The eighteenth week, Christabel danced.
Not for anyone.
For herself.
And Damien watched her fall in love with life again.
---
It happened on a Friday.
Lena was with the nanny. The penthouse was quiet. Christabel was in the living room, looking out the window, when a song came on the radio.
Not a new song. An old song. One she hadn't heard in years.
One she used to dance to.
Before Damien. Before Lena. Before everything changed.
She started moving.
Slowly at first. Just swaying. Just remembering.
Then faster.
Then harder.
Then she was dancing. Really dancing. The way she used to dance when she was young and free and not afraid of anything.
---
Damien stood in the doorway.
Watching.
She didn't see him at first. She was lost in the music. Lost in the movement. Lost in the woman she used to be.
When the song ended, she stopped.
Turned.
Found him watching.
"You're staring," she said.
"I'm admiring."
"Same thing."
"Different intention."
She walked to him.
"I haven't danced in years."
"I noticed."
"I used to dance all the time."
"I know."
"How do you know?"
"Because I've seen the photographs."
---
He pulled her into his arms.
"Teach me," he said.
"Teach you what?"
"To dance."
"You know how to dance."
"I know how to move. I don't know how to dance."
"What's the difference?"
"Moving is what you do to get somewhere. Dancing is what you do to feel something."
She looked at him.
"Where did you learn that?"
"I learned it from you."
---
She taught him to dance.
Not a formal dance. Not a choreographed dance.
A real dance.
The kind where you don't think. You just feel.
They moved around the living room. Slow at first. Then faster. Then slower again.
Laughter. Missteps. The kind of joy that came from doing something for no reason other than it felt good.
"I'm terrible at this," Damien said.
"You're wonderful at this."
"I'm stepping on your feet."
"I don't feel it."
"You're lying."
"I'm not."
"You're smiling."
"I'm happy."
---
When the song ended, they stood in the middle of the room.
Holding each other.
Breathing together.
"I love you," he said.
"I know."
"I love you in ways I didn't know I was capable of."
She touched his face.
"I know. Because I love you the same way."
---
That afternoon, Christabel called her sister.
"I want to take a dance class," she said.
"A dance class?"
"A real one. With a teacher. With other people."
"Since when do you dance?"
"Since always. I just forgot."
Sarah was quiet for a moment.
"I remember."
"You remember what?"
"You used to dance in your room. When we were kids. You thought I didn't know."
"You knew?"
"I knew everything."
---
Christabel laughed.
The sound was loud and real and full of joy.
"I'm going to sign up today."
"Good."
"Will you come with me?"
"To dance class?"
"Yes."
Sarah was quiet for a moment.
"I don't dance."
"You used to."
"I used to do a lot of things."
"Then let's do them again."
---
That night, Damien put Lena to bed.
Not Christabel. Him.
He read her a story. Not a baby book. A real story. One of his favorites.
"There was a boy who was afraid of everything," he read. "Until he met a girl who taught him to dance. And he realized that being brave wasn't about not being afraid. It was about being afraid and dancing anyway."
Lena stared at him.
"Bah," she said.
"That's right," he said. "Bah."
---
Christabel was in the doorway.
"She said it again."
"She said it to me."
"She said it to both of us."
He closed the book.
Set it on the nightstand.
"She's going to be a dancer."
"She's going to be just like you."
"God help the world."
"God help anyone who tries to stop her."
---
They stood over the crib together.
Lena was asleep. Her tiny chest rose and fell.
"I'm glad we're doing this," Christabel said.
"Doing what?"
"Remembering. Dancing. Living."
"I'm glad too."
"I'm glad we didn't give up."
He put his arm around her.
"Me too."
---
The next morning, Christabel woke before Lena.
Not because the baby was crying. Because she wanted to.
She walked to the nursery.
Stood over the crib.
Lena was sleeping. Her tiny chest rose and fell.
"Good morning, little one," Christabel whispered.
Lena didn't stir.
"Your father taught me to dance yesterday."
She touched Lena's cheek.
"He's not very good. But he tries."
---
Damien found her in the kitchen.
Making breakfast.
French toast. Again.
"You're cooking," he said.
"I'm trying."
"It smells good."
"It smells like dancing."
He sat at the kitchen island.
Watched her move around the kitchen.
"You're staring," she said.
"I'm admiring."
"Same thing."
"Different intention."
She set a plate in front of him.
"I love you," she said.
"I know."
"I love you even when I don't know who I am."
He took her hand.
"I love you because you don't know who you are. Because you're trying to figure it out. Because you're not giving up."
"I wanted to give up."
"But you didn't."
"I almost did."
"But you didn't."
---
She sat beside him.
Ate her breakfast.
Talked about the future.
Not the distant future. The near future. The next week. The next month. The next small step.
"I signed up for a dance class," she said.
"When does it start?"
"Next week."
"Are you nervous?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I haven't danced in front of anyone in years."
"You danced in front of me yesterday."
"That's different."
"How?"
"You're not anyone."
He smiled.
"I'm not anyone?"
"You're everything."
---
That afternoon, she went to the dance studio.
Alone.
The room was big. The floors were wood. The mirrors covered the walls.
She stood in the middle of the room.
Looked at herself.
The woman in the mirror was not the woman she used to be. But she was not the woman she had become either.
She was somewhere in between.
And that was okay.
---
She started to move.
Slowly at first.
Then faster.
Then she was dancing.
Really dancing.
The way she used to dance when she was young and free and not afraid of anything.
---
When she came home, Damien was waiting.
"How was it?" he asked.
"Good."
"Just good?"
"It was like coming home."
"To where?"
"To myself."