Chapter 5
Chapter Five
The next day, at the one and only dance session she’d agreed to, Wren glanced at herself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror.
Today she wore her favorite dance outfit: a black tank under a slouchy, loose cotton top falling off one shoulder, and loose cotton pants.
She was barefoot, and she’d pulled her hair up into a messy bun on top of her head.
She was, ridiculously, nervous. She danced with A-list pop stars and idols, and she’d been the choreographer and dance partner in Kyro’s music video that had won an award at the VMAs.
She was good at what she did, and steering a bunch of teenagers in a tiny town in western Massachusetts shouldn’t test her creativity.
So why did she feel a bit jumpy, so on edge?
Maybe it was because this was her hometown, and the residents were people who’d watched her grow up.
They knew how hard she worked and had seen her practicing in the old community hall with its hard floor, the memory of which made her body ache.
Over the years, they’d listened to Luna boasting about her, and many followed her career.
They knew her history, her friendships with Poppy, Thom, and Hayes.
Even with Benji, Poppy’s fiancé and Thom’s brother.
They were probably gossiping about Kyro and his proposal.
They’d recall that they’d met Alex, that he’d eaten at their establishments and slammed back tequila at the local bars.
They were probably wondering when she’d “settle down.” She needed to prove to them, herself, that this was her choice, not a retreat. Or an exit.
Wren heard the buzz from her phone on the bench and picked it up, her heart bumping when she saw it was a voice message from Alex. Her finger hovered over the microphone icon, wanting, but also not, to hear his familiar voice.
“Wrennie, when am I going to hear from you? I need to talk to you. I have things to say, things I need to hear from you. Will you, for the love of all that’s holy, call me back?”
The sound of his voice hit her hard, releasing memories she’d thought she’d buried, but which came in hot and fast. The endless hours in dance studios—shouting, laughing, collapsing on the floor with their feet braced against the mirror, lungs burning.
The fist bumps and the hugs, and feet and fists drumming in childish temper tantrums. Then that unbelievable moment when the routine fell into place, when it soared, and joy filled every inch of the room.
She remembered late-night burritos and hot dogs.
Beer and tequila. Falling asleep, heads together and limbs tangled, on trains, on couches, on studio floors.
The ferocious arguments followed by frustrated tears.
They’d shared dreams, revealed insecurities, and old childhood hurts.
And all of it had been wrapped in the easy, soul-deep certainty that trust was absolute and that they were each other’s person.
Then Wren forced herself to remember how it had ended.
Their kiss, the one they’d avoided for years.
The magic of it. Unable to express herself, she taught him the dance—one born out of a decade of experiencing every emotion with him—that she’d created for him.
His meeting Jess, and the way he handed over her routine as if it hadn’t been her love letter to him.
She’d told him all that. With tears sliding down her face, every scrap of courage burning her chest and throat, she’d asked him to choose her. Reminded him that they knew each other, that it was real, and tested. How could he choose short-term Jess over long-term them?
He’d walked away.
Should she meet him again? Hear what he had to say?
She so wanted to, just as she wanted to rewind time, to be the girl she was before he walked out of her life: happy, professionally fulfilled, her best friend and creative partner at her side.
The possibility of “them” hovering just out of reach. She was so damn tempted.
Wren stared at the floor, a hot knot in her throat, and shook her head.
Be sensible, Wren, and remember. It was betrayal wrapped up in different packaging.
Her father always ran toward whatever shiny new priority caught his eye.
Then Alex, after what she thought was an emotional shift between them, had taken her dance—her creation, her heartbeat—and handed it to someone else, garnering praise and accolades, writing her out of the story.
And Kyro? He’d betrayed her by using their surface-level attraction to generate clicks and likes.
A father she loved, a man she adored, a guy she liked—three very different men, all managing to bruise her in their own unique ways.
So why on earth would she believe love stayed?
No, she’d learned her lesson the hard way.
People loved you, right up until they didn’t.
They chose you, right up until something easier or shinier or louder came along.
It was better to keep her distance, keep her walls high, and build a life where no one could drop-kick her heart again.
And that meant keeping Alex—and all men—at a distance. It was safer that way.
“Wren!”
Wren spun around and, on seeing the lanky girl standing in the doorway, opened her arms, grinning broadly.
Hayes’s daughter, Hadley, stood there, a shy smile on her face.
Wren hadn’t seen her since her fly-in, fly-out visit at Christmastime, and it seemed like she’d grown an inch since then. “Hadley! You came!”
Hadley ran into her arms, and Wren hugged her tight, wrapping herself around the girl she’d known since she was a baby. Hayes and his then-girlfriend had fallen pregnant when he was nineteen, and when Cheryl said she wasn’t interested in being a mom, Hayes stepped up and raised their daughter.
Hadley pulled back and pushed her fingers through her hair. She’d inherited her mom’s ethereal looks and pale blonde hair but also her father’s dark eyes.
Wren couldn’t resist and tucked a strand of Hadley’s hair behind her ear.
She’d started teaching Hadley basic dance moves when she was three, and she was now a really good dancer.
“I’m so glad you’re joining the class, Hads.
It’s going to be so much fun.” She hoped.
She also hoped that Hadley would continue dancing with the new instructor.
Not that she really believed that Luna would let her off the hook…
But she could pretend.
The door opened again and a crowd of kids pushed their way through the door, mostly girls, but three, no, five boys. Wren smiled her welcome, said hello, and received a brief “Hi” back. Then the kids looked around to suss out who else was there.
More kids entered the studio, and Wren welcomed them. Checking her watch, she saw it was time to start and clapped her hands together. When nobody responded, she raised her fingers to her lips and released the loud, high-pitched whistle Hayes had taught her and Poppy when they were kids.
It immediately quietened the room. She introduced herself, told them that she was a temporary teacher and that she hoped they’d have fun.
Walking over to where she’d set up her phone and her favorite dance playlist, she half turned and grinned at them over her shoulder.
She pulled up Kyro’s latest mega hit, “Gotcha”—he might be a dick, but his music was fantastic—as she knew all the kids would know and love it.
Its catchy, opening riff filled every corner of the room, and many of the kids whooped.
The beat pummeled her system, and she had to physically resist dropping into the choreography she’d created for this song.
It was still one of her finest pieces of work, hella intricate and complicated, but she wasn’t here to show off.
It had also given her confidence that she could succeed without Alex…
“Just dance,” she shouted, bending her knees and shimmying her shoulders. “Dance like no one is looking!”
Feeling a draft behind her, Wren turned to see the door to the studio open and the white face of a red-headed, furious-looking boy standing in the doorway.
An overly ripped man stood behind him, equally enraged, his hand on his shoulder, tugging him back.
Dane towered over both of them, and he jerked his head, silently telling her to come out.
Wren looked back, saw that the kids were having fun, and stepped into the hallway, forcing the boy and his father to step back. Dane moved behind her and pulled the door shut.
“Privacy,” he said, keeping his explanation brief.
Wren didn’t bother pointing out that it would be difficult to hear anything over “Gotcha.” Instead, she just lifted her eyebrows, her eyes bouncing from the boy’s sulkiness to his father’s irritation. She looked at Dane. “What’s going on?”
Dane pushed one shoulder into the wall. “Wren, meet Colt. He wants to join your dance class. Penn, his father, thinks it’s pointless, feminine, and a waste of Colt’s time.”
Wren briefly closed her eyes. She didn’t have the time and energy for this shit. Gathering her patience, she caught Penn’s annoyed green eyes.
“How did you get involved?” she asked Dane. He didn’t seem the type to mess with a father-son dynamic.
“I gave Colt one of your pamphlets, but his father objected,” Dane briefly explained.
“What’s the problem?” she asked Penn, her voice cool.
“The problem is that I don’t want my son wasting his time on this shit. He can play baseball, swim, or learn martial arts for God’s sake. Why dance?”
God save her from men with a 1950s mindset.
“He needs to focus on real activities. Sports. Activities suitable for boys.”
Ah. There it was. The old song. Same tired chorus.
“But dance is athletic. Balance, coordination, endurance—” she began.
“—sexual move, hip thrusts, spins,” he interrupted. “Prancing around like a fa—”
“Do not finish that sentence,” Dane said, before she could respond. Wren’s eyes flew to his face, and she pulled in her breath at his etched-in-stone features.
Right, well … thank you, Dane.