a ballerina. To just be myself.

I was myself, and each class I watched as groups of friends were made. Sometimes, a few of them would welcome me into their conversation, but mostly, I watched as they’d cover their mouths and giggle from afar. Initially, I’d try to join in, but they’d change the subject to something else once I got near them.

At four years old, the thought never crossed my mind that being myself may not have been good enough because Tiffany, one of the other more reserved students, had become my best friend. She and I were inseparable. The only other person in the class who paid me any attention was Sebastian. When we first started dancing, he was nice, then he thought girls were gross, and eventually he turned into this brilliant dancer who was awkward at best with his long, lanky legs and pimples. But these last couple years of high school, his brown hair has darkened to more of a black, which contrasts more strongly against his green eyes. He’s always been lean, but the lines of his face have defined and his jaw has become square. To say Sebastian is the object of the girls’ affection is an understatement. One thing we all have in common where he is concerned is that we all want to be his partner. I have never even been chosen for a solo, let alone to dance with him. Tiffany was his first.

She’s always been skinnier than me. By the time we were ten, she was also much taller. Her legs long and lean, whereas mine were slightly chunkier. Well, Mom always scolds me when I call anything on my body names that have negative connotations. Like chunky. She says that implies there’s fat on them, and there wasn’t and isn’t. They’re all muscle. Bulky muscle. The last thing a ballerina should have or want.

She’s lighter. Easier to lift. I unload my book, dance, and snack bag on the bench and collapse, then open the crunchy cheese doodles Mom bought as the door from the studio opens. Good afternoon, Miss Claire. How do you do?

Good. I smile as I pop the first one in my mouth. Better now that I’m here. I would live here if I could. Mom was partially right that first day. Dance is in my heart, but also in my veins.

Mr. Robins’ face crinkles as I bite down. I want to spit it out, but I’m starving and it’s the only thing I’ll be able to eat for hours. His nose scrunches. You’re never going to be the best ballerina eating stuff like that. How many times have I told you? I nod, fold the package, and shove the bag into my tote. Twisting the lid off the soda Mom also purchased for me, I take a swig. Or that, he grumbles.

I swallow the fizzy pop and replace the cap. Pointing to the restroom, I excuse myself. When I’m safe in the small room, I flip the switch to the light and the fan, and sit on the commode with my head in my hands as my chest burns, starts to heave, and soon my fingers are wet from tears.

Mr. Robins drills into us not to mistake hunger for thirst. Maybe I’m just thirsty, so I turn the knob for the water and stick my head in the sink to drink water from the tap until my stomach starts to slosh with every move.

Unsure of how long has passed, the main entrance chimes, and I snatch a paper towel from the roll, clean my face, and fill my lungs with a deep breath. I bet that’s Nicky. She usually arrives not long after me. Maybe I’ll stay in the bathroom for the rest of the afternoon. That way I won’t have to look up her nose or have my skin crawl when she squints her eyes and shrugs her shoulder as she dismissively walks past me. I hate to call her a mean girl. After the movie titled that, it seems so cliché, but that’s what she is. She’s just a mean girl. There are other words for her that aren’t PG, but that’s the nicest one I have for her. Anyway. Staying in the bathroom. It’s not a bad idea. Until someone knocks on the door. I gaze at my reflection in the mirror and swear I’ll never eat another cheese doodle or drink another soda in my life. Even if my mother buys them for me. Okay. I’m lying. I said that last time. I don’t have the heart to tell her I won’t eat them. And I don’t have it in me to waste them or refuse food. I don’t like being hungry.

Claire. Are you okay?

Crap. Yes, Mr. Robins. I’ll be right out.

Okay. I was just checking on you.

Thank you. I appreciate that. Please. No, you don’t appreciate it. Would he check on Sebastian if he were in here? What if I was taking a crap? Who checks on someone for being in the bathroom for too long unless you’re five? Ugh.

Taking a last peek in the mirror, I slap my cheeks and try to run a paper towel through my hair to hide the fact I’ve nearly bathed in the sink bowl before unlocking the door. When I exit the bathroom and make my way back to the lobby, Nicky is sitting on the bench by my stuff. Like we’re best friends. I roll my eyes, grab my bag, and head to the locker room to change into my leotard, tights, and pull on a pair of my slippers before going back to my things.

She’s on one corner of the bench. I try to go to the total opposite side and prop myself up on pillows and start doing my homework. It’s hard to ignore the weight of Mr. Robins’ eyes or the crunch of her carrots.

Carrots are a lot more expensive than cheese doodles. They also require refrigeration and aren’t as easily obtained at the little convenience store across the street. With each snap, I wish our circumstances were a little different. I don’t want to be her because yuck. And carrots, yuck. But I’d love to have the natural crisp and snap versus the fake Styrofoam crunch of the cheese doodles.

I’d really hoped I’d wasted enough time in the bathroom that Robins would be in the first afternoon class by the time I came back out, but apparently not. He does a rap a tap tap thing on the counter that I’ve become accustomed to. It’s like a call for attention. I look up under my lashes, hoping it’s not me he wants. I’m sure Nicky would love some one-on-one time with him.

But he’s staring at me. My shoulders automatically push back, my chin rising at his attention. He looks over at Nicky then back in my direction. Claire, you know you’re not supposed to have bangs. My ballerinas should always wear a bun. There should be no loose hair. Not even a strand. He grins at Nicky. Her blond hair, when down from her bun, is long and scraggly. Most days, it drives me crazy. I want to buy her a brush and tell her to keep it and use it often. But that’s not the type of person I am. No matter how nasty she is to me, I always try to be polite back to her.

Nicky’s hair is already pulled back into a perfect bun on the top of her head. She doesn’t need a bottle of hairspray to keep the wispy strands tucked into place. There’s enough grease for that.

My hand instinctively goes to my scalp. The humidity of the studio, the rain, and my black wavy hair don’t mix, and I trace the soft ringlets that have formed around my ears. I swiftly tuck them away. I can’t tell him the girls cut my bangs at the company slumber party while I was sleeping, and I’ve refused to grow them back for two reasons. One because I kind of like them, and two, because I didn’t want to give them the satisfaction of thinking they’d actually successfully hurt me.

Nicky snickers, and I glare at her, clenching my teeth while narrowing my eyes.

I turn my sight back to him. I’m growing them out. And I’ll spray my hair before class.

He nods. Good girl.

I smile.

Just like that, in the snap of a finger, he compliments me, and I yearn for it to happen again. His eyes glimmered when he looked at Nicky. And for a moment, when he complimented me, they did the same. It hasn’t happened since that first day when he said he liked me too and wanted to teach me how to twirl on my toes with Tiffany.

Nicky isn’t pretty, but she’s an excellent dancer. If I’m lucky, I’m a quarter as good as her. If eating carrots, having long bangs, and kissing Mr. Robins’ butt is what makes her that way, then I guess I’ll try to do better note taking. And butt kissing. I’m so not good at that. But I guess I could try harder because it sure feels good to be complimented.

The door chimes. I’m relieved to see Tiffany walk through it. I smile, wave, and push myself up from the bench. He—

Much to my surprise, she doesn’t even look in my direction or acknowledge my existence. She grins from ear to ear and embraces Nicky. Six months ago, she wouldn’t talk to Nicky, let alone hug her. She’s switched sides. We’ve been friends for twelve years. Over the years, Nicky’s done horrible things to every girl in this studio. And Tiffany’s hugging her? I gape in horror. It’s like someone just took my heart, put it on the floor of the studio, and went up on top of it with their pointe shoe and did pirouettes on it. My throat tightens, tears start to spill over the edge, and I quickly look down so they can’t see the evidence of my weakness. I sniff back the nasty snot from my nose and wipe it with the backs of my hands. They aren’t worthy of my tears, but I can’t stop them. How am I going to dance like this? I look away and try to cry into a pillow, or at least muffle what’s now turned into weeping. Mean, mean girls.

So, apparently, Tiffany’s been initiated into the popular girls’ clique. I wonder if cutting my bangs off was her challenge for entry into the elite group. Surely not. Suddenly her goal seems to be to crush my spirit. Never have I experienced such hatefulness. As the other girls in my class begin to arrive, they all sneer in my direction. None of them even attempt to hide their insults toward me with a whisper. After my moment on the bench burrowed in the pillow, I manage to hold the tears back for the entire class by biting my lip, blinking frequently, and swiping my face with the long sleeve of my black leotard. From time to time, the sensation of eyes boring into me causes me to scan the mirror, and I catch Sebastian’s gaze. He winks at me. I quickly look away, swallowing the lump in my throat. Is he in on the joke?

When class is over, I gather my duffle and book bag, change into my sneakers and shorts, then head outside to wait on Mom. The humid air should suffocate me, but it’s nothing compared to the sub-zero chill of the other dancers’ attitudes that have already frozen my lungs, making it impossible to breathe. The door creaks, then slams shut. I glance up, and Sebastian lets his body slide down the brick wall behind us. Those girls are all stupid. And they’re jealous of you.

The laugh bellows out of me. Jealous?

He nods.

Not true.

It is. You’re pretty. You’re a great dancer, Claire. They wish they were you.

Swallowing back the tears, I glance over into his big green eyes. You think I’m pretty? He went through a growth spurt during the summer, and he’s no longer lanky. The juncture of his arm and shoulder’s accentuated against the black ribbed tank top. He’s still tanned from the summer, and his dark hair is wet from sweat. My insides flip, my heart skips a beat, and I gulp at the tornado swirling in the pit of my stomach.

Did I say that? I, uh...

I nudge him. You’re stupid. Just shut up before you ruin it. How could I have thought he was a part of their childish games?

He chuckles, then he reaches his finger out and smudges the tear that’s fallen down my cheek. I’ll shut up if you dry it up. You’re too pretty to cry. Stop before they see you. They’ll interpret your tears for weakness. And you’re too strong for anyone to make that mistake.

I hold his masculine hand to my face. Thank you.

For what?

For just being my friend. You’re the only one I’ve got right now.

We both freeze in place. I’ve always been your friend...Claire...

The sound of a car roars closer, and when the headlights turn the corner, I quickly drop his hand and push myself off the brick façade of the building. I’ll see ya, Sebastian.

He brushes his hands on his legs. Chin up, Claire.

The way I’d craved Mr. Robins’ compliments earlier was but a mere appetizer to the feeling of being the object of Sebastian’s affection, even if it is just as friends. I smile at him. Chin is up. Glad we had this talk, I say as I toss the strap of my duffle and book bag over my shoulder. We go to different schools, so I wave, knowing it will be nearly a whole twenty-four hours and a full school day of mean girls before I get to see him again. Torture. See you tomorrow.

His hand goes up as his lips curve into a lopsided grin. Later, pretty girl.

I glance back over my shoulder. So you do think I’m pretty?

He winks. Just a little. Don’t let it go to your head too fast.

I’ll try. Night. I practically skip to the car, swing the door open, and slide back into the bucket seat. Hey.

Hay is for horses. Hi.

I glance out the window and roll my eyes so Mom can’t see. Hi.

Is there something you wanna tell me? Her forehead crumples. You’ve been crying.

I shrug. How is it she can tell that within two point two seconds of me being in this vehicle? Is that