"Yes. And then when I'm done there...psychology."

"To sports dudes."

"That's the plan."

"Do you ever wonder what you'd do if you don't make it?"

"No," he says as a matter of fact. "That would distract me. Putting doubt there. I can't have doubt. That's just a recipe for failure."

I just nod. That's how I thought when it came to dance.

"Look, I'm not being an arrogant d.i.c.k. I've practiced all my life to get there. I'm one of their top picks. I've already had recruiters contact me. This spring is a big year for me, and if I start talking like I might not make it, well then, the whole way I play changes. I lose confidence. I can't afford that."

"I get it. I don't think you're arrogant at all. I was nodding because...well...my att.i.tude was pretty much the same before." I shake my head, not really wanting to go there. "But...so I understand. You're right. You can't get distracted."

My cup is empty, but I bring it to my lips anyway.

"No. You don't think I'm conceited?" He asks this, but I can tell he'd rather be asking about me. I slipped up by mentioning it.

"Of course not. You're far from it. You're dedicated. Committed. I admire that."

"Thank you."

He puts down his cup and I can tell it's empty.

"Wanna get going?" he asks.

"Sure."

In his car, he searches again for a music station. "I don't have any country CDs."

"I like One Republic. That's fine."

He's still searching the radio.

"But if you really want country, 96.1 should come in clear."

He tunes it to the station and it's right in the middle of "Who Says You Can't Go Home" by Bon Jovi.

"Bon Jovi? I thought this was a country station?"

Shaking my head, I laugh, saying, "But he sings this with the lead singer of Sugarland. A country band."

"Ah."

Several country songs and a b.u.t.tload of commercials later, we're at my house, and Ben walks me to the door.

"Thank you for tonight, Ben. I had a really nice time."

Right away, my hands are in his. "I'm sorry I wasn't the best of company. I promise tomorrow I'll be happier."

It's funny how easily Ben promises things. Doesn't he realize that circ.u.mstances can make a promise a lie? "It's okay. Your friend is hurting. And if you're sad tomorrow, that's okay too."

"Thanks."

For a moment, we stare into each other's eyes. His are sad and it makes me feel bad. He's trying to read mine, questioning whether it's safe to kiss me? I'm not sure. I do want to kiss him. Taste him. See what it's like to be so close to him.

But before I get the image out of my head, the thought of his tongue out of my mouth, Ben leans into me, hugs me, and kisses me on the cheek.

"So breakfast. Ten o'clock."

"Yup. Breakfast is at ten."

"See you in the morning, half-pint," he jokes.

"See you in the morning."

After Ben leaves, I'm too wound up to sleep, and it's quite early anyway, so I open up my laptop and search 'disabled ballerinas.' Like I had found out in therapy when I was in the mental ward, there are plenty. And they seem to be doing well. But are they where they want to be? Were they better before and now have to accept their limitations? I don't want limitations. But I really want to dance again. I miss it. I want to get lost in the music while I'm on the dance floor, but with my leg tripping me up, it's just not going to happen.

Two hours of Googling later, I put on my dancing leg and tiptoe the best I can down to the bas.e.m.e.nt again, making sure not to wake the now sleeping house.

I turn the stereo on low and start with the barre. I warm up, do my stretches, then try again to be as graceful as possible.

After an hour of stumbling and falling, instead of actually dancing, I've had enough. Not as quietly, I make it back to my room, and after practically ripping off the prosthetic, I go to bed, not bothering with my usual routine of brushing my teeth and caring for my leg.

Because I'm tossing and turning instead of sleeping, I hear my phone when it dings.

HOLLY: Hey. U up?

I sit up and text her back.

ME: Yup. What's up?

HOLLY: Come to Donny's tomorrow.

ME: Can't. Ben's coming up.

HOLLY: Bring him.

ME: I think I'll pa.s.s. Thanks tho. How r u?

HOLLY: Not good.

ME: WHY?! What happened?

HOLLY: I miss my BFF. :( ME: Oh.

Not surprisingly, my phone rings.

"Yeah?" I say when I answer it.

"Oh? That's all you have to say?"

"What do you want me to say? I miss you too, but I don't want to go to the bar."

"You don't come out anymore, Rose."

"That's not true. I went out to dinner with Ben last night."

"That's good. But have you seen any of your old friends?"

"Holly. You are my old friends. Everyone else is just people I hung with with you."

"Yeah. And they miss you too."

I'm just too tired to respond anymore.

"What about next Friday night? I have off. Are you busy?"

"No. You wanna come up?" I ask, always happy to see Holly.

"Griffin's having a party." Dammit. "He hasn't had one in a while. Come with me. I'll ask Ben too. Not that he comes to parties, but with you there, he may," she rambles.

"Holly. No. I'm not up for a party."

"Come on, Rose. You can't stay up on your farm all the time."

"I like my farm, Holl."

"You know what I mean."

"I do. And you know why I don't want to come to the party. Just...have fun. Tell Griffin and Cali I said hi. I gotta go. I'm beat."

"This isn't over, Rose."

"I'm sure it's not. Good night, Holly."

"Night, Rose."

I do miss the gang at Hunter Hill, but the last thing I want to do is show up at a party with my fake leg and my scars. No, vanity is not pretty. But I feel as ugly as a hairless cat and I'm sure I'd arouse as many shock-filled gasps as one if I showed up.

Ben arrives twenty minutes before ten, holding a big white bakery box.

"You didn't have to bring anything."

"I wanted to. I stopped at the bakery on Belmont."

"Oh my G.o.d, I love that place. Crumb buns?"

"Yup. My favorite."

"Mine too."

We're smiling when we walk into the kitchen, so Mom says, "What are you two up to?"

"Morning, Mrs. Duncan."

"Morning, Ben."

"Mom, Ben brought crumb buns."

"Thank you, Ben. You didn't have to."

"I didn't mind," he says, placing the box down on the counter.

"Hey, Ben," Terri says from behind us.

I turn and plead silently, "Please don't," by mouthing the words. Ben made it clear he didn't like her, but I really like him, and I don't want her flirting with him and messing it up.

"Hi, Terri," he says with a benign smile.

She opens her mouth, but when her eyes meet mine, she snaps it shut and helps my mom at the counter.

Ben helps me grab the plates from the cupboard and we set the table. "You look pretty today," he whispers while placing napkins next to the plates I set down.

"Thank you," I whisper back as we make our way around the table. This morning, on top of my primer, concealer, and foundation, I brushed on some peach blush. Usually, before and after the accident, I'd stay away from colors - blush, eye shadow, eyeliner. Most times, I'd only fuss with styling my hair. Since Beth showed me how to apply the s.p.a.ckle that covers my scar, I spend more time on that than my hair. Today, though, I did both, plus I added the blush and a little brown mascara. Ben noticed. Mission accomplished. I hate like heck to have to continue this routine, however. But I do feel prettier today than I did yesterday, and thus, less self-conscious.

Breakfast goes off without a hitch. Terri refrains from flirting, and conversation is pleasant and harmless. Amid the chatting, laughing, and eating, Ben keeps his left hand on my right knee the whole time. It benefits me that he's right handed and I try most times to sit to his left. It's a win-win for me.

My father chews off Ben's ear while my sisters and I help my mother clear the kitchen. The whole time, Ben is looking at me apologetically. I think he's learning that my father is the stereotypical man of the generation before him. My mother lets it be, explaining that he works very hard on the farm and it's her duty to take care of the house. It works for them. But my sisters and I learned early on that we'd much rather tend to the chickens than do "women's work" in the kitchen. My father, having no sons to help him on the farm, never objected to it.

Still, we don't like my mother to have to clean up after us, so we all pull our weight. Very Little House on the Prairie of us. I chuckle to myself, thinking how much Ben would enjoy that comparison.

"So, Rosebud, Ben tells me he's going to Florida over winter break," my dad says when I'm finished cleaning the breakfast dishes.

"I know. He gets to escape the cold," I say for lack of a better response.

"It's fun to travel with a team, isn't it, Ben?"

"Sure. We have a good time. Lots of work though," Ben answers, oblivious to the reason behind my father's question.

My dad looks pointedly at me. Yes, Dad, I've done my share of traveling with my dance team. I'm acutely aware of that.

"Wanna go watch a movie?" I ask Ben, ignoring my betraying father. The only one who hadn't been pestering me until now.