Broken Empire A Reverse Harem High School Bully Romance - Callie Rose Page 0,34
resuming all your previous activities one day—including dancing. But just remember, it’s a long game. A marathon, not a sprint. Don’t push too hard now and end up wishing you hadn’t later. Keep giving yourself time to heal, because that’s going to be the foundation that you build your strength on later. Make sense?”
I nodded, gazing down at my too-thin leg. He had me dead to rights. I was already itching to start moving again, to start testing the boundaries of what my body could handle.
But I knew from experience that he was right. My recovery last time I’d broken my legs had been slow, and even though I hadn’t had the money or resources to get all the help I needed, I’d been careful to do everything my physical therapist had told me to.
If it would help me dance again someday, I could be patient.
I would make myself be patient.
Chapter 10
Doctor Garrett hadn’t been kidding about how exhausting it would be to walk on my healing leg. The Monday after I got my cast taken off, I tried walking across campus unassisted—and only made it halfway there before I had to swallow down my pride and ask Finn to give me my crutches back.
After six weeks of wearing the cast, I’d become so accustomed to its weight and bulk that my equilibrium felt off without it. And I felt strangely more self-conscious about my leg now that the large black cast was gone, as if it’d been a buffer between my damaged limb and the rest of the world.
The Princes still stuck by my side between classes, carrying my backpack and often my crutches as I struggled down the hallway at the pace of a ninety-year-old. I started dressing out for gym class, thinking that maybe the simple act of putting on athletic clothes would help bolster my spirits, but as I hobbled around the track while kids ran and yelled and played games nearby, bitter disappointment filled my gut like acid.
I was so far from where I wanted to be. So far I couldn’t even see my goal on the horizon.
The rest of the week dragged out like a bad dream, and even though I knew this was a good thing—that each time I hit a new marker in my healing process and started pushing for the next, it would feel like starting over, like pushing ahead from square one again—I had a hard time finding the bright side.
On Saturday afternoon, a few hours before I was supposed to meet Finn for a study session, I tugged on my leotard and some sweats and a t-shirt, then grabbed my crutches and headed across campus.
I slipped into the large gym building through an open side door and took the stairs slowly up to the second floor. I hadn’t been inside the little dance studio since my accident; the last time I’d been there had been my final practice session before my audition for the Pacific Contemporary Ballet.
Pushing the door open, I flipped on the lights, illuminating the shiny hardwood floor and the mirrors and barre that ran along the wall. I let the door thud shut behind me and propped my crutches against the wall. Then I tugged my shirt over my head and kicked off my shoes and sweats.
Barefoot, wearing just my leotard, I walked slowly toward the center of the room, watching my reflection as the girl in the mirror did the same. It was a sight I was so used to, one I’d seen countless times—but today, the girl with dark hair and pale skin looked almost unrecognizable.
I stopped several feet away from the mirror and stood there, just looking, trying to process the image before me.
Build a strong foundation, Talia. Be patient.
I had replayed Doctor Garrett’s orders over and over again in my head, trying to find inspiration in them instead of just frustration. He had given me the go-ahead to start physical therapy as long as I worked slowly, and he’d requested that my grandfather have the therapist call him to go over a few things before we began.
Maybe it was because we hadn’t actually started yet that I felt this way. Maybe once I had a solid plan of action and a course laid out for me, it would be easier to get through the bad days.
I sighed, reaching up to tighten the messy bun I’d gathered my hair into.