19. Avery
Avery
I have to pull over at a gas station halfway through the drive home. As I pull under the brilliantly lit canopy, a notification captures the dash screen.
Wes
OK? Is it the tire?
I unblocked his number while the mechanic I accidentally yelled at changed my tire. Having a way to reach each other seemed like the first logical step toward friendship.
Me
Just refueling! See you tomorrow.
I’m not okay. I wasn’t there for him. None of us were. He was hurting and we were right there. My hand slams against the steering wheel over and over.
All I can think about is how trapped I felt working with Emelia. Saying yes over and over again because it felt like the best option, but that’s nothing compared to what he’s gone through.
I don’t know where to put this new anger. At Maddie. At myself. At the world that let this happen.
I just drive. I drive until the sun presses up against the horizon. Only then do I go home to sleep for a handful of hours.
Which is why I shouldn’t be surprised when I’m running late for rehearsal the next morning.
Eyes sticky. Throat raw from the day before.
By some miracle, I get out the door in time to make it to our usual warehouse, but when I pull up and see the empty parking lot, panic runs through me.
That’s when I remember we’re at a different studio today while the crew constructs the stage inside, no more tape outlines for us.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
I arrive at the dance studio fifteen minutes late, which really is thirty minutes because fifteen minutes early is considered on time. My feet pound against the hardwood flooring as I sprint down the hall.
If I didn’t already know the studio number, the yelling match pouring from room four would be a good indicator.
“I didn’t do anything to her!” Wes says.
Followed by Lydia’s biting, “Then where the hell is she?”
“I’m as freaked out as you are. I thought she’d be on time,” he says then hesitantly adds, “We’re on good terms now, or at least I think we are.”
I’m moving so fast on the polished floors that I nearly slip past the entrance and have to brace myself against the doorframe with both hands to come to a complete stop.
“Here! I’m right here! I just overslept and forgot we switched studios!” I pant.
Wes and Lydia are facing off near the entrance with dancers huddling around the fringes of the room, pretending not to eavesdrop. Wes is the first to move, closing the distance between us and wrapping me tight. I stand stiffly for a moment, my eyes locking with Lydia over Wes’s shoulder.
This is new , she mouths.
I lean into the hug, loosening my arms and clutching him tightly. “It is.”
But really, it isn’t. It’s so old. A favorite sweater retrieved from under the bed, covered in dust and who knows what else. Still a favorite, it just needs to be shaken out a bit.
Wes’s voice is soft, brushing against the shell of my ear. “I wasn’t sure you were coming. I thought that maybe after you had more time to think about things, you decided you wanted nothing to do with me.”
I can’t imagine turning away from him after last night, but I can’t blame him for thinking that way. I’ve pushed him away so many times he must expect it from me. The same way I’ve grown to expect the worst from him.
I hold him tighter, refusing to be the first person to let go. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. We’re doing this together.”
There’s still so much left to say, but people are waiting on us and we don’t have any more time to talk. Rehearsal is brutal. The combination of no sleep and pushing hard to make up for lost rehearsal time is unforgiving. We run through each number until we get it perfectly.
Once done, I slump against the wall and close my eyes as everyone heads out. Just for a second I promise myself, even as sleep creeps in around the edges.
“Shit!” The word is hissed right into my ear.
I jerk up and hit my head on one of the ballet bars. Crouched beside me is Wes. Shirtless Wes. Tattoos on full display. And for a second I’m sure I’m dreaming. That my brain inserted a fantasy of him in the most recent place I’ve been.
Then he looks at me, cheeks tinged pink with embarrassment as he explains, “Sorry, I was checking if you were still sleeping and then I knocked over this water bottle.” That’s when I realize he’s using his shirt to soak up a wet spot on the floor.
“How long have I been out?” I ask through a yawn.
“Almost two hours.”
“And you've just been sitting here? Why didn’t you wake me up?” I start crawling to collect my things, throwing them into my bag.
“It seemed like you needed it and I was hoping…” he trails off, scraping a hand through his hair. “Can we talk about what happened between us?”
“If this is about the kiss…” I stand, slinging my bag over one shoulder and gripping it so the stiff edges of the strap dig into my palm.
I didn’t forget about the kiss. It’s more that it feels like it was so long ago after everything else that happened last night.
But now the memory bubbles to the surface and heat floods my cheeks, remembering how I reached for him on stage.
The flash of his hungry blue eyes. His fingers digging into my body like if he had a choice, he’d never let me go.
It was so good that it terrified me. Because the last time things felt that way between us, that right, they all went to absolute shit.
“Won’t happen again until you want it to.”
“Until?” I quirk a brow. “That’s awfully presumptuous of you.”
“Ave. I’m not going down without a fight. I’m in this for the long haul.”
“And who are you fighting against here?”
“The version of me in your head. The one who let you go. He didn’t deserve you. But maybe I can.”
Pressure builds against the back of my eyes. I think I believe him. Not just that he means it, but that he might be able to do it.
“What are we for now?” I’m almost too scared to ask.
“You told your mechanic last night I was your best friend. Is that still on the table? Or was that a heat of the moment thing? Car tires are serious business, so I understand if that’s changed.” The smile that meets his lips is sheepish as he scuffs a foot on the floor.
Did I really say that? I kind of blacked out for a moment, but if it slipped out, maybe it’s worth trusting the part of me that holds it to be true.
“I guess I can accept that. On a probationary basis.”
He thrusts out his hand.
“Are you trying to get me to shake on it like some gentleman’s agreement?” A laugh rockets out of my lungs.
“No. My first official act as your probationary best friend is taking that bag from you.”
I don’t fight it. I slip the weight from my shoulder and give it to him.
We walk out. Together.
But I shouldn’t be surprised. We’ve always had a knack for finding each other again, no matter what.