Chapter 2 The Man with the Broken Unicorn (Nina)
My forehead throbbed where it had connected with his jaw. I stumbled back, my heel catching on the station tile, arms windmilling for balance I didn't find.
The man grunted. Something flew from his grip and hit the ground with a sound that made my stomach drop — a delicate, final crack.
I looked down.
Porcelain shards scattered across the filthy floor. A unicorn. White. Elegant. Now in pieces. The horn had rolled under a bench.
"Oh my God. I'm so sorry. I wasn't looking — I didn't see — I'll —" I dropped to my knees, hands shaking, gathering shards into my shirt like a makeshift basket. "I'll fix this. I'll pay for it. I'll find someone who can recreate it exactly. Just tell me how much —"
"You don't watch where you're walking?" His voice was a growl, low and rough, vibrating with anger.
I looked up. Way up. He was easily six-two, shoulders filling out that black jacket like it was tailored for combat. His face was all sharp angles and dark stubble, and his eyes — deep brown, almost black — were currently burning holes through my skull.
"Do you have any idea what this was?"
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Tried again. "I'm sorry. I really am. What can I do?"
My mind was still back at the apartment. The broken camera. Jessie's dismissive face. Linda's smirk. I wasn't here. I wasn't present. And now I'd destroyed something else.
The man crouched, gathering the larger pieces with hands that were surprisingly careful despite their size. When he stood, he towered over me, his shadow swallowing me whole.
"Do you know how important this was to me?"
"I'll take full responsibility. I'll replace it. I'll pay for a replica." I fumbled for my bag, pulled out a pen and a crumpled receipt, and scribbled my number. "Here. Your phone number. I'll make this right."
"Important?" His laugh was sharp and bitter. "This was from my best friend. He's dead. How exactly do you plan to replace that?"
My breath caught. The station was empty except for us, the hum of distant trains vibrating through the concrete. Somewhere, a drip echoed.
"I'm... I'm so sorry, sir." My voice cracked. Not just from the words. From everything. The birthday. The party. Jessie. Linda. This stranger's grief I hadn't known I'd walked into.
Tears spilled over. I couldn't stop them. I'd been holding them back since I walked out of my own birthday party, and now they came like a dam breaking.
The man — Kane, I would later learn — froze. His mouth opened, some sharp retort ready to fire, but it died in his throat. He stared at me, this crying girl who'd just destroyed his dead friend's last gift, his expression shifting from rage to something like confusion.
"...I accept your apology." He exhaled, rough and forced. "Stop crying. Please."
His voice was still hard, but the edge had dulled. Like a knife pulled back from skin.
I wiped my face with my sleeve, sniffing loudly, completely undignified. "I'm sorry. I'll make it right. Your number. Please."
He sighed — a sound of utter defeat — took my pen, and scribbled digits on the back of the receipt.
"Here."
I folded it carefully, tucked it into my phone case, and gathered the remaining shards into the corner of my jacket. "I'll keep these. I'll bring them back. I promise."
He looked like he wanted to argue. Instead, he said, "Don't lose them."
"I won't."
The train roared into the station. Hot, stale wind blew across the platform, carrying the smell of electricity and underground tunnels. My hair stuck to my tear-streaked face.
"I have to go," I whispered.
Kane nodded. Said nothing. He stepped onto the train, the doors slid shut, and then he was gone.
I walked home. The clock on my phone read 12:17 AM when I finally unlocked the door.
My parents had called. Zero times. Texted. Zero times.
I collapsed onto my bed, still in my clothes, and fell into a sleep so heavy it felt like drowning.
The alarm didn't go off. Because I hadn't set it.
I woke up to gray morning light, my heart hammering. Master class. Today. Mrs. Murphy was teaching — the Mrs. Murphy, the principal dancer I'd watched on stage since I was ten years old. The reason I'd chosen this pre-professional program. The reason I woke up every morning with bleeding toes and aching hips.
I scrambled out of bed, threw on my practice clothes, and ran for the door.
Then stopped.
Jessie wasn't here.
Every morning for two years, he'd been outside my building at 7:45 AM, honking his old Honda, tapping his steering wheel to whatever song was playing. Even when we fought. Even when I didn't want to see him. He always came.
Not today.
My thumb hovered over his name in my contacts. The argument last night hovered right behind it. I closed the app and opened the rideshare app instead.
No drivers available. Not at 8:20 AM in this part of Miami. Not fast enough.
I ran. Five blocks to the pre-professional program, my dance bag bouncing against my hip, my ballet flats slapping the sidewalk. By the time I reached the building, my lungs were fire and my face was tomato-red.
I pushed open the studio door at exactly 8:30.
The piano music stopped. Every head turned.
I stood in the doorway, dripping sweat, my white tank top sticking to my ribs, my hair a mess. Mrs. Thorne stood beside the piano, her spine straight as a ruler, her expression carved from ice.
"Nina Ellington. No practice today."
"Yes, Mrs. Thorne." I didn't argue. I knew better.
I closed the door softly, peeled off my sweaty cover-up, and walked to the far wall. Back straight. Core engaged. Chin lifted. Even when I was being punished, I held myself like a dancer.
Because I was a dancer. Even when I wasn't allowed to dance.
Mrs. Thorne's voice cut through the room, correcting positions, demanding precision. One by one, the other students took the floor. They moved through their variations while I stood against the mirror, watching my own reflection — pale, exhausted, humiliated.
I watched Mrs. Murphy demonstrate. Every arm position. Every extension. Every breath.
I memorized it. All of it. In my mind, my body followed her movements, muscle by muscle, tendon by tendon. I was dancing. Just without moving.
"Break."
Mrs. Thorne walked to the door, then paused. Turned. Her gaze locked on me like a laser.
"Nina Ellington. Outside."
My stomach dropped. I followed her into the hallway, my ballet flats silent on the linoleum.
"Mrs. Thorne, I'm sorry —"
"Yesterday's variation was sloppy. Today, you nearly missed class." She paused. Her voice dropped, colder. "Your body is dancing, but your mind is somewhere else. Continue this way, and you have no business on the Spring Gala stage."
The Spring Gala. The words hit like a physical blow.
I bit my lip. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Thorne. It won't happen again."
The New York Spring Gala. The stage I'd dreamed about since I was eleven. The stage that required a score above ninety-six at the YAGP regional preliminaries. The stage that had been ripped away from me last year because of Linda Miller's convenient "accident" on the stairs.
"Perhaps..." Mrs. Thorne's eyes narrowed. "You shouldn't bother with next week's YAGP preliminaries at all."
She turned and walked away. No goodbye. No second chance.
I stood in the empty hallway, my hands pressed flat against the wall behind me, and tried to remember how to breathe.
When I returned to the studio, the noise level had exploded. Everyone was talking, stretching, comparing notes. I slid down the wall and sat on the floor, staring at my feet.
They were a mess. Blisters on blisters. Calluses thick as leather. My toenails were bruised, some blackened. Ten years of ballet. Ten years of sacrifice. And these feet were the price of admission.
I just wanted to dance on that stage. Once.
This year was my last chance. YAGP's age limit was twenty. I was nineteen. This was it. Final. No do-overs.
I couldn't afford mistakes. Not yesterday's sloppy variation. Not today's near-miss. Not the chaos that was my life outside these walls.
I closed my eyes. Took a breath. And got up.
I would practice. Even if they wouldn't let me in class, I would practice.
Because that was the only thing I knew how to do.
