Chapter 44
Clementine
“Thanks for doing this with me,” I murmur, leaning close to swipe blush onto Yura’s cheek.
She narrows her eyes at me in the mirror. “Never in my life would I have guessed that the hyper-focused ballerina I spent summers with would turn into a horny little rascal.”
I snort. “What can I say? Apparently a grizzly mountain man does it for me.”
She smirks, tugging at her too-loose tutu strap. “Did he do it for you on your hike this afternoon?”
“No, that was all PG,” I shoot back, though the memory makes me smile anyway. Alec tried to play it cool while I unpacked a picnic of Toblerone, muffins, and Daisy’s steak sandwiches on the summit, like he wasn’t practically swooning over the chocolate.
Yura bites down on her lip. “Well, after that, he’s definitely going to ravish you later.”
“I hope so.” I grin, and when our reflections catch, two grown women in neon tutus and tinsel crowns, Mozart in drag between us, I dissolve into laughter until my cheeks ache.
The whole day has been like this, stitched together with ridiculousness and breathless moments.
Alec swears he doesn’t celebrate his birthday, but he didn’t exactly complain when I slid into his bed this morning, pressing my cold toes to his calves just to hear him groan.
We tangled in the sheets until the alarm dragged us onto the trail.
Later, back home, Finn and Yura joined us for too much pasta and a cutthroat round of Trouble, though somehow Alec “won.” Now he’s downstairs by the fire, smug and unsuspecting, convinced we’re sneaking off to grab his cake. He has no idea what’s coming.
Yura digs another macaron out of the white box on Finn’s dresser, her tutu puffed around her like a turquoise cloud. “Okay, one last bite of these, and then we’re going out there and giving those two mountain men the best show of their lives.”
“Your tongue is going to look like Skittles vomited on it,” I tell her, brushing glitter across my collarbone.
She mumbles through crumbs, “Thanks again for these. I didn’t even think I liked macarons.”
“Trust me, nobody does until they’ve had the real ones. Try the orange, it’ll ruin you for life.”
She licks powdered sugar from her lip. Her green eyes shimmer from the bronze pendant light above, the one Alec picked out nearly two months ago. “I still can’t believe Alec whisked you off to Paris for a single night.”
“Best concert I’ve ever seen,” I admit. “It felt too quick, though. I’m already dying to go back. He had a late dinner catered on the terrace so we could watch the Eiffel Tower light up at midnight.”
“Who else was lit up?”
“Me.” I wink, leaning back like I’m not about to confess I downed half a bottle of champagne by myself. “I was so tipsy I cried during the light show. Told Alec I’d never seen anything so beautiful. He thought I meant him.”
“He is nice to look at. They both are.”
“Also very nice to touch.”
She squeals and pitches a pillow at me. I dodge it, nearly knocking over the blush palette, and collapse onto the rug, laughing until my stomach cramps.
It’s exactly like being kids again—knees skinned, fingers sticky with glitter, choreographing routines in the lodge lobby while our grandmothers pretended not to notice.
Back then, we used to bet on how many cartwheels it would take before one of us smacked into the moose head on the wall.
I’d forgotten how easy friendship could be when nothing’s at stake.
Ballet friends had always been rivals in disguise. Yura just feels like home.
“Okay,” I tease, catching my breath, “this from the girl whose grunting I heard in this room the other day. That did not sound like physical therapy.”
She gasps, diving into Finn’s pillow like she’s twelve again and hiding from Gran. “You’re evil.”
“And you missed me,” I singsong.
She peeks over the pillow, cheeks flushed. “Nine years was way too long.”
“I think so too.” My throat tightens. “Now we’ve got two boys and a dog waiting for us.”
“The best little Monoodle Malamute muffin in the entire world,” I say, pointing at Mozart, who’s gnawing the lavender tutu tied around his belly.
“Isn’t he the sweetest, most—hey! No! Not the ribbons!” Yura lunges.
“Mozart!” we shriek together as he tears around the room, ribbons streaming behind him like parade streamers. It takes both of us to pin him down, and we giggle helplessly as he wriggles, tail thumping, while we smother him in belly rubs.
“Co-parenting is going great,” Yura says, breathless.
We collapse onto the rug, Mozart sprawled between us, tail still wagging like he’s in on the joke. And I think again how easy it is to love people who don’t ask me to earn it—people who clap for me whether I’m en pointe or flat on my face.
For a week, I scrolled gift guides, fingers itching for the quick fix of buying my way into the perfect present.
That’s always been my reflex—shop until I find something shiny enough to say what I can’t.
But Alec isn’t like that. He doesn’t need me to prove I’m clever with gifts or good at getting deals.
He doesn’t want things. He wants moments.
And tonight, I have the perfect one in mind.
Yura flops back dramatically on the rug, glitter smeared across her cheek. “Okay. For real. If I forget the steps—what then?”
“Then we do the Macarena,” I tell her, offering a hand. “It’ll still be a perfect gift.”
She grips my fingers, letting me tug her upright. “You’re right. They’re obsessed with us. There’s no way we can screw this up.”
“Obsessed,” I confirm, and she grins so hard I swear her face will split.
We shuffle toward the door, Mozart clicking along at our heels, and for the first time in years I swear I’ve never felt sillier—or freer.
The stereo clicks, bass thrumming, and “Think Pink” from Barbie blasts through the speakers. I throw my arms wide, glitter already shedding from my tutu as we walk into the main room.
“Presenting Clementine, Yura, and Mozart!”
Alec and Finn glance up from the fire, both trying—and failing—to keep straight faces.
They’re sprawled on the huge beige sectional that fits perfectly in front of the stone fireplace, flames licking warmth across the room until my calves sting from standing too close.
A deep burgundy area rug sprawls across the main room, soft against my toes when I bounce off the wood floor.
A half-empty popcorn bowl and the Trouble board sit on the coffee table, buttery salt hanging in the air. Mozart sprints in, heading straight for the popcorn, and Alec snatches up the bowl just in time.
Yura grabs my hands and pulls me onto the floor, eyes—hell, everything—sparkling. “Five, six,” she hisses.
I grin, counting us off. “Five, six, seven, eight!”
The second Yura launches into our old opening move—those giant, jerky jazz hands we choreographed when we were nine—they lose it. Finn doubles over on the couch, Alec’s laugh cracks wide open, and I swear that sound alone is worth the humiliation.
And then we’re in it: the twirls that always made us dizzy, the leaps that clear half the area rug, the spins that crash us shoulder-first into each other because Yura never remembers which way to turn.
We’re shrieking before we even finish the first eight count, and Mozart weaves between our legs like a manic stagehand, tail wagging so hard his lavender tutu slips sideways.
The boys whistle, clap, and stomp on the floor.
I don’t care that my fingers aren’t pointed to perfection with every jump or that my turnout is nowhere near where it was two months ago. Because this isn’t about perfect pirouettes or clean lines.
I’m not performing for an audience.
I’m performing for home.
I spring upright, hair wild, sweat prickling my temples. “Now for the big finale!” I declare. I sprint to Alec, dragging him toward the makeshift dance floor.
“No, no,” he protests, palms up, grinning. “I could never top that.”
“Come on, Satie,” I tease, using the old nickname I’ve only recently resurrected. “Just because it’s Barbie doesn’t mean you have to act allergic to it.”
“I might actually be allergic,” he deadpans.
“I saw your foot tapping!” I shoot back.
Yura collapses next to Finn on the couch. He nods at me like do it.
“You just stand there,” I tell Alec, planting him in the middle of the rug.
“And then what?”
“I’m going to run,” I say, skipping backward, “and you’re going to catch me.”
“Catch you? How—”
Before he can protest, I take off, leaping into a tour jeté, legs slicing the air in a clean split, the old ballerina muscle memory flooding my body. I dive straight into his arms.
He catches me like he’s been waiting his whole life for this exact moment. I hook one leg around his waist, flinging an arm out in a dramatic pose as the music hits its last chord. He doesn’t set me down right away, just holds me. Then he lowers me slowly, as if he’s reluctant to let go.
My body skims down his, breath ragged. There’s glitter clinging to his stubble, and from the heat in his eyes, I know the performance has been a success in more ways than one.
“How was that?” I ask.
“Very impressive,” he whispers.
At that, Yura uncorks a bottle of champagne, the cork ricocheting off the rafters, and pours it into mismatched enamel mugs. We clink haphazardly, bubbles spilling like it’s New Year’s Eve.
We fall onto the couch, and I tilt my mouth to Alec’s ear. “Be honest. Wasn’t that worth turning another year older?”
His hand tightens on my thigh. “Definitely.” His kiss is slow, champagne-sweet.
I breathe it all in—the warmth, the chaos, the love that doesn’t ask for anything in return. I haven’t let myself dwell on the I love you at the concert. I’ve spent two days praying he didn’t hear it, because if he did and chose not to say it back, it might undo us, and I don’t want to ruin this.
“I think you’re going to have an issue untying all these ribbons, Hastings.” I laugh into his neck.
“Clementine, I grew up learning how to knot and tie things,” he teases. “If I can’t get them off…I’ll tear them off with my teeth.”