Le Vieux Bistro 14 Rue du Cloître-Notre-Dame
I stare at the message for a beat before pressing send, and a rush of guilt follows because I feel like I’m doing something behind his back, but I didn’t just reach out to be nice. I want someone else in his life to love him too.
When I return to the ballroom, Yvonne is laughing, a light ring of sweat glinting along her collarbone. Mateo is spinning her, then catching her back in a smooth lockstep. They hit the final beat and Yvonne throws her arms around his neck. His hands hover a moment before he lets them fall.
Greyson turns to me. “Are you ready to head out for a bite?” I nod, lips pressed into a thin line.
Just two days to the finals.
MATEO
The warm scent of garlic and roasted herbs greets me as I step into Le Vieux Bistro with Yvonne at my side. Outside, Paris is cloaked in soft golds and deep violets, the city humming with life, but in here, it’s all candlelight and linen-draped tables, the kind of intimate charm only old-world places can carry.
Yvonne leans in as we step past the maître d’. “This place is gorgeous. It must be a Vaeda pick.”
I force a smile, eyes already scanning for the table Greyson reserved. Adam and Kari are grinning, their eyes shining with pride. My chest tightens when I spot Greyson, because seated next to him is Vaeda. She’s radiant, even in stillness. Her hair is swept up, and she’s wearing a dark, wine-colored blouse that clings to her shoulders like something stolen from a painting. I feel that dangerous tug again, the one I’ve been trying to resist, but it isn’t just the sight of her that stops me cold. There’s a third figure.
My breath catches as she stands slowly, uncertain, with her hands clasped in front of her. Grace.My sister. My Grace.
Her eyes are glossy, wide with emotion, and she opens her mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. I haven’t seen her in over a year. Not since the day she left the hospital, vowing to never speak to me again for what I put her through. I rush to her, forgetting Yvonne at my side and the others sitting at the table.
“Grace,” I breathe out, my voice cracking like it’s been trapped beneath rubble. Slowing down, I step toward her slowly, like approaching a startled animal, until I’m close enough to see thefaint scar on her cheek, the one I used to tease her about. “I missed you,” I say, and my throat closes.
She steps into me, her arms wrapping around my back, and I break, clutching her like I’m drowning. Like I’m eight and she’s come to save me again from whatever monster I’ve pulled from my imagination. She shakes in my arms, and I realize she’s crying too.
“You scared me so much,” she whispers. “I didn’t know how to forgive you.”
“I didn’t know how to forgive myself.”
We stand there for what feels like a lifetime, just breathing each other in. The scent of her shampoo is the same and she still wears that stupid vanilla perfume.
When we part, her eyes are rimmed red but steady. “You look good.” She sniffs and smiles tentatively.
I laugh through my tears. “You lie better than I remember.”
She smacks my chest. “You smell like French soap and croissants.”
Yvonne clears her throat behind me, and I remember I’m not alone. Vaeda hasn’t moved, her eyes fixed on me as they dance with emotion.
“I— Uh, Grace, this is Yvonne, my dance partner,” I manage. “And you probably already know everyone else.” Grace offers polite nods, but her attention never strays far from me. “Thank you for coming,” I say.
She shrugs, her lips trembling just a little. “Vaeda sent me a message. I didn’t know if I would… but I… I wanted to see you.”
I glance at Vaeda, but she’s looking down at her water glass, swirling it slowly. Gratitude floods through me. We take our seats, and the conversation begins softly. The room seems quieter now, like the moment between us hushed the entire restaurant. Grace asks about school, about the competition, andabout my sobriety. I tell her the truth, that it’s hard. That I still go to meetings. That some days are better than others.
“But I’m trying,” I promise. “Every day, I’m trying.”
She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “That’s all I ever wanted.”
I don’t realize I’m crying again until Yvonne places a napkin in my lap, and somehow, in this quiet bistro in Paris, I feel a piece of my life knitting back together. My eyes slip to Vaeda once more, and she’s leaned in, listening to Greyson. I have her to thank for this.
The second day of competition dawns with a sky the color of tarnished silver. Light rain slicks the Paris streets as I stand at the window of my hotel room, watching droplets race each other down the glass. My nerves are already coiled tight, vibrating under my skin. Today, we’re dancing Latin.
Yvonne and I meet in the lobby, dressed for our cha-cha. Her hair is sleek and high, her deep red dress glittering in the light like embers about to ignite. I’m in a black shirt, open at the collar and sleeves rolled to my forearms, with a black pair of slacks. The outfit feels like a second skin now, one I never thought I’d wear again.
We arrive at the Palais des Congrès and head backstage. The energy is electric. Dancers are everywhere, makeup artists fixing last-minute details, and coaches whispering into ears. The scent of hair spray and sweat clings to the air.
Our heat is called and we step onto the floor. The crowd is a blur of color and noise, but as the opening bars of the cha-cha start, my world narrows to rhythm and muscle memory. Yvonne is fierce tonight. Her eyes are locked on mine, her body sharpand expressive. We move in perfect sync—tight chassé steps, crisp Cuban breaks, hips snapping with every beat. I let the music pulse through me, pushing aside the pressure, the past, the panic.
