CHAPTER fifty-eight #3
Cody drops into the seat beside me, breathless from shouting commands. He elbows me in the ribs, grinning. "Dude. Did you see her backstage?"
"Yeah."
"How is she?"
"She's nervous."
"Like bad nervous?" he asks.
"Normal nervous," I tell him, leaning back in my seat. "This night is huge for her, you know? It's kind of impossible not to be nervous."
Cody nods like he gets it, so I keep going—because honestly, I could talk about her forever.
"It's her big night. Not just because this showcase is a massive chunk of her grade, but because.
.. this show?" I smile, can't even help it.
"The Nutcracker has been her thing since she was a kid.
Like... little tutu, tiara, whole-sugarplum-princess-era Caroline.
This is a dream role finally happening."
That warmth fills my chest again—the same one I get whenever she talks about dance like it's stitched into her bones.
"She's worked her ass off for months," I add, shaking my head in pure admiration. "She's gonna shine out there. Own that stage and blow everyone away."
Cody grins and nods like he totally gets it, but he doesn't. Not really.
Nobody here fully understands what this night means to her — not the way I do.
Caroline didn't just "prepare" for this show. She lived it. Breathed it. Hell, I think she dreamed in eight-counts for months. I've watched her drag herself out of rehearsals so exhausted she could barely stand... and then insist she was fine because she "finally nailed the turn sequence."
I've watched her ice her ankles on FaceTime while apologizing to me for missing a date night. I've watched her fall asleep mid-sentence talking about choreography — and wake up panicking because she thought she was late.
This isn't just a performance for her.
It's a piece of her.
She's loved The Nutcracker since she was a kid— I know, because I watched every damn version of it with her growing up. The Barbie one was her favorite, and we played that old DVD so many times the thing practically disintegrated.
She'd spin around the living room in her little tutu, pretending she was Clara or the Sugar Plum Fairy, and I'd be the Nutcracker every single time—wooden sword, stiff soldier walk—because she insisted I had to be part of the magic with her.
And I always said yes. Every damn time.
Because let's be real—I've been wrapped around Caroline Pennington's finger since we were kids.
Back then, all she had to do was tilt her head, smile up at me with those big Disney-princess eyes, and suddenly I was wearing that stupid plastic Nutcracker crown she claimed was "necessary for authenticity."
She'd shove a toy sword in my hand, boss me around like a tiny drill sergeant, and I'd march around the living room like some knockoff toy soldier while she twirled in whatever glittery tutu she convinced her mom to buy.
And I never complained. Not once.
Because one look from her? Yeah—game over. Always has been.
Honestly, she could walk up to me right now and say, "Zach, we need a Nutcracker emergency reenactment," and I'd already be asking her, "Which sword? The plastic or the wooden one?"
Because being part of her magic—back then and now—has always been the easiest yes of my life.
The lights start to dim, the low chatter across the auditorium settling into a soft hum as someone's voice comes over the speakers:
"Ladies and gentlemen, the Winter Showcase will begin in just a few minutes. Please take your seats."
Programs rustle. Seats creak. People start nudging each other to sit down.
That's when I catch Sam walking down the aisle, heading back toward Mom. She spots me instantly and flashes a soft smile, giving a tiny wave and mouthing, I'm sitting with Mom.
I nod back.
Liam—who's standing in the aisle because he refuses to sit until the very last minute—looks up at the same moment.
"Little devil!" he blurts, waving so aggressively he nearly smacks a random guy in the face.
I hear a subtle shift behind me—like a body jolting upright.
I don't have to look to know it's Elijah.
But I do anyway.
He's sitting in the aisle seat one row behind me, and the second Liam says Sam's nickname, Elijah's head snaps up. He turns sharply—eyes locking onto Sam.
Sam doesn't look his way though. Not even for a split second.
She walks straight toward us, Liam slings an arm around her shoulders the moment she gets close.
"Long time no see," he grins.
"Yeah, little devil," Luke adds from his seat beside Elijah. "You haven't been showing up at the Pond lately. Don't you miss us at all?"
He shoots a sideways glance at Elijah when he says us, the smirk on his face way too pointed to be subtle.
Sam laughs, still not glancing even once at Elijah. "I've just been busy."
"Busy?" Liam scoffs. "You mean busy partying every damn night?"
Sam rolls her eyes, elbowing him gently.
"At the football house!" Liam piles on dramatically. "Can you believe that? Betrayal. Actual betrayal. What about loyalty? What about family?"
Sam snorts. "What can I say? Their parties are more fun than yours."
Luke clutches his chest like he's been stabbed. "Wow. Right to our faces."
While everyone's laughing, I flick my attention back to Elijah.
His expression is... different.
Jaw tight. Brows pulled together. That usual blank, untouchable look isn't there right now. Instead, he's staring at Sam like he's trying to figure something out. Or like he's waiting—waiting for her to look at him, acknowledge him, something.
She doesn't.
Not once.
Then Cody leans forward from the seat next to me. "Yo, Sam—I heard Khol's been asking you out. That why you're always over there? or are you guys going out already?"
If I weren't already paying attention, I would've missed it—the way Elijah freezes for half a second.
He looks at her—really looks—and it's the longest he's looked at Sam. Like he's waiting for her to laugh it off.
Or deny it.
Or say anything that tells him she's not actually out going out with the school's quarterback.
But Sam just grins.
Doesn't deny it.
Doesn't explain it.
And that's when it happens—so fast anyone else would've missed it. A tiny hitch in his expression.
His eyes darken, something raw slipping out, unguarded and almost... pained? Like something punches the air out of him before he can stop it.
Then—just as quickly as it appears—he kills it. Jaw flexing once. Shoulders going rigid. He smooths his expression back into that cold, blank, nothing-to-see-here mask he wears better than anyone on this team.
But I saw it.
Every damn second of it.
And whatever just cracked through Elijah Deveraux?
Yeah... it's eating him alive.
Before the twins can start in on her again, I stand and peel Liam's arm off her shoulder.
"Alright, knock it off," I say, half-laughing as I steer Sam back. "Go sit down, angel. It's about to start."
She nods, waves at the guys, then slips down the aisle toward Mom's row.
And Elijah?
Yeah. He watches her go.
His eyes track her the whole damn way, like it's finally hitting him that she's really keeping her distance now. Staying away. The very thing he's pushed her toward for years...
And the look on his face?
He looks like he hates every second of it.
I shove Elijah's whole weird reaction to the back of my mind, because a few seconds later the curtains slowly pull open.
And the whole place exhales.
The stage is a full-blown Christmas fantasy — the kind that punches you in the nostalgia.
A massive fir tree stands in the center, dripping in gold ornaments and twinkling warm lights.
Garlands sweep across the backdrop, snow-dusted windows frame the sides, and oversized wrapped presents sit piled at the base of the tree.
Everything glows like someone bottled December and poured it onto the stage.
And there she is.
Caroline. Clara.
My girl looks like a dream — all soft joy and wide-eyed wonder as she places a glass ornament on a branch, her hair tied with a satin blue ribbon, her dress pale blue and floating as she moves.
The guy playing Fritz darts around her, pretending to annoy her while hanging ornaments crookedly on purpose.
Then the guests begin entering from both sides of the stage — women in velvet gowns, men in old-fashioned tailcoats, all carrying wrapped gifts to place beneath the giant tree. Kids in lace and buttoned vests run in and out of the adults' legs. It looks like an actual Victorian party come alive.
The whole opening scene has that warm, bustling holiday chaos — chatting guests, kids sneaking cookies from the gingerbread display, old men pretending not to notice.
Then Drosselmeyer arrives.
Clara's "godfather" makes this dramatic entrance, cape swirling, hair silvered, his steps exaggerated just enough to make the 'kids' squeal. He presents Clara with the Nutcracker as a special gift.
Laughter ripples through the room in one giant wave when two guys literally carry Adam onstage stiff as a board, wearing an oversized wooden Nutcracker head that must weigh at least twenty pounds. His legs don't move. His arms don't bend. He looks like a possessed action figure.
And through all of it, Caroline is perfect — her reactions, her timing, her grace. She makes the entire stage revolve around her without even trying.
I'm filming her every single time she steps onstage.
I don't even bother pretending to be subtle anymore.
The second she appears, my phone is up.
I'm catching everything—every step, every gesture, every blink—because my girlfriend looks like she swallowed starlight and I'd like permanent evidence of that, thank you.
"Dude. Put the phone down for two seconds." Cody huffs a laugh. "This is peak embarrassing-boyfriend behavior, just so you know."
I flip him off and keep hitting record.