23. Still a Dancer
Still a Dancer
Mina
I duck inside Ori and Ash’s apartment, tucking myself into a far corner, as if that might shield me from the news I’m about to receive.
I’m not sure why I bother answering Vanessa’s call. I already know what news my cousin has to tell me, since she never calls me otherwise.
But ignoring it won’t change the outcome.
“Hi, Vanessa.” My voice emerges strong, in total opposition to the snakes coiling in my belly.
“Did you hear the good news?”
Seems she’s not bothering with pleasantries today.
“Considering no one in the family ever calls me, how would I know?”
“Is that a no?”
“Just tell me,” I hiss into the phone.
Enough with the bravado, Vanessa. Rip off the damn bandage already.
“Bitsy handed me the keys to the Evelyn Court Dance Atelier today. Said I was the perfect person for the job.”
What a load of horseshit .
I pace the length of the room, then stop. Turn. Pace back.
Going nowhere fast—much like my life.
“Mina? Are you there?” Vanessa snaps into the phone.
“I am.”
“Don’t you have anything to say?”
What is it with this woman? She reminds me of Aunt Bitsy, getting off on pushing other people’s buttons.
Then it hits me—she is exactly like Aunt Bitsy. And I’m nothing like either of them.
I can’t be surprised at this turn of events. This was the only acceptable outcome. Me, walking away empty-handed, the same way I did after my injury.
All this work, and what did it get me?
“You know what, Vanessa? Bitsy is right. You are the right person to take over her studio.”
And I hope you run it into the ground with your penchant for loose men and nose candy.
Vanessa is silent on the other end of the phone, no doubt disappointed by my words. She was banking on a much stronger reaction—whether it be anger or tears—but I won’t give the Farnsworth family either of those right now. Instead, I’ll shower them with quiet disregard and stoicism.
I can fall the fuck apart later.
First, I need to end this call and get a drink.
A big one.
“Well, congratulations to you,” I reply, forcing my voice to sound sunny and upbeat. “You must let me know about the grand reopening.”
“It’s going to be fabulous, although I don’t think you should expect an invitation. Aunt Bitsy is furious with you.”
“Because I wouldn’t let her control me. Remember this, Vanessa—Bitsy only approves of you because you’re doing her bidding. If you step out of line, she’ll end you. She doesn’t love you. She only loves herself. ”
“Way to be a sore loser. Aunt Bitsy warned me this is how you’d react.”
Heat rushes to my face, and I suck in a breath, ready to lash out, when another thought floats into my brain.
They’re not worth it.
“Glad to know I didn’t disappoint her all around.” I hang up the phone, not bothering to say goodbye to my cousin. Truth is, there’s nothing left to say.
I rub the heel of my palm against my forehead. Hard. Like I can wipe this all away.
But it’s no use.
It’s over.
It’s done.
My dreams of owning a dance studio are not going to happen, and I need to be okay with that.
I’m just not sure how to go about it.
Don’t get me wrong—I knew my chances were slim, particularly after standing my ground and walking out on Bitsy at dinner.
But I held onto the smallest glimmer of hope, that despite her opinion of Braden—and of me—that she would do what was best for her dancers.
Maybe she did. Maybe I’m not right for the role, despite my years of training and dedication. I’m not rich like Vanessa, and I don’t possess the familial connections.
A studio like Evelyn Court Dance Atelier is reserved for the upper echelon, and I was never part of that world. I always lingered on the fringes, accepting their begrudging charity and desperately trying to impress them with my talent.
My dancing was good enough, but I wasn’t.
“Hey, there you are.”
I tear my gaze to where Braden stands, leaning against the doorframe. “Is everything okay?”
“Uh… yeah. ”
Braden crosses the room to me, gently tucking a stray hair behind my ear as he studies my face. “You’re not okay.”
It’s not a question. He knows something is wrong.
Part of me wants to collapse in a puddle of tears, sobbing until the world turns black.
But now is not that time. Today belongs to Ori and Ash—their battles, their victory, their happy ending. I won’t steal it. I won’t darken it.
What would it matter? Doesn’t change the ending of my story.
“I’m fine,” I lie, pressing a kiss to his mouth. “Just a bit tired. My head hurts.”
So does my heart, but I’ll ignore that organ for the time being.
“Have you eaten anything all day?”
“Umm… a cupcake?”
Braden releases an indignant snort. “No wonder your head hurts. Let’s get you fed, woman. That will make you feel better.”
Sadly, it won’t help a damn bit, although I adore Braden’s earnest and protective nature.
He’s so good at loving me and yet, that wasn’t enough for my highbrow family. All they saw was tattoos, a motorcycle, and a refusal to bend to their whims.
They think he is below them, but they’re wrong. They’ll never measure up to a man like Braden Hammond.
“What if I want cake for dinner?” I ask, slipping an arm around his waist.
I have to maintain a happy facade, for all of them. My friends and the man I love deserve it.
Braden chuckles as we walk from the apartment toward the buffet table. “Why not? It’s a celebration, right?”
Sadly, I don’t feel much like celebrating anymore.
We arrive home a few hours later, my trusty stress headache still in tow.
“You want to watch a movie?” Braden asks from the kitchen.
“Actually, I think I’m going to dance for a bit.”
Braden glances at me over the fridge door, a smile breaking across his mouth. “Okay. I’ll start work on that back piece I’m doing this week, then. Have fun, beautiful.”
He means it, too—but what he doesn’t realize is that’s all my dancing will ever be from now on.
Fun.
Maybe that’s enough, right? I have a good life. Hell, I have the greatest boyfriend on the planet, and I have a decent job working with my best friend.
Braden covers all the bills and never asks for a dime.
To the outsider, it’s a perfect situation.
But to me, it’s another reminder that I’m not enough on my own. I rely on the kindness of my friends and family for support, and although they claim not to mind, I do.
Ori pays me well, but it’s still not a career. What am I going to do—be a barista and bookstore clerk forever? Rely on Braden’s salary for the rest of my days?
What if I’m not capable of making it on my own? I have friends who own homes and timeshares—people who are the same age as me, or younger. And they didn’t inherit the house; they bought it after landing a business job in the city.
But I majored in dance, which—combined with my injury—left me at a dead end.
I was on track for a professional career when I shattered my ankle. It happened before I had time to build a portfolio or any real performance credits, which means I have nothing to show for all the years I spent chasing that dream.
Bitsy knew her studio was my final foothold, and she exerted her control like a torture taskmaster. She could have given the studio to Vanessa, and I might not have known for years. But she chose to play a game with my heart, knowing full well the outcome.
For that , I hate her.
I slip on a leotard and pad into my in-home dance studio.
Scrolling through my playlist, I find music to fit my mood—a series of raw, gritty ballads about heartbreak and despair.
Perfect.
The first notes ring out, and I curl my toes into the floor, allowing the slow crescendo to reawaken the pain inside me.
I spiral down to the floor, twisting and reaching for anything that might keep me afloat. The chaos in my mind flows through my body as I move through my unscripted routine—a blur of tension and release, each breath pulling me tighter into the storm.
A sharp contraction clenches through my core, and I launch into a chassé, transitioning into a développé that slices the air before I pivot hard and melt back to the floor.
My movements become increasingly erratic, rolling through my spine into a fall and recovery that leaves me breathless. The dam has broken, and I’m not concerned with precision.
This is grief in motion.
I pant out ragged breaths, tangled between a sob and a scream, as sweat trickles down my spine.
A few loose strands of hair cling to my face, and my chest tightens with the knowledge my life will never be the same.
I lost everything—again.
There’s no point in continuing, but I can’t stop.
Because right now, this music is the only thing that knows how to hold me .
When the last note fades out, I sink to my knees in the middle of the studio, my eyes cloudy with tears.
Then I realize something. I extend my leg and circle my ankle, half expecting to hear the sickening crack of bones shattering.
But despite the lack of practice, my ankle held.
I’m still a dancer.
“Jesus, Mina, that was… incredible.”
I spin around at Braden’s voice. “How much did you see?”
“I’m not sure. I was grabbing my charging cable when I heard the music. Had to stop and watch you. The way you matched your movement to the song and brought the emotion to a whole new level. Have you been practicing that piece?”
“Not at all.” I push the sweaty strands from my face. “It wasn’t a routine, but rather a therapy session.”
“Sure as hell looked like it evoked all the right emotions.” A slight flush climbs his cheeks as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “I’m sorry if I intruded on your personal moment. I couldn’t look away. This is a part of you I don’t know yet, and I’m fascinated by her.”
“There’s nothing fascinating about me.”
“Not true.” He gazes down the hall. “You’ll make a wonderful teacher, Mina.”
No, I won’t.
Braden doesn’t know about Vanessa’s phone call. I’ve yet to find the courage to tell him, partly because I worry he’ll blame himself—but mostly because I feel like an inept loser, and my biggest fear is that my aunt’s decision will wake Braden up to the truth.
He’ll realize I’m not worthy of his time or affection.
That he can do so much better than a washed-up, almost dancer.
I hop to my feet and grab the towel off the barre, drying my face. “I’m not sure about the dance world anymore. Maybe I don’t belong there. Maybe I never did. ”
Braden shakes his head and hands in tandem. “Are you nuts? Look, I don’t know shit about dancing, but I know you are magical. You bring emotions to life with every move. I didn’t know that was possible, but I felt your pain. Now, my biggest concern is—how do I fix it for you?”
God, I love this man.
I walk over to him and tilt my face up for a kiss. “It’s not your job to fix me. That’s my job.”
Braden wraps his arms around me, not caring that I’m sweaty and sticky. “Life isn’t a solo act, Mina. It’s a group effort, and I’m here for all of it. So, you might not want the help, but I’m always in the wings, should you need me.”
“What I need is a shower and then some serious cuddle time. Is that okay?”
He smiles and smacks my ass. “Perfect. I’ll make the popcorn.”
I walk into the living room fifteen minutes later, feeling fresh and calm.
It lasts all of three seconds.
There, on the entertainment portion of the news, is a clip about the upcoming awards show. Wouldn’t you know it—Leo’s creative agency is the team behind the group choreography.
Sometimes the world is suffocatingly small.
I blink back tears as I watch my former partner field questions about the show with grace and poise. He looks like he belongs there, amidst the glitter and paparazzi.
“That should have been me.” The words slip out before I have time to rein them in, and my eyes dart to where Braden sits, a strange expression on his face.
He doesn’t reply to my statement, and I’m not sure if he heard me or not. But he knows something is off. He’s too insightful not to pick up on my somber mood.
Still, he doesn’t push, as if sensing I’m not ready to talk .
I walk over to him and take the beer from his hand, setting it on the coffee table.
“Make me forget all the bad times,” I murmur, grasping his hands and pulling him to his feet.
He cups my face, his touch a gentle balm against the pain. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I shake my head. “Just love me.”
He scoops me into his arms, and I rest my head against his chest. “That I will always do.”