The Dance We Remember (Love and Other Dreams #4)

Chapter 1

Aurora

In the distance, the waves of the Atlantic crash against the shore as I hurry through the outdoor area of the café. Skillfully maneuvering between the fully occupied wrought-iron tables, I finally stop at a couple.

Like Romeo and Juliet, they gaze at each other with adoration. He reaches his hand under the table, caressing her thigh with his thumb, and she brushes the bangs away from her face, smiling so warmly that it radiates more brightness than the afternoon sun over Guérande.

Swiftly adjusting my glasses, I lift the cup from my tray. "Cappuccino?" I ask.

"Oui," mumbles Romeo, never taking his eyes off his girlfriend.

I place his cup down and serve the smoothie to Julia.

"Mademoiselle?" calls a guest from somewhere. "The bill, please."

I glance up briefly and notice the white-haired gentleman at table eight raising his arm. "Coming right up," I say before disappearing inside the beach café.

My colleague Vivienne tilts her head with a questioning look, her high ponytail swaying to the side. "Did you see a ghost?"

"It's all good. This week is just damn stressful." I try to force a smile. "Did you finish the order for table five?"

Leaning against the bright, chalked counter, she nods to the left, where a tray awaits me.

Under her scrutinizing gaze, I snatch it up and head outside again. With focus, I serve the order and then collect payment at table eight.

The man's fingers tremble; he struggles to grasp the coins, so I offer to do it for him.

"You're an angel, thank you," he says with an apologetic gesture as I place the coins individually on the table, allowing him to verify the amount.

"You're welcome," I reply, wishing him a nice day, and tuck the money pouch back into my apron.

Just as I clear the dirty glasses, I glimpse an elderly couple from the corner of my eye. They enter through the archway at the entrance, arms interlocked. He guides her to the table next to the wildly overgrown wall, its crimson bricks peeking through the lush green leaves. He pulls out the chair for her.

I swallow my rising longing and bring the dirty glasses to the counter, placing them on the rinsing grid.

Vivienne leans against the countertop next to me. "Melanie and I are trying out the new beach bar down at the pier today. They say the cocktails are incredible. And don't get me started on the guys..."

"Mm-hmm," I mumble, grabbing a cloth and scrubbing the serving tray clean.

"You should come with us," she insists with enthusiasm, her expression mischievous. "We might even find a hot guy for you."

"Unfortunately, I can't make it tonight," I say automatically.

Only then do I think about what day today actually is. Thursday? Or already Friday?

Immediately, she pouts. "You can never make it, can you?" Pushing away from the countertop, she turns toward the coffee machine. "What's so important all the time that you can't join us for even one night of partying?"

"I... um..." What can I possibly tell her? In my mind, I run through the potential excuses, but I've already used each one at least five times.

"Alright then, we're on the same page," she says with a mischievous grin, filling the stainless steel pitcher with milk. "Tonight, it's cocktails and hot guys."

"It really can't happen," I reply over the hissing of the milk frother, which Vivienne now sets in motion. "I'm sorry." With a sick feeling in my stomach, I hurry back outside.

"Party pooper," my coworker calls after me as I make my way to table fourteen to take the elderly couple's order.

Yes. That's what I am. A party pooper.

"I'm sorry," I say again, after placing the next order with Vivienne. Even though I've turned down her invitations a thousand times, she keeps inviting me to party with them. I don't want to offend or hurt her. It's just that it wouldn't be a good idea.

She holds a glass under the tap. "I don't understand you, Aurora," she says as the beer slowly fills the glass, forming an impressive foam crown.

"I don't want to meet anyone. It's... too complicated." Unconsciously, I press the nail of my pinky finger into my thumb.

Maybe it would be freeing to finally talk to someone about it. But that wouldn't change the situation either. I have to deal with it on my own. No one can help me.

Vivienne places the beer on my tray and looks at me intently. "There's a solution to every problem."

True. And—as tough as it is—I've found mine.

I force the corners of my mouth upward and nod in agreement. Then I lift the tray and disappear outside.

***

Five hours later, I take off the apron, slip into my running shorts, and pack my work outfit into the backpack. Vivienne is already at her party after I assured her multiple times that I'm more than happy to handle the closing shift alone. With a brisk movement, I lock the locker, sling the backpack over my shoulder, and fasten the clasps across my chest.

As soon as I exit the café through the back door, I start jogging. I weave through the leisurely strolling tourists along the beach promenade. To my left, the waves crash, and the sun begins to approach the horizon, casting an orange-red glow over the seemingly endless salt fields that soon come into view.

For over four years, I've been living here on the coast of Brittany. Day after day, I jog along the picturesque salt fields, sometimes even at night. As usual, I pick up the pace. I feel my heart working harder, the mild western wind brushing against my heated skin.

My phone rings. I retrieve it from the side pocket of the backpack while still running. Vico's sun-kissed face smiles at me from the display. His chin-length hair is wild, and his eyes radiate warmth.

After years of silence, he has been trying to reach me incessantly for the past few weeks. He calls, he texts. He asks me to call him back, and even though I never do, he sends messages telling me about home.

About how he has finally returned to Tuscany to restore our family estate to its former glory. About how his Hanna saved him from himself with her incredible talent. And about how he wakes up every morning with a broad smile on his face, knowing that he is finally living the life that is right for him.

Swallowing hard, I lengthen my strides, but the phone in my hand keeps ringing unchanged.

What am I supposed to tell my brother?

The truth about why I never come home to Tuscany to visit him?

No. I can't do that.

Finally, my phone falls silent. I clench my teeth, put the phone back in the backpack, and head toward the medieval city walls of Guérande.

Shortly after, I sprint through the cobbled alley leading to Grande Place. I have to dodge some tourists, but that's alright. It requires so much focus that I can't think of anything else.

Breathing heavily, I pass the historic church in the center of the small town. Under the colorful flags, strung like garlands between the stone facades, I turn into the next alley. A wild mix of letters and numbers dances across the illuminated panel on the outer wall of a pharmacy.

17 degrees Celsius , I read as I rush toward the sign.

8:05 p.m.

I dodge a group of teenagers with skateboards. The illuminated panel blinks again.

May 5th

In the middle of my stride, I freeze.

17 degrees Celsius. 8:05 p.m. May 5th.

Gasping, I fixate on the sign. The information keeps looping. And with each repetition, it seems to grow darker around me.

May 5th.

My throat tightens, the carefree world around me blurs. It takes far too long for my legs to do what they do best: they start running.

Faster.

And even faster.

I run like this for miles. Beads of sweat roll down my forehead, and my muscles burn. I breathe out in bursts, my heartbeat dominating all my senses.

Then finally, my mind becomes empty.

Just the way it needs to be.