Chapter 20
TWENTY
Mateo
It’s been two days since I saw Vaeda at Fusion Core and two days of ignoring her texts.
Two days since I walked in with Yvonne, feeling lighter than I had in weeks, until my eyes found hers.
Until that sharp ache pierced the air between us like static before a storm.
I didn’t think I’d make it through the session.
My whole body felt like it was vibrating with the pull to speak to her, to touch her, to beg, but I didn’t.
I danced. I laughed with Yvonne. I kept myself moving because stillness, for me, always invites the darkness.
And thank God for Yvonne.
She’s been my anchor and shield. Not in the same way Vaeda was.
No, not that raw, electric tether, but steady in her own right.
She shows up. She makes me laugh. She doesn’t ask for more than I can give, and after everything that happened at the club, and then what almost happened after.
.. It’s nice to have a connection that feels safe.
Tonight, we’re all meeting up: me, Yvonne, Adam, and Kari.
It’s been weeks since the four of us had a moment outside of class.
After Greyson split us into two different pairs to prepare for Paris, our rehearsals became staggered and far between.
That closeness and camaraderie slipped through the cracks, but tonight, we’re taking it back.
Just a lounge. Good music. Maybe some fries to split. Nothing crazy.
Nothing I can’t handle.
I finish buttoning the collar of my black shirt and check the clock. I’m supposed to meet Yvonne downstairs in five minutes. I run my fingers through my hair and grab my coat, sliding my phone into my back pocket as I step into the hallway.
By the time I get to the lobby, she’s already waiting. Yvonne looks effortlessly cool in a cropped leather jacket, her eyes lighting up when she spots me.
“There he is,” she says, looping her arm through mine. “I was starting to think you’d stood me up.”
“Never.” I flash her a small smile. “I need your presence to keep me from brooding into a drink menu.”
She laughs as we walk out toward the cab, the city wind brushing between us like a memory I can’t quite shake.
“You doing okay?” she asks as we settle into the back seat. “You’ve been quiet since Tuesday.”
I glance out the window, watching the lights smear across the glass like streaks of gold and red. “I’m trying. That counts for something, right?”
“Yeah.” She leans her head back. “It does.”
The lounge is buzzing when we arrive. Dim lighting, amber-toned booths, and the low thrum of a live band playing something jazzy in the corner adds ambiance to the place. It’s not packed, but it’s full enough to make it feel alive.
Adam and Kari are already at a table near the back. They wave us over, Kari lifting a half-empty mojito in greeting. Her cheeks are already flushed with laughter. Adam claps me on the back as I slide into the booth beside him.
“It’s about time,” he exclaims. “We were starting to think you two were off rehearsing some secret Rumba.”
Yvonne grins, nudging me. “Please. Mateo’s been rehearsing how to survive another stare-down from Vaeda.”
My stomach twists, but I manage to laugh. “I think I’ve mastered the technique: avoid eye contact, count backward from ten, and pretend I’m not dying inside.”
They all laugh, and for a moment, it feels good. Easy. Like I haven’t been unraveling piece by piece since the night I asked Vaeda when she was leaving her husband and she revealed the truth.
As we fall into conversation, reminiscing about our first awkward group rehearsal, trading horror stories from past competitions, and making fun of Greyson’s obsession with the Paso Doble flair, I realize something.
This is what I needed. Not a distraction.
Not an escape. I needed connection and belonging.
People who see me for who I am now, not just who I used to be.
The rim of my water glass sweats between my fingers as I twirl it in slow, anxious circles. The chatter at our booth has grown louder, looser, and funnier, like the kind of night that could easily slip into something messier if we aren’t careful.
“I think it’s time,” Adam announces as he waves over a server, a crooked grin stretching across his face. “We’ve earned it. A round of tequila shots for the table.”
My stomach drops as I try to keep the reaction off my face, but the moment the words leave his mouth, my body stiffens. Yvonne must feel it, because she shifts beside me, brushing her leg gently against mine under the table.
The server nods and disappears into the crowd, leaving me sitting in silence, heart pounding against my ribs like it’s trapped.
Adam’s laughing with Kari, tossing an arm around her shoulder as they argue over who can handle tequila better.
It’s a perfectly normal night for them. This is what twenty-somethings do.
Celebrate, drink, and let go, but for me, it’s a cliff’s edge.
I press my palms flat to my thighs, suddenly aware of how cold the room feels despite the crowd and the low warmth of the candles flickering between us.
Yvonne leans toward me, her voice low enough that only I can hear it.
“Don’t worry, I got this. I’m not drinking,” she breathes into my ear.
Then she straightens and says, “Training’s been hell, and I can’t risk the dehydration.
” She groans loud enough for the table to hear.
I turn to her sharply, my breath catching, and she meets my eyes before shrugging lightly.
Relief crashes over me so fast and hard that I nearly sag in my seat. “Yeah,” I agree, my voice steadier than I feel. “Same here. I’ve been cramping like crazy during rehearsals. No way I’m making it worse.”
Adam’s mouth splits into a wide grin when the tray of shots arrives, and Yvonne casually waves her hand, refusing one. “C’mon,” he teases. “What happened to the fearless Yvonne who drank whiskey straight after nationals?”
“She got tired of puking in rental car parking lots,” she fires back coolly, making Kari laugh.
I follow her lead, nodding as I decline mine. “Same. I’d like to keep what’s left of my dignity intact.”
“Lame.” Adam grins, then promptly downs his shot. Kari joins him with an overzealous cheer, the two of them giggling like it’s their first time tasting tequila.
I can’t even look at the glasses. My pulse is still erratic, but the danger has passed, for now.
Yvonne pushes back from the booth a moment later, stretching her arms. “I think I’m going to call it a night,” she announces. “It’s been a long week.”
“Already?” Kari pouts.
“Early class tomorrow,” Yvonne states simply, and then glances toward me. “Mateo?”
I don’t hesitate. “Yeah. I should head out too.”
No one protests. The night has mellowed into background music and inside jokes. I slip into my coat as Yvonne does the same. I’m so damn grateful she didn’t make a big deal about the lifeline she tossed me.
Once we step outside, the biting chill hits my face, leaving me feeling refreshed. I take a deep breath, letting the cool air soak through me. My body is still humming from the anxiety, but I can already feel it starting to ease.
“You okay?” she asks quietly as we walk toward the curb.
“Yeah,” I say, and I mean it, but only because of her.
VAEDA
It’s been two days since our last studio session.
I’ve sent three simple texts. Neutral. Just checking in.
A quiet “Hope your classes are going well,” or “Let me know if you need anything.” I told myself I was doing the right thing by backing off.
That the distance was healthy. Necessary.
That his silence is proof that he’s doing better without me, but my chest feels like it’s caving in.
Fusion Core was where I was supposed to be this morning. Greyson and I had plans to finish the dance sequences for Paris, finalize the costume notes, and review music cues, but somehow, my feet carried me here instead.
I’m standing outside the hip-hop studio Mateo and I visited together, the one with the graffiti-painted door and the faded gold lettering.
I haven’t been back since that day. Since his fingers gripped my hips and the music made my skin feel too tight for my body.
Since he pressed his mouth to my ear and asked if he was doing it right.
I told myself it was a mistake, a line crossed in a moment of heat and confusion. I told myself the kisses we shared were reckless, born of too much chemistry and not enough clarity, and yet... here I am.
The sun is still low in the sky, spilling amber light across the cracked sidewalk as I step toward the building. I’m not even sure what I’m doing or why I came. There’s no class right now. No reason for me to be here.
Except him.
I press my hand to the cold metal of the studio’s doorframe and inhale deeply. The scent of the city, of asphalt and coffee, and something slightly burnt floods my lungs.
I miss him. It’s that simple. That stupid. That devastating.
I miss the way his gaze cuts through a room and lands on me like it’s the only place he wants to look. I miss the honesty in his voice, even when it rattles me. I miss the way his dancing holds a kind of pain no choreography could tame. I miss the boy who looked at me like I was his beginning.
And now? Now he’s with Yvonne. Young, bright-eyed, uncomplicated Yvonne.
I watched them again two days ago, walking into rehearsal five minutes late, laughing about something private.
She touched his arm. He didn’t flinch. I should be relieved.
He’s healing. That’s what I wanted, isn’t it?
For him to be okay. For him to have a future, but I didn’t expect it to feel like grief.
The studio door doesn’t open when I press the handle—it’s locked, of course—but I stand there anyway, forehead resting against the glass.
Maybe this was a mistake, maybe I’m chasing ghosts, or maybe I just needed to come here and remember that once, for a moment, he danced with me like I was more than an instructor.
More than a married woman. More than a mistake waiting to happen.
He danced with me like I was his, and I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself for not completely giving in.
The glass is cold against my forehead, my breath fogging the lower corner of the door as I try to convince myself to leave. This was foolish and sentimental. I should go.
“Hey,” a voice says behind me, soft but full of life. I turn quickly to find a woman in joggers and a cropped hoodie, earbuds dangling from around her neck. “You here for the free intro class?”
I blink. “What?”
“The hip-hop class. It starts in ten.” She grins, thumb hooked toward the door as she pulls out a key and unlocks it. “Come on in.”
For a second, I hesitate, but then I hear myself say, “Yeah, I am.” And I follow her inside.
The studio smells like hardwood polish and traces of vanilla from someone’s perfume.
The mirrored wall reflects my hesitation as I find a spot near the back corner, rolling out my shoulders and slowly easing into a stretch.
My ankle gives a slight protest, but I push through it.
The music playing overhead is just a warm-up beat, but already it makes something loosen inside my chest.
People trickle in. Men and women in sweats, sneakers, cropped shirts, and beat-up dance shoes. Most of them are young. A few smile at me. I give a tight nod, keeping my head down as I fall into a deeper lunge.
Then I feel it. A prickle of energy in the air. A current I recognize without needing to see it. I look up with instinct more than thought, and there he is.
Mateo steps into the studio casually, eyes half-lidded, headphones slung around his neck, dressed in black joggers and a fitted tee that clings to the ridges of his chest and shoulders. He doesn’t see me at first, focused on tying the laces of his sneakers, but I see him and I can’t breathe.
The noise of the studio fades until all I hear is my pulse pounding in my ears.
My fingertips tremble where they rest on the floor.
Then he straightens, his gaze sweeping the room, distracted, until it lands on me like a lightning strike.
His whole body goes still as shock washes across his face, raw, exposed, and real.
His lips part like he might say something, but then someone walks in front of him and the moment breaks.
The instructor’s voice booms, calling us to the center. I force myself to stand, joints stiff from more than just stretching. Mateo doesn’t move right away, then he drifts into the line beside another dancer, keeping a distance from me, but not so far that I can’t feel him there.
The music starts, hard beats, pulsing rhythm, and the instructor throws us into movement. It takes everything I have to follow along. My body is capable, trained, but my head? My heart? They’re in pieces. The bass drives through the floor and into my ribs, demanding I keep up.
Halfway through the final routine, I feel a presence behind me, then I feel his hands. Light, hesitant, and familiar.
Mateo slides in behind me with a confidence that belies the aching look he gave me earlier. His palms graze my hips, his chest brushing my back as we mirror the movement together, caught in a moment no one else sees.
His breath ghosts over my neck as we fall into step, synchronized and seamless.
The rhythm grows more sensual, and his grip firms slightly, guiding the arc of my hips into his.
My hands find his at my waist without thinking, grinding myself into him as my body forgets to care about everything else.
There’s no instruction here. No choreography. Just memory, desire, and regret.
I tilt my head back slightly, just enough to feel his exhale on my skin as his fingertips tighten, then drop away. By the time I turn to face him, the song is over and he’s walking away. No words. Not even a glance. Just the hollow echo of the door closing behind him.
And I let him go.
Even though my legs threaten to collapse beneath me.