Chapter 32
Willow
I spent the entire day at the dance studio, doing my usual classes this morning, and since I didn't have a shift at Beantastics, I decided to help out with the kids' classes.
Elijah's been at the garage all day since stupid o’clock, and Rivers has barely been at the house unless it's been to sleep or shower since they won the finals weeks ago.
He's out with his teammates a lot or catching up on the college work he's neglected.
Elijah gave him an earful, which turned into a massive argument that I had to break up.
Even though my brother has been busy and I've not exactly been available much, we put Sunday evenings aside to spend time together, and I treasure it more than I let on.
I’m glad I decided to stay because the kids were so much fun.
I love children, and I've always wanted my own someday.
They throw themselves into everything without thinking—no fear, no weight of the world on their shoulders.
I love that about them. They're untouched by the ugliness adults carry around.
And they are also honest.
Extremely honest.
There was a little boy who decided, very early on, that I was his dance partner.
Every routine, game and exercise they had to do, he would appear at my side with a cheeky grin and grab my hand like it was non-negotiable.
At one point, he looked up at me—serious as anything—and asked if I'd like to go on a date with him to the park for some ice cream.
It was adorable.
Unfortunately, a small girl with glitter in her hair didn't think so. She told me I was way too old for him and that my hair looked like a tin of spaghetti hoops. Honestly, she wasn't entirely wrong about the colour.
I couldn't help but laugh as they started to bicker, and I politely declined the date.
A knock at the door pulls me out of my stretch, and I glance over my shoulder from where my leg is draped over the wooden beam to see Aria standing in the doorway.
“Everyone's gone; are you staying behind?” She steps into the room, bag in hand.
“Yeah, if that's okay?”
She drops the keys onto the table with a small clatter. “I’m fine with it. I offered, didn't I?” A hand settles on her hip, eyebrow raised like she's daring me to argue.
I huff a quiet laugh. “Right. Yeah, thanks.”
“Everywhere’s locked up, and I will message you the alarm code. You can stay as long as you want.”
I nod with a grateful smile, feeling a little lighter at the thought of an empty studio to myself.
“Oh, I almost forgot. I know you've only been coming here for a couple of months, but there's a show in January that everyone participates in.
A scout usually attends to spot potential for a spot in a top dance school.
We never know who it is or which school, but…
there's a really good chance you could get accepted into one. Somewhere that could actually give you a future in ballet.”
My stomach turns. Back in Newquay, before Dad got sick, dance had been everything. I’d given everything to it. But hospital rooms replaced the rehearsal rooms, and I gave it all up.
I swallow, staring at the floor.
I never thought I’d dance again.
And now I’m being handed something that feels dangerously close to a second chance.
Excitement floods through me along with doubt. What if I’m not good enough? Am I even ready for it? It could all slip through my fingers again.
She must see the reluctance on my face, because her expression softens and she steps into my space.
“I don't need an answer right now. Just think about it. There's no pressure, and remember, Willow, your family now, and I also own the place. I can always make room for you.” She winks, like it's that simple.
Family.
The word catches somewhere behind my ribs. I’m not used to it. The only family I had were my dad and River.
My throat tightens, but I nod, forcing myself to meet her eyes instead of staring at the floor. “I’ll think about it.”
Which, for me, is huge. I don't let myself want things lightly anymore.
Before I can retreat into my head and start listening to all the reasons I shouldn't, I step forward and hug her. It surprises both of us, I think—but she hugs me back instantly.
“Thank you,” I mumble against her shoulder. For the opportunity. For the belief. For seeing something in me, I’m still scared to see in myself.
We pull apart slowly, a second longer than casual.
“I’ll see you next weekend anyway.”
Oh yeah, I completely forgot Ezra's Halloween party at the bar.
“I love Halloween, but I highly doubt he's throwing it because he's passionate about sweets and trick-or-treating.”
Aria laughs, sliding her bag onto her shoulder. “Last year, he ran a competition for the sluttiest outfit.”
I blink at her. “You're joking.”
“Nope.”
I fold my arms loosely across my chest, eyebrow arching. “And what exactly did the winner get?”
Her smirk turns wicked. “Him. For the night.”
Of course, that was the prize. I don't even know why I asked.
“And women actually signed up for that?”
She lets out a delighted hum. “The Lawson men are extremely attractive. You'd be lucky to bag one.”
I’m very lucky indeed. And I have the oldest one.
Her eyes narrow playfully as she studies me, like she's trying to read something written across my forehead.
I feel the heat creep up my neck. “I don't think I’ll be entering any competition.”
“Probably for the best. I love Ezra, but the guy can't keep it in his pants.” She adjusts her bag. “Anyway, I should get home before Millie drives my husband insane. Think about what I said, alright? And I’ll see you next weekend.”
She gives me a wave and disappears out the door, her footsteps fading down the corridor.
The room is quiet again.
I tug my ponytail tighter, grounding myself in the familiar pull at my scalp, then cross the room and switch the speakers on.
The first soft notes of Lose You to Love Me drift through the room, wrapping around the mirrors, the barre, the empty floor.
I turn toward my reflection, and for a moment, I just look.
My dad is gone.
The words still feel unnatural in my head. Too blunt. Too final. There was a time when everything in my life revolved around keeping him here—appointments, medication, hospital corridors, whispered reassurances at three in the morning. And now there's just… absence.
But the girl staring back at me isn't the same one who lived in those corridors.
I’m not as hollow as I was in those final months and after them.
Grief lives in me now—quiet, constant—but it isn't devouring me in the way anticipatory loss did.
My body looks stronger. Softer in places, yes, but healthier.
My cheeks have colour again, and my shoulders don't cave inward like I’m bracing for impact.
My eyes still look sad. They always will. But they're brighter. Clearer. Like I've cried enough to wash some of the fog away.
And maybe that's what surviving looks like.
But Elijah crosses my mind like always. I have him to thank for the way he never tried to compete with the grief, never tried to rush it or understand it. He just stood beside me in it.
He fell for me without asking me to be less broken first.
I roll my shoulders back and shake my arms out, loosening the last of the tension clinging to me.
Then I move.
The music takes over the way it always has, sliding under my skin and pulling the strings. I let it lead. My body follows without hesitation, without doubt. The studio fades at the edges until it's just me and the lyrics consuming me.
I leap, pushing off the floor hard enough to feel the air catch me. I land and turn straight into a spin, then another, faster, letting the bass thrum through my chest. My hair whips against my back, breath burning in my lungs, heart pounding in time with the music.
Dance fuels me. It always has.
Every ache, every memory, every piece of love I still carry for Dad—I pour it into the movements. Into the stretch of my arms, the arch of my back and the height of my jumps. This is mine. This feeling is freedom.
The song begins to slow, the final notes softening, and I spin once more before my feet settle against the floor. My chest rises and falls heavily, sweat trailing down between my collarbones, skin flushed and alive.
And then I hear clapping.
I glance up, breath still uneven.
He's standing there in the doorway.
Elijah.
My heart stumbles over itself at the sight of him.
He's clearly just come straight from work—dark grease smudged across his cheek, cap turned backwards, sleeves tight around his biceps. His work shirt stretches across his chest, the outline of muscle impossible to ignore. Oil stains mark the material, rough and real and completely him.
There's a plastic bag dangling from one hand, the aroma reminding me I haven't eaten recently, even if Elijah was unaware of the fact that he brought it anyway, purely because he likes to feed me.
Glancing at his other hand, I notice a bouquet tucked away.
“Hi,” I breathe, unable to even attempt to tone down the happiness in my voice. It rushes through me, warm and sudden, a different kind of high enveloping me than the one dancing gives me.
It's deeper, more consuming and only ever present when I am near him.
“Hey,” is all he says, his eyes burning holes into my soul.
He sets the plastic bag down on the floor without breaking eye contact and stalks toward me, like a predator who has set his sights on his next meal.
Before I can even open my mouth, he leans down and kisses me.
His lips press against mine without hesitation, his hand cups my jaw, and I melt into it without thinking.
The way he kisses me is all-consuming, and I feel myself light up from the inside out.