“You should have called,” Dad says, appearing through the crowd. His voice is gruff, but his eyes are soft when they land on me. “I would’ve picked you up from the airport.”
“I didn’t fly, Dad. I . . . I drove from New York.” I still can’t make myself even think about getting on a plane.
Dad’s brow furrows. “You drove? All that way? By yourself?”
“I took plenty of breaks. And I even stopped to sleep.” In that same motel. Same room, even—I asked for it specifically, like some kind of masochist. Spent the whole night waiting for a knock that never came.
And when I finally accepted he wasn’t going to show up, I got drunk. Really drunk. Tequila-and-bad-decisions drunk.
Then I tried to cut the tracker out with a butter knife.
I didn’t get far. Just a bloody nick and a moment of clarity when I caught myself in the bathroom mirror—wild-eyed, bleeding, sawing at my own skin to sever a connection I couldn’t quit.
That’s when I knew I had to come back regardless. Not because I’d succeeded in cutting him out. Because I’d failed. Because I couldn’t do it. Because some part of me didn’t want to.
The bandage pulls under my shirt every time I move. A reminder of just how gone I am for this man.
“You stayed at a seedy highway motel alone?” Lee’s voice is tinged with disbelief.
I nod, scanning the crowd again, trying to catch a glimpse of Bones. Where did he go?
“You should have called one of us,” Lee continues. “We would have driven up to get you.”
“I needed the time to think,” I say, which is partially true. The fifteen-hour drive gave me plenty of time to second-guess mydecision, to nearly turn around at least three times, to practice what I would say when I saw Bones again.
All of which flew out of my head the moment our eyes met across the bar.
“Well, you’re here now,” Dad says, his hand coming to rest on my shoulder. It’s his version of affection—a gesture that saysI’m glad you’re backwithout actually having to say the words.
I scan the crowd again, still looking for Bones, but he’s disappeared. My chest tightens with disappointment.
“I’m just glad you’re here,” Kya says, linking her arm through mine. “The timing couldn’t be better. First night of the grand reopening!”
“It looks amazing,” I tell her, taking in the renovated space. “Really, Kya. It’s incredible what you’ve done with it.”
“I had help.” Her eyes sparkle. “A lot of help, actually. The whole club pitched in. Come on, let me show you what we’ve done with the place.”
I let myself be pulled along, trying not to be obvious about looking for Bones as she leads me from one area of the bar to another. The patio is incredible—string lights crisscrossing overhead, comfortable seating, a small fire pit that’s already drawing a crowd despite the warm night.
“Lee built that,” Kya says, gesturing to the stone fire pit. “He’s been teaching himself masonry. Can you believe it?”
“No,” I say honestly, trying to picture my brother carefully arranging stones. “I really can’t.”
“He’s good with his hands,” she says with a wink that makes me groan.
“Gross. That’s my brother.”
“Your very talented brother.” She laughs, pulling me back inside. “Come on, I need to introduce you to Miguel’s wife. She’s been dying to meet the famous Emma.”
The next hour passes in a blur of introductions, hugs, and catching up. I get swept into the rhythm of the party, drink in hand, smiling and laughing even as my eyes constantly scan the room for a glimpse of him. People keep pulling me into conversations, asking about New York, about dancing, about when I’m performing next.
“Taking some time off,” I say, the lie rolling smooth because I don’t know that I’ll ever perform again—or if I even want to.
I answer on autopilot, my attention split between maintaining the fiction of my perfect New York life and wondering where the hell Bones disappeared to.
“You should see her in Swan Lake,” Kya tells a group of women I vaguely recognize from high school. “She literally transforms on stage.”
The words scrape against something raw. Swan Lake. The role I fought for. The role I may never dance again.
