I nodded, understanding exactly what she meant.
“Can I ask you something Yesoh, do you promise to be honest with me?” I questioned.
“Yes, of course.” I insisted.
“Is Wynter happy?” she asked suddenly, her voice quieter now.
The question caught me off guard, but I didn’t hesitate to answer. “Yes. I think he is.”
“Does he ever talk about…does he ever mention—”
“No, never.” I deadpanned.
“I figured.” She sighed deeply, a pained expression on her face.
“But he is happy.”
Beck studied me for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then she nodded, as if that was all she needed to hear.
“Good,” she said simply, reaching for another bag of sugar. “He deserves to be.”
By the time we got to the checkout, the cart was piled high with everything Bae could possibly need—and then some. Beck pulled out her wallet and handed over a sleek black credit card, her movements efficient and unbothered.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I said as we wheeled the cart outside.
“Please,” she replied with a wave of her hand. “You think I’m letting Wynter pay for this? He’d never let me hear the end of it.”
I laughed, the cold air nipping at my cheeks as we loaded the bags into the car. Beck closed the trunk with a decisive click and turned to me, her expression softening.
“Thanks for coming with me,” she said.
“Of course,” I replied, smiling.
For a moment, we just stood there, the city lights reflecting off the frost-covered car. It felt like a tiny pocket of calm in the middle of the chaos.
“You’re good for him, you know,” Beck said finally, her voice quiet but certain. “Don’t let him mess it up.”
I laughed, feeling the weight of her words settle warmly in my chest. “I won’t.”
With that, she climbed into the driver’s seat, her phone already lighting up with another text from Rhodes. I slid into the passenger seat, still smiling as we pulled away from the store, the sound of Bae’s excited voice already filling my mind as we drove back to the apartment.
32
The Chosen One
That Friday the studio felt heavy with anticipation that afternoon, the kind that settles in your stomach and refuses to leave. Everyone was whispering—quiet, nervous murmurs as we stretched or adjusted pointe shoes. I kept my focus on the wooden floor, the faint squeak of the barres as dancers leaned into them, my body humming with exhaustion from the morning’s exercises.
“Do you think they’ll announce today?” Sydney whispered, crouched beside me on the floor.
“Firstly, you’re not a ballerina, you’re going to get caught,” I informed her.
“Shhh no one has to know. I may be a theatre major, but I’m here for moral support when they announce your win,” she informed me, tying her blonde curls up in a ponytail.
“I might not,” I reminded her. Honestly, at this rate, I was more scared of letting her down than myself. “You’re a chronic optimist dear, Syd.”
“One of us has to be!” She flung her hands up in the air. “We’re here to win, Soh, only win.”
“I don’t know,” I said, trying to sound indifferent, though my fingers tugged at the ribbons of my pointe shoes with just a little too much force.
