Beautiful Savage (Rosetti Club Miami #3)

Chapter 1

The afternoon heat has been pressing against Miss Macie’s windows since before my four o’clock class started, and today it feels less like weather than like a hand on my chest.

I adjust Lily's foot position, keeping my voice soft and encouraging while a low restlessness moves under my skin. The studio's warped windows distort everything slightly: the palm trees, the afternoon sun, the same view I've been looking at since I was eight years old.

"Good, Lily. But remember, your toes should point even when you're not thinking about pointing them."

She nods seriously, dark pigtails bouncing, and tries again.

Better. Not perfect, but we have years for perfect.

Years. The word settles wrong in my chest today, heavy as the humidity.

Out in the parking lot, the minivans and sensible sedans are already gathering for pickup, the same ones as always, in the same spaces.

Miss Macie's Dance Studio hasn't changed since I was eight myself, learning these same positions on these same worn floorboards.

The mirrors still have that slight warp in the corner.

The barre still wobbles if you lean too hard.

The mothers still sit in the same folding chairs along the wall, comparing after-school schedules and whose daughter has the most natural turnout.

None of the mothers notice anything wrong, because nothing is wrong. This is Pristine. Nothing happens in Pristine. Nothing ever happens to me.

"Arms, Madison. Like you're holding balloons, not bricks."

Madison giggles, adjusts. I move down the line of girls in their pink leotards and tiny ballet slippers, but my awareness stays split between them and the restlessness coiling tighter beneath my ribs.

Each girl trying so hard to be graceful.

Each one still years away from understanding what grace costs.

The studio's ancient air conditioning wheezes against the March humidity. My leotard already clings between my shoulder blades, the Florida heat seeping through every crack in these weathered walls. Or maybe it's something else making me sweat.

Mrs. Henderson shifts in her chair, the metal creaking. "You know, Miss Daphne, the girls might enjoy something more modern. I saw on that dance show…"

Because eight-year-olds definitely need to twerk.

"That's such a thoughtful suggestion, Mrs. Henderson.

" My smile holds steady, warm, appreciative, even as my jaw starts to ache from the effort.

Twenty more years of this conversation, says a voice in my head that I press down like a held breath.

"We'll definitely explore some contemporary movement after they master their fundamentals. "

She nods, satisfied. Returns to her phone.

I guide Sophia's shoulders down. She carries tension like a forty-year-old, not a child. Correct Sophie's turnout. Demonstrate a simple port de bras, my arms moving through the positions I could do in my sleep. The girls mirror me with varying degrees of success.

Behind them, through the warped glass, Pristine's main street drowses in the heat, the same as yesterday, the same as tomorrow.

"Beautiful, everyone. Let's try it with music."

I press play on the ancient stereo. Pachelbel's Canon fills the studio, safe and classical, exactly what Pristine expects from its ballet teacher.

The girls move through their positions. I walk between them, touching a wrist here, adjusting a chin there.

My voice stays soft, encouraging. Never sharp.

Never demanding more than they can give.

The hour passes in this split rhythm. Corrections given gently while my skin prickles with something I can't name.

Praise distributed evenly while the walls inch closer.

The mothers occasionally glancing up from phones to watch their daughters wobble through pliés, oblivious to the weight their teacher carries behind her smile.

My body performs its own choreography of patient teacher, gentle guide, each gesture automatic now. My smile never wavers.

"Wonderful work today, everyone. Remember to practice your positions at home."

The girls scatter to their mothers, grabbing water bottles and pulling on street clothes over leotards.

Mrs. Nguyen tells me Aria has been practicing every night.

Mrs. Davidson mentions the spring recital, wonders what we'll be performing.

I assure her it will be age-appropriate and lovely.

My responses come automatically while I watch them file out, counting each departure.

They leave in pairs and clusters. Car doors slam in the parking lot. Engines start. The studio empties until it's just me and the late afternoon light slanting through the windows.

And the restlessness, still idling under my skin.

I collect the forgotten hair ties. Straighten the barres.

Sweep the floor, the push broom's rhythm methodical, meditative, though my shoulders stay tight.

Dust motes dance in the humid air. The mirror reflects a twenty-six-year-old woman in a wrap skirt and leotard, hair in a low bun, everything exactly where it should be.

That's the problem. Everything is exactly where it has always been, where it will always be.

I lock the studio and step into the parking lot. The asphalt radiates heat from the day, making the air shimmer like water. My truck sits at the far end, not quite alone.

Jarrod is leaning against my driver's side door, holding out an iced coffee. The condensation has already formed a ring on the cup. "Thought you might need caffeine."

My heart sinks a little, and I hate myself for the sinking. I force my smile to rise. "You didn't have to…"

"Vanilla latte, oat milk. Extra sweet, the way you like it." His smile is easy, familiar. Two years of the same smile, the same casual lean against my truck.

Too sweet. Always too sweet. Like he sees a softer version of me that doesn't quite exist.

"I was at Bean There anyway." His world is exactly this simple: coffee, kindness, the comfortable certainty that I'll always be here to receive both. "How was class?"

"Good. The girls are working hard." I take the coffee, careful our fingers don't touch. The first sip coats my tongue with vanilla and sugar, exactly how he thinks I take it.

"Listen, the parent committee is doing movie night Friday. Town square, big screen. The Princess Bride."

Of course. The safest movie in existence. True love and sword fights and nothing that would scandalize Pristine's delicate sensibilities. Nothing dark anywhere near its edges.

"I'm running the projector," he continues. "Thought maybe you'd want to come? Just popcorn and a movie. Nothing fancy."

Nothing fancy, but everyone would see us there together. The whole town watching while we share a blanket on the grass. Another step toward what they've all been waiting for: Daphne Gilles finally settling down with the nice boy who owns the hardware store.

"That sounds lovely." My voice is warm, the same deflection I've perfected over two years, though part of me wonders how many more times I can say no before the yes comes out from sheer exhaustion.

"But Papa needs help with the garden this weekend.

We're transplanting the tomatoes. And I promised Miss Macie I'd help with the spring fair planning.

You know how she gets when the details aren't perfect. "

His smile doesn't falter. Two years of patient smiles that don't falter. He accepts the deflection with the same grace he always does, knowing this isn't really a no. It's a delay. We both know the town's clock is ticking in his favor.

"Maybe next time, then."

"Maybe next time."

He walks to his truck, a newer model than mine, cleaner, with a hardware store logo on the door. Waves as he pulls out. I wave back.

My smile holds until his taillights disappear. Then my jaw aches from the effort, and I let my face fall into something real: tired, hollow, honest. Just for these three seconds alone in my truck.

I pull out onto Pristine's familiar streets, safe and suffocating. In the rearview mirror, the town follows me all the way home.

Afternoon light fills our kitchen through windows that need cleaning.

The humidity makes everything feel damp, even inside.

Papa has made soup, something with lentils and vegetables from the garden.

We eat at the wooden table that's older than I am, its surface marked with decades of meals and spilled paint.

"The Hendersons' girl still struggling with turnout?" Papa tears bread, his fingers stained with ultramarine and cadmium yellow.

"She's getting there."

"Patient teacher." He watches me over his spoon. "How are you sleeping?"

"Fine."

The pause stretches. His thumb traces the table's deepest gouge, the one from when Maman dropped the cast iron pot, laughing at her clumsiness. We both look at it. Neither speaks. Some ghosts are too familiar for words.

He sets down his spoon, and I know what's coming by the particular way he tilts his head when he's about to push past my answers.

"You look tired, ma belle."

"Just the heat. You know how it is in March. Everyone thinks it's winter but it's still eighty degrees." I deflect automatically.

He doesn't contradict me. Just keeps watching with those painter's eyes that see everything and say only half. His question hangs between us. He knows I'm not sleeping well, knows something is wearing on me, but he lets me deflect because that's what we do.

After our late lunch, we walk through the back garden to his studio.

The path is overgrown with jasmine and wild flamevine, the scent thick and almost suffocating in the afternoon humidity.

Spanish moss drapes from the old oak like torn lace.

Inside, the studio smells like linseed oil and turpentine, like home.

Canvases lean against every wall. The skylights need cleaning too, but the filtered light is perfect for painting.