Chapter 10
Chapter ten
Ivy
I drop to the floor, sticking my head under Elsie’s bed. “Got it!” I call out, stretching my arm and fishing it out. I take it through to the kitchen and crouch down at Elsie’s feet. She wriggles her toes, giggling, as I slide it on while she finishes up her juice box.
Sloane is dressed for battle today in her tailored navy Theory suit she scored off Depop for half price, low heels, and her signature crimson lipstick.
It’s her first day back in the office, which means I haven’t slept all night.
After an excruciatingly tense flight home on Friday night, where Dane’s communication with me reverted to monosyllabic grunts, I still haven’t told Sloane the truth.
It’s now or never.
“I need to speak to you about work, Sloane.”
“Jesus, Ivy, can’t it wait? You’ve had all weekend to talk to me. If you leave any later, Elsie will miss the school bus.”
“Come on, Elsie Boo,” I say with a sigh, helping her into her purple glitter backpack.
“Will you still be here when I get back? It’s important.” I chew my lip, annoyed with myself for putting this off. In truth, I didn’t want to spend the weekend with Sloane being mad at me, but springing it on her now is probably not the best move.
“Don’t look so worried, Ivy. It can’t be that bad; otherwise, Dane would’ve already blown up my phone. You know he never holds back when there’s an axe to grind.”
Oh God. She has no idea.
“Listen, we’ll talk tonight,” she adds, glancing at her watch. “I need to get in early. But if it’s really urgent, call me at work. Dane isn’t in today. He has a conference out of town.”
“He does?” My heart jolts, cautiously daring to beat again. A temporary stay of execution.
“It can wait,” I blurt. “I’ll see you this evening.”
Sloane bends to kiss Elsie, tucking a dark curl behind her ear. “You be good at school today.”
“Yes, Mom.” She flashes her mischievous smile.
“Just like your mom was,” I grin.
“What about you, Auntie Ivy? Were you good too?” Elsie peers up at me with the same big blue eyes Sloane and I share.
Sloane smothers a laugh while I lie straight through my teeth. “Oh, the best.”
“So good,” Sloane teases, “she was basically on first-name terms with the principal.”
I flip her the bird behind my back and herd Elsie out the door. “Come on, the bus will be here any second.”
Elsie presses her nose against the bus window with a goofy grin as she waves goodbye. I wave until the bus is out of sight and head back to our apartment to get ready. I have an audition this morning, and I can’t be late.
My room looks like a bomb went off in a dancewear store as I slip into a black leotard under a loose off-the-shoulder sweatshirt, low-waisted joggers, and silver sneakers.
I style my hair in two French braids, light makeup—enough to look alive, not like a woman whose brain is still short-circuiting from a Dane-shaped disaster slash infatuation.
Today’s audition is for a modern revival of 42nd Street—all neon and street-jazz choreography instead of tap shoes and feathered hats.
My agent said they’re casting for ensemble and Lorraine, the sassy supporting dancer who gets solo lines and a featured duet.
Translation: actual money and lines that people remember.
By the time I reach the theater, there’s already a line snaking down the block, girls in crop tops and character heels doing nervous stretches and guys in sweatpants practicing double turns.
I spot Jennie, my best friend and partner in dance-crime, waving from the door.
“It’s so good to see you,” I say, hugging her. “Thank you for covering my dance class while I was in London.”
“Please, my ears still haven’t forgiven me. I didn’t realize five- and six-year-olds were so loud,” she laughs.
The theater doors are flung open, and a man with a clipboard ushers us inside.
“I need to talk to you after,” I whisper as we file in. “I’ve really fucked up.”
Jennie gives me a knowing smirk. “Why do all your best stories start like that?”
“Don’t,” I groan.
I slide on my black character heels and a sheer wrap skirt over the black leotard, slick some flyaway hairs back. We warm up, and I try to block everything else out—the guilt, Dane, Sloane’s clueless face this morning.
A panel of casting directors and a pianist who looks like he’s been chain-smoking show tunes for the last forty years sit in front of the brightly lit, bare stage.
The choreographer, a wiry guy in a beanie who is probably allergic to carbs, claps his hands.
“Alright, people, give me something that says showbiz meets street grit.”
“Five, six, seven, eight—”
The music starts—an electro-swing remix of We’re in the Money. I push off from the wall, body slipping into muscle memory. Hips roll, feet sync, and for once, I stop thinking. There’s a sweetness to it, losing myself in the music.
When I hit the last turn, I catch the panel’s nod of approval.
I slip off the stage, panting. Jennie pats my shoulder. “Killed it.”
“They haven’t cut me yet,” I whisper. “That’s progress.”
A few minutes later, they call my name again — “Ivy Vale, please prepare sixteen bars.”
I trade my heels for simple nude pumps, drink some water, and step up to the mic stand. The pianist looks up expectantly.
“I’ll be doing ‘I Put a Spell on You,’” I say, ignoring the tiny hitch in my voice, handing over my sheet music. It’s bold, smoky, unapologetic. Singing was never my forte. I trained to dance, not to croon, but years of voice lessons taught me enough to fake confidence when it counts.
The pianist starts, and the first few bars curl through the space like smoke. My pulse slows. The lyrics pour out, my movements catching the rhythm, shoulders rolling. As the final note fades, I catch the vocal director’s grin—the good kind.
I step off the stage exhale hard, adrenaline buzzing through my veins. Jennie meets me at the exit, clutching her tote.
“You smashed that, too.”
“I didn’t trip or flash anyone. That’s basically a standing ovation.”
We head out into the drizzle, laughing; the fall light glints off rain puddles and car roofs. My laughter stalls. Leaning against his monster black motorbike, cigarette dangling from his fingers, dark chin-length hair pushed back in that just-rolled-out-of-bed way.
Brody.
He flicks the cigarette aside and strides over. “There she is,” he says, scooping me up without warning, spinning me until the street blurs. “My favorite dancer.”
“Brody, put me down!” I laugh, half protesting, half clinging. When he finally sets me down, my pulse is doing gymnastics.
“Still an idiot,” I mutter.
“Still gorgeous,” he fires back, eyes crinkling.
For a second, I bask in the compliment until I remember this is what Brody does. Build you up only to knock you back down.
“How did you know we’d be here?”
“That’s my fault,” Jennie confesses. “A few of us went out last night, and I might’ve mentioned it.”
We end up walking to our old haunt—Bean Too Long, a cozy corner café that sits between a record store and a nail salon. We order drinks, and Brody lights up the moment we sit outside. The smoke curls between us.
“So,” he says, “what’d I miss while I was off pretending to be a functioning adult?”
Jennie nudges me. “Ivy just went to London.”
Brody takes a long drag of his cigarette, eyebrow raised. “London? Since when do you leave the country without sending me a postcard?”
“Since... recently,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Long story.”
“You always have long stories.” He laughs, flicking ash into the tray, but there’s a glint of something, a flicker of irritation that he didn’t know what I was doing, like he still assumes he gets front-row seats to my life.
His knee brushes mine under the table. Too casual to call out, too familiar to ignore.
He watches me through the haze of smoke, eyes narrowing. “You look different.”
“Different good, or different bad? Choose wisely.”
“Good,” he says without hesitation. “Like you’re glowing or some shit. Don’t tell me you went and fell in love while I was away.”
“And so what if she did?” Jennie claps back, arms folded.
Brody holds up his hands, smirking. “Relax, I’m joking.” His phone buzzes, and he groans. “Give me a sec, gotta take this. Don’t go anywhere,” he says, disappearing toward the restrooms.
“Sorry,” Jennie says when he’s out of sight. “I didn’t realize he would just turn up.”
“It’s fine.” I shrug, even though my chest’s tight. “It had to happen at some point.”
“I don’t think he’s over you.” Jennie frowns.
“He looks well, though,” I say, blowing out a breath, not ready for a deep dive into the never-ending Brody drama.
“Well, he’s a good-looking bastard when he’s not high, so there’s that,” she says before her face curves into a grin. “So, London. Spill. You said you really fucked up. Define really?”
I stare into my coffee, heart thumping. “London ended up being more than business.”
Jennie frowns. “Okay...”
“I was pretending to be Sloane—covering for her, you know that.”
“Yep...crazy, but go on.”
“Dane was there too, obviously. And something... happened.”
Jennie’s brows shoot up. “Dane Dane? As in Sloane’s boss, Dane? As in, I’d lay down my life for him and have all his babies hot.”
“Keep your voice down,” I hiss.
She leans in. “Jesus, Ivy. How something are we talking?”
“As in...,” I pause, dropping my voice to a guilty whisper. “He finger-fucked me to the best orgasm of my life.”
“Oh-my-fucking-god, Ivy,” she shrieks, silencing the entire café.
“Jennie, can you not...” My cheeks flush a deep scarlet.
She stares at me, jaw slack. “That’s impressively bad, Ivy.”
I bury my face in my hands. “What do I do? I haven’t told Sloane yet.”
“Step one,” she says, stirring her coffee. “Do not tell Brody. He’ll challenge Dane to a duel with a guitar pick.”
Before I can reply, Brody reappears, dropping into his chair, grin reloaded.
“So, what did I miss?”
“Nothing,” Jennie and I say in unison, a little too quickly.