five
The line at the taco truck wrapped halfway down the block, but neither of us moved. Samantha leaned against the metal siding, her hoodie bunched under her elbow, nursing a mango Jarritos like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
"Remind me why we keep coming to this one?" I asked, tugging my jacket tighter. "It's freezing."
"Because they put crack in the carne asada," she said, deadpan. "And because I had a week from hell and I deserve a taco that makes me forget I'm in student debt."
I smiled, but the kind that didn't last long.
The scent of grilled meat and cilantro clung to the air, mixing with the distant musk of damp pavement. Somewhere across the street, someone blasted Bad Bunny from a car speaker. The city always felt like it was half-sleeping—restless, grinding its teeth through the night.
Samantha pulled her hood up, her breath puffing in the air. "I submitted my last clinical log yesterday."
I looked over. "Wait—like, last last?"
"Done-done," she said, eyes shining. "I just have to walk across that stage, and then I'm out of there."
"That's huge."
She nodded, then lowered her voice like she didn't want to make it too real. "I think I'm leaving Philly after."
I blinked. "Seriously?"
She shrugged, but it wasn't careless. Her hands were tucked into the sleeves of her hoodie, fidgeting with the drawstrings. "I love you. I love Tati. But this place... I don't know. I came here for school, and now that it's almost over, I don't really know what's keeping me here."
My stomach dropped a little, but I didn't let it show.
Because what could I say?
Philly was all I knew. I'd learned how to survive here—how to stay small in a big city without getting swallowed whole.
It had carved things into me I didn't know how to smooth over anymore.
And the girls... they didn't know everything, not really.
I didn't share my past, never saw the point.
But that didn't mean they weren't family.
Especially Sam.
We didn't talk about it, but we relied on each other in quiet ways. Little things. A shared charger in the dressing room. An inside joke that could break tension in an instant. Knowing when to leave each other alone and when to show up with a drink and no questions asked.
The idea of her leaving? It scraped at something raw I didn't want to name.
I didn't know what her "more" meant for me.
"I'm happy for you," I said, because I was.
But I was also scared in a way I couldn't say out loud.
She bumped her shoulder against mine. "You'll visit."
I didn't answer. I just smiled faintly and focused on the steam curling out of the truck's tiny window.
Dancing wasn't forever. I'd known that since the day I auditioned. But it was the only thing I'd ever stuck with. I was good at it. Not just the movement, but the read of people. The tension, the timing. The art of staying three steps ahead without ever seeming like you were moving at all.
I knew the way men looked at me before they knew what they wanted.
I knew the exact second they stopped seeing me as a person.
And somewhere along the way, I'd learned how to make peace with that.
But peace didn't mean purpose.
And I didn't know what else I'd be good at.
"Collin texted me last night," Samantha said suddenly, snapping me back.
I gave her a look. "Engaged Collin?"
"The very one."
"Wasn't he the one who said he 'needed space to find himself' and then found himself proposing to a girl two weeks later."
"Yup."
"What'd he say?"
"He said he was thinking about me. Said he missed my energy."
"Of course he did." I rolled my eyes. "Men love nostalgia when they're bored."
She snorted. "Wanna hear something worse?"
"There's worse?"
"One of the guys from the Rosemark texted me too."
I groaned. "Oh no."
"The one with the Rolex and the wedding ring," she added. "Said I had a 'graceful spirit.'"
"Tell your graceful spirit to block him."
She laughed, tossing her empty bottle into a nearby trash can. It bounced once before landing with a satisfying clunk.
We slid down onto the curb, knees tucked in. We sat in silence for a few minutes, watching the occasional car slosh through puddles down the street.
"You ever think about leaving?" she asked again, voice softer this time. Not teasing. Just curious.
"All the time," I said. "But I don't know where I'd go."
She nodded like she got it. "Somewhere with less noise."
"Somewhere with more sky."
"Somewhere they don't call you dream unless they mean it in a good way," she added, elbowing me gently.
I smiled, but my chest ached.
I didn't know how to explain that even if I left, I'd still carry all of this with me. The weight of it. The routine. The way I'd built myself up around it like scaffolding I didn't know how to take down.
She looked over at me. "You're gonna figure it out."
I didn't answer. Just wiped a smear of smudged lip gloss from the side of my mouth and looked out toward the blurred lights of the city, glowing like something half-alive.
She was leaving.
And I wasn't sure I could afford to fall apart after she did.
The club was quieter than usual. No birthdays, no ballers, just a Tuesday night dragging its feet toward Wednesday.
The lights were still low, the music still pulsed, but everything felt half-asleep. Even the regulars seemed muted—tired men nursing top-shelf drinks like they were trying to convince themselves they were still young enough to chase the fantasy.
I leaned against the bar in the back, running my fingers along the cool edge of the marble. Samantha had disappeared to the floor, Tati was in a booth making a guy laugh so hard his drink sloshed out of his glass, and I was... drifting.
The lull hit different when your mind was somewhere else. I kept thinking about the curb outside the taco truck. The taste of cilantro. The sound of Samantha's laugh. The way she said she was leaving like it was just a fact of life, not a goodbye I hadn't prepared for.
I twirled the straw in my club soda and caught my reflection in the mirror behind the bar.
Dream.
It still felt like a costume some nights. Like something I zipped up and stepped into.
The floor manager appeared behind me, clipboard in hand. "You're requested."
I blinked. "Who?"
"Private room. Said by name."
My stomach dipped, but I didn't show it.
"Did they pay?"
He gave me a look. "Of course they paid. Go."
I nodded and slipped off the barstool, smoothing my hands over the sides of my dress as I moved through the hallway.
It could've been anyone. A regular. A creep. A man with a good poker face and a bad habit.
But something about the quiet thrum in my chest told me otherwise.
In the dressing room, I freshened up. Redid my lip combo. Spritzed perfume at the backs of my knees and across my collarbone. Even on a slow night, we didn't half-step.
The girls were in and out, changing, chatting, laughing like it wasn't 2 AM. Like we weren't all a little worn down by the performance of it all.
I grabbed my heels and stood in front of the mirror.
This was the part people never understood. It wasn't about being sexy.
It was about being in control.
Even when your world felt like it was splintering underneath you.
I walked back out toward the main floor, heels sharp against the polished concrete, and turned toward the velvet rope that led to the back.
"Room three," the manager said as I passed.
The hallway smelled like expensive cologne and lemon cleaning spray. My heels clicked softly against the tile as I moved, one hand trailing lightly along the wall.
I reached for the handle.
Took a breath.
And stepped inside.
The door clicked softly behind me as I stepped in, the hush of velvet and low music wrapping around my skin like perfume.
It was warmer in here. Quieter. A different kind of hush—intentional, like money had been thrown at the air to keep it still.
And then I saw him.
Not just any client. Him.
The man from the hotel.
Brooks.
He was sitting on the low leather couch, legs spread slightly, jacket off, sleeves rolled, a single glass of something dark in his hand.
He looked like someone who was used to being alone in expensive rooms.
The lighting carved sharp lines down his face—cheekbones, jaw, a mouth that hadn't quite smiled yet.
I froze—not visibly. Just enough to catch my own breath before slipping it back in my chest.
I didn't expect him. Not tonight. Not alone.
But my face didn't give it away. I smoothed my expression, straightened my back, and stepped inside like it was any other room.
"Hey," I said softly, letting the door ease closed behind me. "You came back."
His gaze lifted. There it was again—that focus. Like he didn't just see me, he noticed me. Like I was a puzzle he hadn't solved yet.
"I did," he said. His voice was lower than I remembered. More certain.
I smiled, just enough to keep it professional. "Couldn't stay away?"
There was the tiniest pull at the corner of his mouth. Not a smirk. Just... interested. "Something like that."
I took a few slow steps toward the little side table, where a small remote sat tucked beside a chilled bottle of water. My heels clicked softly against the tile, and I was aware of his eyes the whole way.
"I don't usually get repeat customers this fast," I said, twisting open the cap and taking a sip. "Especially not from bachelor parties."
He leaned back a little, one arm draped over the couch. "I wasn't with the party. Just knew the groom."
"So you were just there for the free liquor and bad decisions?"
"No," he said, calm as ever. "Well I guess you could say that."
I laughed—not to be polite, but because it caught me off guard. "You always talk like this?"
"I don't get what you mean."
I looked at him hard. I could tell he was nervous, anxious. His voice was so stern and crisp but timid at the same time.
I took a second to set the water down, smoothing the front of my dress as I turned back to him.