26. The Comeback Queen
The Comeback Queen
Mina
I ’m living the dream… and I hate it.
Los Angeles is big and loud and terrifying. Oh, it’s also beautiful and sunny, but I feel so lost here.
Leo warned me it would take time to adjust, but he grew up in Manhattan, so he’s used to the hustle and bustle of city living.
But all my excuses are bullshit.
I miss Braden more than I miss breathing.
Every day, I pick up the phone to call him and beg him to come get me, but I don’t—because I want him to be proud of me, not see me run back to Sparkwood like a scared schoolgirl.
So I stare at photos of him on my phone and pretend I’m fine.
I’m just dying inside.
And I know one day, in the not-too-distant future, I’ll learn that Braden is dating again. That he’s happy. That he’s moved on.
I’ll smile and wish him well—and I’ll mean it, too. Then I’ll go home, rip my heart from my chest, and put it on a shelf, never to look at it again.
Am I being dramatic?
I don’t know.
Leo has been a huge help, but he doesn’t have time to babysit me and my broken heart. The man is always on the go, bouncing from meetings to rehearsals to networking mixers with people who speak exclusively in buzzwords.
I’ve tagged along to a few events, but I’m not very good at socializing—particularly when it involves name-dropping.
Who the hell do I know? The doorman of my building?
Not that there’s much downtime. I’ve worked on a variety of projects—from a sneaker ad campaign to a video shoot to modeling for dancewear.
I function as a choreography assistant on set, so while I’m involved in the production, I have zero input creatively.
The money is good, but the hours are extreme, and to be honest, I’ve done less dancing here than I did at Braden’s house.
Seriously, will you stop complaining? You’re living the dream you claimed to want, remember?
This is the argument I have daily with my reflection.
Sadly, she’s the one I talk to the most these days.
And I know I should be grateful. I know.
But all I feel is alone.
And if this is what success feels like… then I’m pretty damn sure I don’t want it.
Patricia, the choreography coordinator, waves me over the moment I step into the studio. “Mina, there’s been a change.”
So much for good morning.
I sip my water and pull my keys from my bag. This has happened before, where I arrive on set only to be sent home .
Not the worst thing. I can catch up on some sleep. Lord knows I need it.
“What’s up?”
“Frankel suffered an unfortunate incident and won’t be returning. You’re taking his place.”
My mouth goes dry at her words as a flash of fear shoots through me. “What do you mean?”
Patricia eyes me over her glasses, and I see the impatience furrowing her brow. “Meaning you’re now the choreographer.”
“But I can’t do that. Leo would kill me.”
Patricia rolls her eyes. “It was Leo’s idea. Do or do you not know the routine?”
“I do, but?—”
“Then it’s settled. You’re the choreographer. Better get a move on. We’re already behind.”
“Right, okay.” I turn, walking toward the group of dancers stretching in the far corner.
Holy fuck, what am I doing?
“Good morning, everyone. I’ll be taking over for Frankel.”
A dancer, long and lithe, shoots me a side-eye. “We’ve been waiting. What took you so long?”
Great. This is going so well already.
“Traffic. And I only found out about this change thirty seconds ago.”
She rolls her eyes, which is apparently wildly popular on this set. “Whatever.”
I toss down my gear and turn on the music. “Let’s do a run-through before the producer gets here.”
“That’s it. I’m done. I can’t do this, Leo.” I bury my face in my hands as a mixture of despair and exhaustion washes over me.
“Here, have a drink.”
He hands me a glass of wine, and I take a large swallow. “They hate me.”
“They’re testing you—and so am I.” Leo leans back against the couch, completely unbothered by my meltdown. “Right now, they’re kicking your ass.”
“This isn’t a game,” I mutter, taking another swallow.
Leo grabs my shoulders, forcing me to look at him. “No, it’s not. It’s actually a really big fucking deal. I just handed you the keys to the kingdom, and you’re crying about it? Give me a break, Mina.”
So much for sympathy.
The rational side of me knows Leo is correct. Hollywood is a cutthroat industry, and dancers are a dime a dozen—along with models, actors, and musicians. There are always a hundred people ready to take your place.
“It feels so disconnected. I know the routine by heart, but it isn’t flowing.”
“Then,” he replies, grabbing his phone to answer yet another call, “make it flow.”
He’s already halfway across the room when he pauses and tosses over his shoulder, “You’re not here to be Frankel. You’re here to be you. So, figure out what only you can bring to the piece.”
I stare at my half-empty wineglass as his words echo in the quiet.
Who am I?
I don’t know.
Maybe I never did.
Maybe I’ve just been pretending all along.
It’s after ten when I finally get back to my apartment—if you can call it that. The space is barely the size of a closet.
Still, it doesn’t cost me a dime, and it’s in a gorgeous slice of Santa Monica. My goal is to have enough time in the next week to walk on the beach. I’ve only done it once since my arrival, and the waves did wonders for my soul.
Perhaps if things get any worse tomorrow, I can call on the ocean to drown me.
That’s one way to avoid my issues.
Leo has thrown down the gauntlet regarding the video, and I know my future hangs in the balance.
Most people never get a chance like this, and there’s no way he’ll give me another one if I screw up.
I just wish I could pinpoint what’s wrong with the routine. Technically, it’s solid, but even before Frankel’s departure, the dancers were disconnected—moving like robots through the song.
Pulling up the music on my phone, I press play. The song has the standard pop beat, but the lyrics speak to a deep pain, covered by the picture-perfect facade expected by the public.
Jeez, do I know how this woman feels.
I pour a glass of wine and flip through my mail. Junk, junk, oh look, more junk—and then… a large, padded envelope.
From him .
“Braden,” I whisper, tracing my finger over his flowing penmanship.
Prettiest damn handwriting I’ve ever seen on a man, although I guess it makes sense, considering his art background .
I rip open the envelope and pull out a comic book created by the man himself. The cover is a wooden stage with a beautiful dancer twirling on one side, her blonde hair piled on her head, her blue eyes reflecting a sea of calm purpose.
“The Dance Dynamo.” I laugh at the dancer’s likeness to my own, but the tears soon follow as I flip to the first page.
Because it isn’t a likeness—it’s my story. Braden has turned me from a tired, timid dancer into a superhero, a woman who weaves stories through movement and light.
In it, I battle the shadows, but my biggest demon is self-doubt. On the last page, I conquer her, once and for all.
A handwritten note slips into my lap, and now I’m bawling.
“On the days when you forget how amazing you are, this is my way of reminding you. Xoxo, Braden.”
I read the comic ten times, and every time, I feel better. Stronger.
As if Braden were here with me, urging me on in his gentle manner.
“You always believed in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself.” I stare at the ceiling, a genuine smile crossing my face. “Thank you.”
That’s it. I’m calling him and demanding he come out here to see me.
A quick glance at the clock shows it’s after one in New York, but that’s okay. So what if I wake him? He needs to know how much this meant to me.
Besides, it’s Braden—my gorgeous, gentle man. He’ll understand.
The first call goes to voicemail, so I hang up and dial again .
Same thing happens.
But I’m determined to speak to him, even if he’s groggy and growly.
Like a charm, on the third time, he picks up.
I hear noise in the background—the clinking of bottles, the hum of music, the sound of boots scraping against the floor.
“Braden? Braden?” I repeat his name into the phone, but he doesn’t say a word. It’s then I realize he didn’t actually answer the phone—his ass did.
I hear a female voice, but I can’t make out the words. Then I hear Braden’s laugh in response to her obviously witty comment.
With a resigned sigh, I end the call as a sinister realization scratches its way into my brain.
It’s Friday night. Braden is out. He’s having a good time, and I don’t want to know with whom.
A chill wracks my body as I finish my glass of wine and desperately try to stop the emotional spiral.
Time for another mirror chat.
I search my reflection and draw a deep breath.
I can do this.
“Look,” I tell the tired blonde in the mirror, “you can’t be upset if Braden has moved on. That’s what you wanted for him, right? Okay, you didn’t, but you knew he would. It’s Braden Hammond. The man is perfect.”
I hold up the comic to the glass. “But he thinks you’re damn special, too.
So much so that he made you into a superhero, and he wouldn’t do that for just anyone.
Now, you’re going to take a shower and go to sleep, and in the morning, you’re going to prove that Braden was correct to believe in you. You’re going to knock ’em dead, kid.”
I flip through the comic one more time and grab my phone to type out a message.
I got the comic book. You have no idea how much I needed this. You have no idea how much I need YOU.
I stare at the last line and realize I can’t send him this message.
I don’t know if he’s moved on, and if he has, he doesn’t need lovesick sonnets from a woman who left but can’t let go.
Backspace.
Backspace.
Backspace.
I rewrite the text, a small but earnest smile stretching my features as I send it off.
Thank you, Braden. For the comic. For knowing exactly what I needed. Even from four thousand miles away.