Chapter 13
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
BODHI
I’m pretty sure the show was beautiful. But honestly, I spent most of it watching Iggy.
The way he smiled when a line of male dancers, wrapped in white feathers, leapt across the stage. The sharp gasp he sucked in when the prince mistakenly professed his love for the Black Swan. The quiet, helpless tears when the leads met their tragic end.
I only knew the broad strokes of the story because I’d done a frantic Google search in the bathroom during intermission.
Considering there were no words, I figured it didn’t matter that we were watching it in Milan.
Ballet was universal. Still, I had no idea what the fuck was going on, and the awareness made me feel like an uncultured swine.
But Iggy was enthralled, and that made the confusion worth it.
I had to admit, the male dancers were hot.
Shirtless and slick with sweat, bodies stacked with muscle.
They were the opposite of Iggy’s lean, elegant frame.
He looked closer to the female dancers, gliding and spinning in tutus, all grace and control.
Still just as stunning, only different. And I found myself wondering where he’d fit when he danced with his company.
Though, knowing Iggy, there was no real doubt. He would’ve stood out like a beacon. Commanded the stage. Pulled every eye towards him without even trying.
“That was incredible,” Iggy breathed when the final curtain fell. “The dancers were amazing.”
We rose with the rest of the audience and flowed towards the lobby, carried along by the tide of bodies.
“They really were,” I said, trying to summon memories of the performance beyond Iggy’s rapt expressions. “Did you ever perform Swan Lake?”
He nodded. “A few times. Never as one of the swans, though.” He lifted an arm and gave it a mock flex. “Not muscular enough.”
I slid an arm around his waist and tugged him into my side. “Still pretty.”
He ducked his head, but not before I caught the blush spreading across his cheeks. “Shut up,” he muttered, though his mouth betrayed him with a smile.
He laced his fingers through mine and tugged me towards the exit, swinging our linked arms between us. We hadn’t gone far before I stopped short.
Iggy turned, brow furrowing. “What’s wrong?” He glanced around. “Why’d you stop?”
I pulled him back against my chest and leaned in close, my lips brushing his ear. “Come with me.”
He looked up through his lashes, a slow smirk curling his mouth. He didn’t argue as I steered him away from the exit and deeper into the building. The further we went, the quieter it became, the murmur of the crowd fading until the only sound left was the echo of our footsteps on marble.
“Where are we going?” Iggy asked, trailing just behind me. “Are we looking for another maintenance cupboard? Because I feel like that’s becoming a pattern. Or do you have a kink I don’t know about?”
“No kinks,” I said, laughing. “And no maintenance closets. You’ll see.”
We moved down the corridor, Iggy pointing out various alcoves we could use for a make-out session if the mood struck. His commentary cut off when I stopped in front of a plain black door.
“Why are we here?” He glanced at the sign—“Stage Door”—then back at me. “Bodhi?”
Instead of answering, I kissed the tip of his nose.
Then I opened the door, and we stepped into an entirely different world.
Gone was the polished luxury. In its place was organised chaos.
Set pieces stacked haphazardly. Costume racks crowded with tulle and feathers.
Cables snaked across the floor. The space was empty now, dancers and crew gone for the night, stealing a few hours of rest before returning to do it all again.
I guided Iggy towards the wings, sections divided by long strips of dark fabric.
The final set piece still stood in place, a painted moonlit lake mirroring the one from the poster outside.
But where the audience had been a short time ago, the red velvet curtain was lifted, revealing row upon row of empty seats.
With the house lights on, the theatre looked impossibly vast. The stage felt smaller without the magic of spotlights, stripped back to its bones, yet the charm remained.
I was used to oversized stages in arenas, filled with instruments, amps, and mic stands. With my band.
This, though . . . this was Iggy’s domain.
He stood beside me in the wings, staring at the set the way a child stared at their favourite food. Or the way an antique dealer looked at a rare treasure.
“What are we doing here, Bodhi?” he whispered, like the space was sacred.
His voice shook, but not from nerves. I could tell by the way his mouth hung open. The way his eyes shone. He was excited. Drawn to the stage. To the home he’d left behind long ago, now returning to it like the prodigal son.
“Turns out Dylan has a contact at the theatre.” I watched as he took a tentative step out past the wings, like he was half expecting the floor to vanish beneath him. “They owed him a favour, so . . . here we are.”
Iggy spun around, and once again his eyes filled. This time, I didn’t panic. Unlike before, I knew I hadn’t fucked up.
No. I’d given him a gift, expecting nothing in return.
All I wanted was for him to step onto a stage again. It wouldn’t be like before. Not in front of a packed house. It wouldn’t ever be like that again. But he could have this. Could stand where he belonged, centre stage, just for tonight.
“Dance for me.”
He blinked, my words pulling him out of whatever spell he’d been under. “What?”
I joined him on the stage, but instead of moving towards the centre, I veered for the stairs at the side. His eyes followed me as I descended and walked along the front row. Past seat after seat. Until I lowered myself into the one directly in the middle.
“Dance for me,” I repeated, settling back.
I crossed one leg over the other, resting my elbows on the armrests, and looked up at him expectantly.
“I . . .” He trailed off, gaze dropping to the floor. “I can’t.”
“Yes you can.”
His hands curled into fists at his sides, tension suddenly radiating off him in waves.
A small part of me wondered if I was pushing too far.
If I was about to ruin a perfect night. But Iggy needed this.
He needed to know he wasn’t broken. Time and time again, he’d done everything he could to convince me that I was fine.
That I could still love the things I loved, even if they didn’t look the way I’d imagined.
Now it was my turn.
“You can, Iggy.”
“No.” He snapped his head up, eyes flashing. “I can’t. It won’t be perfect, Bodhi. I can’t dance like them.”
“I don’t want you to dance like them.”
He sucked in a sharp breath and stumbled back a step. His shoulders dropped from where they’d been drawn tight around his ears, and I felt my own chest loosen as I watched the first cracks appear in his defences.
“I want you to dance like you.”
The sound that tore from his chest was raw.
A heart-wrenching sob. Then another. And another.
Iggy collapsed to his knees at centre stage, eyes locked on me.
His only witness. An audience of one. The walls he’d built around his first love, the thing he thought he’d lost forever, crumbled all at once.
And for what I suspected was the first time, he let himself grieve.
He buried his face in his hands and sobbed, the sound echoing through the empty theatre, rising into the rafters. His body shook as years of pain finally poured out of him. Pain he’d carried far too long. Pain that had weighed him down until all he had left was exhaustion.
I didn’t know what had ended his dream. I didn’t need to. I just knew whatever it was had hurt. Not only his body, but everything else too.
He needed to let it go.
“Remember what I told you, Iggy,” I said when his cries softened.
They’d dwindled into broken whimpers, and every instinct screamed at me to climb the stage and hold him. But this wasn’t the moment for that. He needed to know he could rise on his own. That he didn’t need a crutch. That he could still stand tall on his own.
Slowly, he lifted his head. His makeup was ruined now. Mascara streaked down his cheeks, eyeshadow smeared. And somehow, he’d never looked more beautiful.
“It doesn’t have to be perfect,” I said softly, holding his gaze. “To be beautiful.”
He exhaled, releasing the last of the tension from his body. Placing his hands on the ground, he pushed himself to his feet and straightened. His eyes were rimmed red, still damp, but he looked calm. Almost tranquil.
“Okay,” he whispered, voice rough from crying. “Okay.”
Without another word, he unfastened his blazer and slipped it from his shoulders, tossing it towards the side of the stage.
The delicate chain around his neck followed.
He kicked off his boots and left them behind, standing barefoot in nothing but the layered skirt.
Then he opened his clutch, pulled out his phone, and discarded the bag too.
After a few taps on the screen, he set the phone on the floor.
Seconds later, a familiar melody flooded the empty theatre. The same song that had played earlier that evening, when the princess was cursed by the evil sorcerer.
Iggy was performing his own version of Swan Lake. For me.
He took his place at centre stage, one arm lifted, one foot pointed behind him.
As the violins crept in, he leaned back, his body stretching into a graceful arch.
Long. Lean. Elegant. He rose onto his toes, higher than I thought possible without the painful ballet shoes the women wore, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
The movement carried him towards the front left corner, arms drifting at his sides, lifting and falling like waves.
No. Like wings.
With a control most people would never achieve, he reached outward, as if grasping for something just beyond his fingertips, and lifted his back leg into the air.
The angle wasn’t perfect. Not quite ninety degrees.
I saw the flicker of pain cross his face when he pushed past comfort.
But he held it anyway. Spine long and curved, shoulders back, chin lifted, fingers and toes pointed.
Still beautiful.
The music swelled, and suddenly he was everywhere.
Spinning across the stage. Leaping as if the floor itself were helping him fly.
He landed soundlessly, light on his feet despite being years out of practice.
Arms slicing through the air, legs kicking, body surrendering to the motion.
His chiffon skirt moved with him like a paid supporting actor.
Layers of black and purple shifting beneath the house lights, adding drama to every turn.
Pink hair whipped around his face as he claimed the space like it belonged to him.
Twisting. Turning. Leaping. All fluidity and grace, like silk caught in motion.
He was incredible.
I watched with my mouth slightly open, eyes tracking him as he crossed the stage again and again. Back to front. Side to side. Filling the entire theatre on his own. He didn’t need an ensemble. Didn’t need anyone else to make the moment complete.
Iggy was the stage.
The music hit its final crescendo when he collapsed with a sharp cry.
I was out of my seat instantly, tearing across the distance between us. He lay on his side, clutching his hip, breath coming in shallow pulls.
“Are you okay?”
I lowered myself beside him and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. He let me guide him until he was seated between my legs, back resting against my chest, legs stretched out in front of us. His skirt pooled over our lower halves like a thin blanket.
“Was it your hip?” I asked, gently rubbing the joint.
I kept the pressure light. Just enough to warm the muscle, to keep it from seizing. The darker part of my mind whispered that this was my fault. That if I hadn’t pushed him, none of this would’ve happened.
But he’d looked so alive out there. So at peace. Like he’d come home. And when I glanced down at his face, the soft, dreamy look there chased the guilt away entirely.
“It was worth it,” he murmured, eyes drifting up to the moonlit lake painted on the backdrop.
I lifted a hand to his cheek and turned his face towards mine. Those mossy green eyes, rimmed in smudged purple shadow, met my gaze.
“You weren’t perfect, Iggy,” I whispered.
His breath hitched, fingers tightening around my wrist.
“But you were so fucking beautiful.”
He smiled then. The biggest smile I’d ever seen. Bright and devastating and all-consuming, stealing the air straight from my lungs.
Riff’s voice echoed in my head from the day before.
“Look at you. Smiling like a fool in love.”
Fuck.
I was done for.