A Leap of Faith

A Leap of Faith

If. 

I wake up in an ice-cold bed alone. 

I wince at the sunlight filtering into my apartment. 

Normally, I’d soak up the sunshine with Shawn under the warm covers, but after last night, I don’t think I’ll ever enjoy that again. 

The sunlight is just another reminder of my unforgivable mistake. 

My ears still ring from the shouts we exchanged last night. 

I hate you. 

Liar. 

Cheater! 

I sigh, swinging my bare feet onto the cold hardwood floor of my bedroom. 

I refuse to look at all the things that remind me of Shawn. The photos hanging on my wall, the knick-knacks on my desk, or his clothes in my closet. 

Instead, I navigate my way to the washroom and steel myself for the long day ahead of me. 

***

Is. 

I wake up with a warm body pressed against mine. 

“Hey.” A puff of warmth tickles my neck. 

I smile, snuggling closer to the wall of muscle beside me. 

Sunlight highlights the head of curly black hair nestled near the sensitive spot between my neck and collar. I hum, running my fingers through Shawn’s fluffy hair. 

“What’re you thinking about?” Shawn murmurs, pressing his lips to my chest. 

What am I thinking about? I’m thinking about a surprise. A surprise I want to share at dinner. Instead, I tell him, “Just about how happy I am. How I could stay like this forever.”

His hands delve a bit lower than my stomach. 

I giggle, pushing him away. “I can’t. Really. Madame Gabral is going to blow her gasket if I’m late.” 

“Weren’t you the one who just said you could stay in my arms forever?”

I laugh, sitting upright. “Maybe later.” I pad across my cold hardwood floors over to my vanity, completely naked, and run a comb through my long brown tresses. 

I imagine Shawn on his elbows behind me, staring at my toned body, giving me his signature smoky look. It’s a welcomed stare, one only he is allowed to have. 

I can’t imagine life without Shawn. It’d be hell for sure. 

But I have him with me right now and I’m never going to let him go, so why should I worry about that?

I shake those ridiculous thoughts out of my head. 

Shawn’s good. 

I’m good. 

Life’s good.

***

If. 

Life is not good.

Not even overly-happy, optimistic, and perky people would find my life good. 

I’m a broke young woman in one of the busiest cities in the world with no romance and no friends. 

Shawn probably didn’t mean what he said yesterday. 

I brush off the worry that has been plaguing me since last night. 

It was probably nothing. 

But what if it wasn’t . . . ?

I feel like there are dragonflies in my stomach, twitching and flapping around like lunatics. Not butterflies, but dragonflies. I continue walking down Mainstreet, but the insects are still an unwelcome presence in my system. 

I check my watch. I need to be at the Lincoln Center—where my ballet classes are held—in five minutes. 

But this fluttery feeling can’t just be my period; I just had it. 

I cannot put a name to what I feel. The word dances on the tip of my tongue, but it eludes my brain. 

Suddenly, I shudder. 

I think . . . I think I’m going to die. 

***

Is. 

The path that takes me to ballet practice each day usually includes a homeless man named Rob, some parisian cafés, and a slew of street performers. 

I drop some change into Rob’s cup and he smiles. Sometimes, I’ll stop to chat with him, but I’m already running late this morning. My shower with Shawn lasted longer than expected. 

Not that I minded. 

But Madame Gabral certainly will. 

I continue walking down West End Avenue, willing my legs to move faster. 

Ever since I left my apartment this morning, I’ve felt off. 

It’s like there are butterflies in my stomach. While I do love ballet, it doesn’t usually excite me to the point where I’m shaking. At first, I thought it was because of the baby growing in me, but I’m starting to doubt it. 

These butterflies are not regal or elegant, they’re dangerous and frenzied. 

“Excuse me, ma’am!” I flatten myself against a wall just before a bicycle zooms past me in a whoosh. 

I gasp, pressing a hand to my chest in an attempt to slow its rapid beating. 

Bystanders pass by me, staring at how I must look. 

Wide-eyed, flushed, and frazzled. 

They would too if they just felt Death’s presence on their shoulder. 

***

If. 

“Stop, stop, stop!” 

I freeze in first position, sweat dripping from the strands of stray hair on my forehead. 

From the corner of the room, Madame Gabral demands, “What is the matter with you, Ophelia? That was one of the sloppiest pas de bourrée I’ve ever seen!” 

My face reddens in the floor length mirrors decorating the entire wall in front of me. I see my fellow dancers pitying me. 

A twenty-one year old who doesn’t know the pas de bourrée. 

When my mind is occupied, I tend to forget even the basics. 

I began ballet when I was ten, late by all standards, but I quickly surpassed all my friends with my pas de chat, pirouette, and grand jeté. 

I would stay in the studio for hours, just so I didn't have to listen to my parents arguing. 

There was something so indescribably soothing about the smooth vinyl flooring, the pungent smell of Tiger Balm, sweat, passion, and competition. 

Today, however, I don’t find any of it soothing. 

When Madame dismisses us for a break, I’m on edge. 

My phone pings. It’s a message from Shawn. 

Not going to come home tonight. Need to cool off. 

I bit my lip. 

Ok. Call me, later? 

I’m left on read. 

My mind keeps circling to the words I said to Shawn last night. 

I hate you. 

Leave me alone. 

Liar. 

I’m lit alive by my own thoughts, flames licking at my bronze skin. 

Suddenly, a blanket of calm engulfs me. 

I’m not going to die today. 

And a tsunami of terror quickly replaces it. 

Shawn is. 

***

Is. 

When I was little, I read Harry Potter religiously. All day, every day. When One Direction wasn’t enough to drown out my parent’s screaming, I’d pull out that beloved series. 

I stand by the fact that the best character in the entire series is “Mad-Eye” Moody. If he did not insist on drinking from his flask, someone could’ve easily tampered with his drinks. And he would’ve died much earlier in the series. 

I feel like Mad-Eye right now: looking over my shoulder at each noise, tripping over my own two en pointe feet, jumping at the slightest sound. 

Madame Gabral is not impressed. 

On my break, Shawn texts I love you. 

My heart pounds as I frantically write back, What’s wrong? Why’re you sending me this? Where are you? 

Woah. Are U ok? Just wanted to let u know ilu. :) 

That’s sweet . . 

I freeze. 

What if I’m wrong about all of it? 

What if I’m not the Grim Reaper’s target today? 

What if it’s Shawn? 

***

If. 

I rip through the Manhattan streets like a madwoman.

I need to warn Shawn. I need more time with him. 

We can’t leave off on a fight. 

“Miss, please,” Something cold grazes my ankle and I stop dead in my tracks. Looking down, I see a wrinkled face too big and gaunt attached to a body too small and thin. She raises a thin hand.

Help me, her eyes plead. 

My choices flash before me: leave her and reach Shawn or help her and risk being too late.

I chose the former. 

I shake her hand off and continue my pursuit of the city. Guilt the size of the Empire State Building lands in my stomach. 

One part of me worries. What if that old lady dies because of me?

But the other part of me hisses. Focus, Ophelia. She is not her concern. Shawn is. 

Soon, the familiar blue and yellow banner of Shawn’s café comes into view. I stop near the gate to the restaurant patio. 

I’m not too late. 

“Shawn!” 

He turns around. 

I sag with relief and happiness. 

He’s so beautiful and he’s here—alive. I love the golden light shining down on his midnight hair, his spectacular smile, his modest gray apron stretched over a broad chest—

My face falls. 

Shawn is frowning; something he only does when he is absolutely furious. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” He demands, pulling me behind one of the bushes decorating the restaurant.  

He hasn’t forgotten about last night it seems.

I can only hope it doesn’t affect what I have to tell him. I take a deep breath. “I think you’re going to die.”

He laughs. He actually laughs. “Do you hear yourself right now? ‘I’m going to die?’ Are you on drugs or something?” 

Tears spring to my eyes. “Of course I’m not on drugs. Don’t you believe me?” 

“Hmm, not really. Last time I believed in you, you left me waiting three hours at Olive Garden.” 

“I told you, I lost track of time—”

“Why won’t you just say sorry? Or were you with someone?”

“What should I apologize for? Your paranoia?” 

“Oh, stop making such a scene! I’m at work, something you could try once in a while.”

Ouch. 

“Fine,” I hiss. “Fine.” 

Shawn runs a hand through his fluffy hair. Hair I want to touch so badly. “Just go, Ophelia. We’re over.”

“Okay,” I repeat, biting back my tears. Once Shawn turns away, I begin to walk away as well. 

But each step I take is heavier than lead. I tell myself I’m walking away from a dead man, yet the more distance I create between myself and Shawn, the more I’m pulled towards him. 

With each foot I put forward, I keep thinking, Please come back. Please come back. Please. 

But he doesn’t. 

I turn onto 59th Street with a broken heart and a broken soul. One mistake. One mistake is all it takes to change a life. 

Suddenly, I hear someone shout, “Stop!”

I whip around just in time to see a black SUV slam into Shawn’s body. 

***

Is. 

I’m shaking so badly I can’t even fall into first position. 

Madame Gabral allows me to leave earlier—something she rarely does—with a strict warning, “Fix whatever this is, Ophelia, and come back brighter and better tomorrow.” 

I nod and all but flee into the fresh streets. 

Shawn, Shawn, Shawn. Please don’t die. 

What if he’s already gone?

I quicken my pace. 

“Miss, please,” Something cold grazes my ankle and I stop dead in my tracks. Looking down, I see a wrinkled face too big and gaunt attached to a body too small and thin. She raises a thin hand.

Help me. Her eyes plead. 

My choices flash before me: leave her and get to Shawn; help her and risk being too late.

I chose the latter. 

 I grip the old lady’s miniscule hand and pull her up. She’s barely downe thanking me before I’m running again. 

I’m a turtle navigating through a jar of peanut butter. Slow. Slow. Slow. 

What if I’m too late?

By the time I see the big blue and yellow sign with the words “Shawn’s Cafe” splashed across it, I know I’m already too late. 

My heart is lodged in my throat as I watch a black SUV hurtle down the street and slam into my beautiful, kind, and so incredibly sweet boyfriend. 

***

After. 

It’s been three days. Three days of sitting beside him, praying to God, and crying in hospital restrooms. 

My main concern was what if he died and I had to raise our baby all alone? 

My thoughts consumed me. I forgot to eat, sleep, or dance. All I did was care about him. 

And then he woke up. 

He’s lucky, the doctors told me. Just a few broken ribs and a cut on his head. Nothing permanent. 

I swipe at my eyes, staring at the man lying in bed before me. “What if—what if we had a fight? A fight about something stupid and we didn’t apologize to each other? And then you died—” 

Shawn lays his hand on top of mine. “Don’t, baby. Don’t think about that. I’m here now and that’s all that matters.”

“But what if I didn’t stop to help that old lady? Maybe I could’ve saved you.” I fidget with the sterile white sheets of his hospital bed, letting my tears fall freely. 

“Ophelia, are you seriously blaming yourself for this?” Shawn looks at me incredulously. 

I tuck my chin to my chest in shame. 

He lifts it back up. 

“What happened was completely up to fate. Nothing you do can change that. Just . . .” he swallows, blinking back his tears, “just having you here is enough.” 

I throw my arms around him with complete abandon. “Once you’re discharged, we’ll have our entire lives together.” 

Shawn squeezes me tighter. 

“And I’m going to cherish every damn second.”