CHAPTER forty-three #6
"Yeah, right," I say, grabbing a pink tutu from my rack. "The only thing I'm dreaming of is surviving this week without stabbing you with a candy cane prop."
He pauses for a second—then the Nutcracker jaw clacks again. "Kinky."
I throw a feathered slipper at him.
"Worth it!" he yells, ducking behind a rack of tutus, his muffled laughter echoing from inside the Nutcracker head.
Tracy appears beside me, her neck draped with measuring tape like a badge of honor. "Hold still for me, Care," she says in her usual brisk, no-nonsense tone.
She starts looping the tape around my waist, muttering numbers under her breath. "Just checking your measurements again. Some of the seams need adjusting—Callahan wants the costumes to fit like they were sewn by angels."
"Got it," I say, holding my breath as she tightens the tape slightly. "So no pressure."
Tracy smirks, scribbles a note on her clipboard, and moves on to measure my arm span.
Beside me, Lucy's flipping through the Clara rack, holding up a soft cream nightgown against the light. "Oh, speaking of pressure," she says casually, "I heard from Callahan that we might have to do a mini showcase for the sponsors."
"Wait—really?"
"Yeah," Lucy nods.
The sponsors—mostly arts council representatives, alumni donors, and a few patrons from the local performing arts foundation—were the backbone of the production.
Their contributions helped fund the live orchestra, professional-grade lighting, and all the custom costumes currently hanging on the racks.
A "mini showcase" for them would likely mean performing a few select scenes or dance numbers to highlight how far the production had come—and remind the benefactors why supporting the department was always a worthy investment.
"When?"
Lucy lifts a shoulder. "She didn't say exactly when—she was very cryptic about it, really." Lucy rolls her eyes. "But she said it'd be soon."
I groan softly, earning a laugh from Lucy. "I'm guessing next week, maybe two?"
I nod, forcing a smile, but I can already feel that jittery mix of adrenaline and dread kicking in. The kind that makes your pulse quicken in both good and bad ways—like standing at the top of a roller coaster, not sure if you should scream or throw up.
Still, the idea of performing—even just a glimpse of what we've been working so hard on—makes something flutter in my chest.
Lucy pulls a gown from the rack—a breathtaking shade of blush pink that catches the studio lights like spun sugar. Sequins glimmer faintly along the bodice, and layers of soft tulle spill down in airy folds that look straight out of a dream.
"Oh, look at this, Care," Lucy gushes, holding it up against Caroline with a grin. "This one's adorable! You're going to look amazing in it."
Tracy pauses mid-note on her clipboard, gives the dress a quick once-over, and nods approvingly. "Definitely her color."
I reach out and let my fingers trail over the fabric—silky, weightless, impossibly delicate. It reminds me of my prom dress.
Or the one that was supposed to be my prom dress.
Mom had it custom-made for me—soft pink, with a skirt that shimmered like spun sugar under the light. The satin bodice was trimmed with tiny pearls, each one hand-sewn, and the layers of tulle fanned out in a swirl that made me feel like a princess just looking at it.
I must've unzipped that garment bag a hundred times just to touch the fabric, to imagine what it would feel like twirling across the dance floor in Zach's arms.
I remember standing in front of the mirror, hugging the dress to my chest, cheeks hurting from smiling too much—so giddy I could barely breathe. It was everything I'd ever dreamed of for that night, the kind of dress you don't just wear—you live a whole fairytale in.
...and back then, that was the dream—walking into prom on Zach's arm, the two of us all dressed up like something out of a teen movie.
I could already picture it: his easy grin, the way he'd tug at the stiff collar of his Nutcracker Prince uniform—the regal red coat with gold trim and polished boots—the full dramatic fantasy. The way his hand would find mine as we walked through the gym doors decked in fairy lights and streamers.
In my head, he'd spin me once, just so he could see the skirt flare out, all glitter and air and magic.
I remember imagining his face when he saw me in that dress—how he'd probably laugh, say something stupid like, "You look like a cupcake," and then immediately blush because he meant beautiful.
Yeah... that was the version of the night I used to replay a thousand times.
A ghost of a smile tugs at my lips, but it fades as quickly as it comes. Because I never got to wear it.
The memory lands like a small ache in my chest, sharp and unwelcome. I blink hard, shake my head lightly—no use digging that back up now. It's in the past.
Lucy's still talking beside me, holding the dress up to my shoulders and spinning me toward the mirror, and I force the corners of my mouth up again.
"It really is beautiful," I say quietly.
Lucy grabs another gown off the rack and holds it up against me, eyes sparkling like a five-year-old in a tiara shop. "You're seriously gonna look like a princess in this one," she gushes.
I laugh, shaking my head. "You're having way too much fun with this."
"Oh, absolutely." She gives me an exaggerated once-over.
Then her gaze flicks over my shoulder—and that sly grin spreads across her face. "Oh look, your prince charming's here."
"Huh?"
She jerks her chin toward the door.
I turn—and yep. There he is. Zach, all six-foot-three of him, leaning casually against the doorframe in his usual jeans and Ridgewater hoodie.
I try to play it cool, pretending my heart isn't doing its usual acrobat routine as I walk over like I'm totally calm and normal. Not at all losing my mind.
"Hey," I say softly.
"Hey, sugarplum." He winks, and behind me, I can practically feel Lucy's silent squeal.
"What are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be at the rink?"
He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, I was. But I wanted to see you because... uh, I won't be able to later."
My brows knit together.
"I also came to tell you something."
"What is it?"
He sighs, shoulders dipping a little. "I can't join you for dinner tonight."
"Oh." It slips out before I can stop it. Disappointment hits, but I cover it quickly.
He gives me that small, apologetic smile that makes it really hard to stay annoyed.
We've been eating together almost every day for the past couple of weeks—sometimes breakfast, sometimes lunch, but always dinner. It's become our thing. And apparently, I've gotten way too used to it.
Zach must notice, because his hand comes up, thumb brushing gently against my cheek. "Sorry, sugarplum," he murmurs. "I've just got somewhere to be tonight and I won't be back until morning workout."
My throat tightens, a question right there—where? with who?—but it doesn't make it past my lips.
Because what if it sounds clingy? Or like I'm creeping dangerously close to girlfriend territory? Which... I technically can't, since we haven't even define what we are.
I don't really know what the rules are. This whole thing—him, us—it's new to me.
Okay, mental note: first topic on Thursday's date—labels. We're fixing this. Immediately.
I manage a smile and roll my eyes, still trying (and failing) to hide the disappointment in my voice.
"It's alright, Zach. We don't have to eat together all the time."
"Don't say that," he counters instantly, grinning that stupidly sweet grin that turns my heart into a gymnastics arena.
"You know it's my favorite part of the day—because I get to spend time with you."
That does it. My lips twitch, and I can't help the small smile that escapes.
"Yeah, me too."
Right then, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He sighs, pulling it out, eyes flicking over the screen.
"Oh, shoot," he mutters, groaning softly before slipping it back into his pocket.
Then he looks at me, guilt and fondness blending in that way that always makes my stomach flip.
"I really gotta go," he says, reaching out to gently tug me closer by the back of my head before pressing a kiss to my forehead—warm, soft, and far too short.
"I'll text you later, okay?"
I nod, still feeling the warmth where his lips were. "Okay."
He grins, walking backward toward the door like he's reluctant to turn away.
"Don't miss me too much."
I laugh. "Don't worry, I won't!"
"Liar!" he calls out, flashing that grin again before finally turning the corner.
*****
Later that night, I somehow find myself at La Playa, the beachside bar that smells like coconut oil, sea salt, and bad decisions.
To be clear, this was not my idea.
Katie and Tammie call it a "girls' night out."
Which, in their language, translates to: two hours of pretending to be chill while hunting for cute guys with biceps and low emotional availability.
Lucy was supposed to come too, but her roommate set her up on a last-minute date—something about a cute guy from her Lit class who "gives main character energy."
So now it's just me and these two professional flirts.
I tried to say no. Multiple times. I even used my favorite excuse—"Sorry, I'm dead inside from dance rehearsal."
But apparently, that wasn't enough for them.
According to Katie, I "never hang out anymore."
According to Tammie, I've been "domesticated by Zach Westbrook."
According to me, I'm just exhausted and would rather cuddle my pillow than socialize.
But these two demons actually waited outside the ballet studio after practice to make sure I didn't bail. Like literal stalkers in crop tops.
So yeah, that's why I'm currently sitting at a small round table, eating grilled salmon with a side of quinoa salad, sipping a glass of white wine, and watching my friends transform into apex predators.
Katie's already scanning the bar like she's picking her next victim, elbowing Tammie every five seconds.