An image of Colton pops into my head. As delicious as Monsieur Dupre is, I only have eyes for one man. And it’s not our dance instructor. “He turned you down?”
“Yup. He said his boyfriend would have a problem with it,” she admits with a laugh. “I told him that I’d be more than happy to be the star of that little show.”
“Shut up!” I swat her arm as my eyes pop wide. “You didn’t!”
“Please, girl. You know me better than that.” She grins and shoots another glance in our teachers’ direction. “Do you have any idea how hot that would be?”
Umm...maybe?
“Anyway,” she continues blithely, “it was a no-go.”
I rise to my feet and extend my arms above my head before bending to the left, holding the pose, and then repeating it on the other side until my muscles feel limber.
Zoe slips off her beaten-up shoes before stuffing them inside her dance bag. I do the same, grabbing a bottle of water and lifting it to my lips. Once the container has been drained, I stuff it in the bag and pull on an oversized T-shirt. Black leggings come next before shoving my feet into a pair of boots and stuffing my arms into my jacket. “Ready to go?”
The willowy brunette nods as we wave to our instructor, who is still surrounded by a handful of students, and exit the studio. Even though I’m tired from a full hour of dancing, I feel revitalized. My muscles are fatigued and pliable.
No matter what happens in my life, dance is the one thing I can count on. When my parents went through a rough patch and were at each other’s throats, dance is what got me through the hard times. If I couldn’t escape to the studio, I was able to shove earbuds in, crank up the music, and lose myself in the choreography while locked in my bedroom.
What would I do if I couldn’t dance?
Who would I be without it?
I don’t have an answer to that. It’s such an integral part of who I am.
Even though I’m nowhere near good enough to dance professionally, my dream is to one day open my own studio. During high school, I started teaching ballet and jazz classes. It’s something I enjoy. I’ve been lucky to find an academy here in town where I can pick up a few classes to teach on the weekends.
Am I under the delusion that it will make me rich?
Nope, but I don’t care. Dance makes me happy.
As we move through the crowded corridor, Zoe chatters about the upcoming annual showcase. Each performer choreographs a three-minute routine to highlight their talent. Wesley has a fierce program with dancers from around the world. Guest instructors are brought in from the most prestigious programs and academies. A number of students go on to perform in companies, on Broadway, or dancing backup. I feel fortunate to be here, studying alongside and learning from such a talented group of people.
“Hey, you want to grab lunch?” she asks. “After such a grueling rehearsal, I’m starving.”
I pull on my fingerless gloves. “Sure. I could eat.” Truth be told, I can always eat. It’s a continuous battle.
What can I say? I’m part Italian and have a serious love affair with pasta. And chicken parmesan. One day, it will be my downfall.
As we push through the glass doors into the bright January sunshine, my phone chimes with an incoming message. I slip the cell from the pocket of my white puffer jacket and glance at the screen.
My heartbeat quickens as Colton’s name pops up.
Six months.
It seems almost unbelievable that we’ve been together that long. Last week, unable to hold the feelings inside any longer, I’d dropped the I love you bomb after sex. I couldn’t help myself. It had needed to be said, and I’d wanted Colton to know how much he meant to me.
It had been disappointing when he didn’t return the sentiment, but it’s fine. I know he cares. He shows me in a hundred different ways each and every day. Little things that make my heart beat into overdrive—like opening the car door for me, stroking his fingers gently through my hair, clasping my hand when we walk across campus, or turning up at my dorm in the morning with a steaming cup of coffee.
Even though we’ve been together for half a year, we’re still taking baby steps. At some point in the not-so-distant future, I’m hoping Colton will come to the realization that what we have is special, and he loves me. Just like football, it’s all about the long game with Colton. I’m nothing if not patient and persistent.
I swipe my finger across the screen as my gaze skims over the message. Zoe and I jog down the cement stairs until we’re in front of the William Dutton Fine Arts building. It takes a moment for his words to sink in. As they do, my footsteps falter, and I stumble to a halt. My attention stays glued to the text as all of the oxygen evaporates from my lungs, leaving me to feel as if the wind has been knocked from my body.
“Alyssa?” With her brows pinched together, Zoe swings around before hoisting the strap of her bag onto her slender shoulder. “Are you coming?”
People knock into me in their haste to flee the building. A few grumble and tell me to get out of the way. When I remain silent, Zoe’s fingers lock around my wrist before she drags me off the busy pathway and out of the rush of student traffic.
She waves a hand in front of my face to capture my attention as concern floods her voice. “Alyssa?”
I blink and refocus on the words—willing them to morph into something else—before giving my head a little shake.
This has to be a joke.
“Are you all right?” Zoe’s voice softens as she searches my face for an indication as to why I’ve fallen into a semi-catatonic state.
Even though I’m splintering apart on the inside, I force myself to remain calm. “Um, sorry to bale,” I mumble, unable to stop staring at the screen. It’s like a horrific car accident I’m unable to look away from. “There’s something I need to take care of. Go on without me, okay?”
Her lips sink further into a frown as she shifts her weight and cocks her head. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” I glance up as my head continues to spin. “Sorry to flake on you like this.”
“I don’t know what’s going on, but if you need backup, I’d be more than happy to tag along. I’ve got nothing better going on.”
Her offer brings a slight smile to my face as I shake my head. “Thanks, but no.”
“All right,” she says, sounding dubious, “if you’re sure.”
“I am,” I reiterate.
“I’ll see you on Friday?”
“Yup.” Barely am I aware of Zoe walking away and leaving me alone. Instead of reading over the message again, I stab the call button and hold the phone to my ear. A pit the size of Texas settles in my belly as it goes straight to voicemail.
What the fuck?
Is Colton really doing this to me?
After six months together, it seems almost unfathomable. Anger crashes over me as I stab the red end button and hit redial. When it goes straight to voicemail for a second time, I realize with a sinking heart that he has no intention of picking up my calls.
He’s really doing this.
It’s as if he lit a match, threw it over his shoulder, and burned our relationship to the ground.
And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.