Chapter 3 #2
“You don’t, amor.” Gerardo shakes his head and gives me a sympathetic sigh. Or maybe it’s pity. “But imagine if he brings you glory… with your name connected to it?”
MATEO
The fluorescent lights overhead buzz faintly as I sit in the cold plastic chair, my hands folded tightly in my lap.
The room smells of stale coffee and disinfectant, and everyone looks overburdened with guilt for mistakes they made that can never be erased.
My Narcotics Anonymous meeting begins as it always does.
Marissa, our leader, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a soft voice, calls for introductions.
“Welcome, everyone,” Marissa says, her smile reassuring as everyone sits down. Her presence is like a steady pendulum, grounding us when all we want to do is disappear. “Let’s go around and share something about how the week has gone. Mateo, would you like to start?”
I stiffen under her gaze, heat creeping up my neck as all eyes turn to me. My mouth feels dry, and my pulse quickens. After a moment, I manage a tight nod. “Hi, I’m Mateo, and I’m an addict.”
The chorus of “Hi, Mateo” follows, the sounds both comforting and intimidating. I glance down at my hands as my fingers fidget with the hem of my sleeve.
“This week was… challenging,” I admit, my admission lifting a weight off my chest. Holding in fears, doubts, and guilt only feeds the poison gripping your soul.
“I’m trying to rebuild something I lost when I overdosed last year.
I was a ballroom dancer and competed internationally when it happened.
My future was bright, but I celebrated my many wins with drugs, and now I’m here.
It’s been hard because every step feels like a reminder of how I almost threw it all away. ”
Marissa nods encouragingly. “But you’re taking those steps, Mateo. That’s what matters.”
Her words feel hollow, but I nod anyway, the pressure in my chest easing slightly as the attention shifts to the next person.
I listen as others share their struggles and victories from the past week.
A missed temptation here, a celebrated milestone there.
Their words wash over me, some striking chords of empathy, others fading into the background noise of my own thoughts.
As the meeting continues, I focus on the stories of finding strength after faltering.
There’s a rawness in the honesty shared here that I both respect and fear.
One man, whose name we learn is Dan, speaks about relapsing after three years of being clean.
His voice cracks as he admits to feeling like he’s back at square one.
I catch myself clenching my fists, the fear of falling into the same trap making my stomach churn.
When the meeting ends, my muscles are tense, my jaw aching from being clenched for so long.
I stand from my chair and nod to a few others who are sticking around to talk a little more.
As much as these meetings help me, I never stay beyond the hour I’m required.
It’s as though the stories told inside these walls still hover over us, their whispers a constant reminder of our failures.
So I head for the exit and thank Marissa on my way out, her hand brushing mine in a gesture of support.
The cold winter air outside bites at my face, a welcome contrast to the stifling warmth of the meeting room, and I wrap my jacket a little tighter around me.
Winter in New York is such a drastic change from the California weather I’m used to, and instead of making me homesick, it feels like a cleansing restart.
I find Roger waiting by the curb, his hulking frame leaning against his black Range Rover.
He’s been a great companion since I’ve arrived, and knowing he’s an old family friend of my father’s makes me feel less alone.
Before me, Roger worked security detail for events and high-profile people.
Then my father filled him in on the failures of his only son and begged him to take this job after he exiled me.
He straightens when he sees me, pulling open the door with a practiced motion. “That was a good crowd this afternoon,” he remarks as I climb into the back seat. “How was the meeting?”
“Fine,” I reply curtly, pulling the seat belt across my chest. The word feels inadequate, but I don’t have the energy to elaborate.
Roger nods as he closes the door. He never forces me to divulge everything, and his patience is appreciated, even though I know my father grills him for information every day.
I relax into the seat as the city lights cast fleeting shadows across the interior of the SUV, then press my forehead against the cool glass of the window, my breath fogging up the surface as we weave through traffic.
My mind drifts to the studio and its polished floors, the mirrored walls, and the echo of my shoes against the wood. I can’t stop thinking about it.
“You know,” Roger drawls after a stretch of silence, his voice tentative. “You’re braver than you think, Mateo. A lot of people wouldn’t have the guts to face each day after what you’ve been through.”
I glance at him through the rearview mirror, caught off guard by his words. “Thanks, Roger,” I murmur, unsure of how to respond. It’s the first time he’s ever said anything about my overdose, and for a moment, it chips away at the wall I’ve built between us.
When we pull up in front of my building, Roger turns to look at me. “Get some rest tonight, Mateo. You look like you need it.”
I force a small smile. “Thanks, Roger. Good night.”
The elevator ride to my loft feels endless, the buzz of the machinery matching the thrum of anxiety in my veins.
By the time I step inside, the quiet of my apartment reminds me that I am utterly alone.
My parents are across the country and still trying to work through my betrayal, and my sister is on another continent, keeping her promise of never speaking to me again.
It hurts to even think of her, so I work hard not to.
I toss my bag onto the couch and head straight to the closet where I keep my dance shoes.
Sliding my feet into the familiar leather, I feel a jolt of electricity rush through me. The cloud of despair begins to lift as I step onto the hardwood floor of my large living room, the space giving me a reprieve from my loneliness.
I start a song on my phone, the rhythmic beats of a Cha-Cha filling the loft.
My muscles remember the steps before my mind can catch up, my body moving with the beat.
The sway of my hips, the snap of my arms, the seductive power in every movement.
It’s the greatest high, and I wonder why I ever searched for more.
The large, ornate mirror I bought when I moved in is propped against the wall, reflecting my form, and for a moment, I see a glimpse of the dancer I used to be.
The one who could captivate a room with just a glance, who could command the floor like it was an extension of his body, but the illusion is fleeting, replaced by the gaunt shadow of the man I’ve become.
I push harder, sweat beading on my forehead as I lose myself in the rhythm. The music shifts to a Viennese Waltz, and I transition seamlessly, my movements softer now, more fluid. The elegance of the dance wars with the turmoil inside me, but it’s a solace I desperately need.
As the song fades, I pause, catching my breath.
The silence in the room feels welcoming now, wrapping around me like a heavy blanket.
I walk to the window, the city lights below twinkling like a distant beacon.
It’s always there, deep inside me, the need to find an easy high.
Leaning my forehead against the glass, I close my eyes and let the memories wash over me.
The competitions, the crowds, the overwhelming rush of adrenaline as I performed… They all feel like a lifetime ago.
Before I can dwell too long in the past, I push off of the window and head into the kitchen, grabbing a towel to wipe the sweat from my face.
I’m not ready to stop, not yet. The next song on the playlist is a Samba, its lively rhythm jolting me back to the present.
I slip back into position, my feet gliding effortlessly across the floor as I chase the transient feeling of freedom.
Time blurs as I dance, each song pulling me deeper into the movements, into the person I used to be.
It’s only when my legs give out and I collapse onto the couch that I realize how late it is.
My chest rises and falls in heavy bursts, my body spent but my mind clearer than it’s been in a long time.
Staring up at the ceiling, I think about the studio, about what Greyson and Vaeda must see when they look at me. A project? A risk? Either way, I’m hoping to prove that I’m a dancer worth believing in.
For now, I’ll settle for surviving the night. I’ll lace up my shoes again tomorrow and take one more step forward. Even if I don’t believe in myself yet, I can’t bear the thought of proving everyone else right by giving up.