"Great," Adam deadpans. "Because mine are about to file a complaint."
"Stop whining," Betsy calls from the corner, hands on her hips. She's been pacing like a hawk with a judging degree for the last hour. "From the top. And soften your port de bras this time, Caroline—your arms look like you're trying to fight someone."
I throw her a look. "Iamfighting someone. Gravity."
Keith snorts but steps closer. "Alright. When we hit the lift, Adam—your grip was sliding. Don't muscle it. Engage your core. Lift through your legs, not your back."
Adam groans. "Keith, I'm trying, but she's—"
"Don't you dare finish that sentence," I warn.
Adam lifts both hands in surrender. "—delicate. I was going to say delicate."
Keith laughs. "Nice save." Then he turns to me. "Okay, darling. When he lifts you, don't panic and glue your shoulders to your ears. Lengthen. Let him carry the weight."
"Keith," I wheeze, "I'm literally floating in the air. Panic is the natural response."
"Well, learn an unnatural one," Betsy snaps, clapping once. "Places! Music in three."
I exhale, walk to my spot, and meet Adam's eyes. We share the same tired, resigned look:
Let's just survive this run.
The piano swells.
Adam takes my hand, we step into the opening turn, and suddenly the exhaustion sharpens into something focused, disciplined. Our bodies move through the choreography on instinct—like muscle memory yanks the wheel out of our hands.
Betsy circles us, muttering corrections like she's narrating a National Geographic documentary on ballet dancers.
"Caroline, chin up. Up—good. Adam, watch your timing. She can't fly if you're late."
Caroline-me executes a développé and lands neatly in his hold. Adam catches my waist on cue, steadier this time.
Keith's voice booms. "Lift... now. Yes! Yes, that's it! Keep her centered!"
My muscles tremble, but I push through the arabesque.
"Caroline," Betsy shouts, "your foot! Point! I want it so pointed it cuts through the air!"
"Itispointed!" I fire back mid-spin.
We hit the final lift—my body rising, breath suspended, sweat dripping down my spine—and for the first time today, the move feels effortless.
Not perfect.
But real. Strong. Beautiful.
Betsy claps sharply. "YES. THAT. AGAIN."
I nearly collapse out of Adam's arms. "Again?" I gasp.
"We're artists," Betsy says without blinking. "Suffering is part of the craft."
Keith chuckles. "Five-minute water break, or they'll pass out and ruin my floors."
I drop onto the marley like someone sniped me. Adam flops beside me like a dying starfish.
We both stare at the ceiling.
