My hands move before my brain catches up.
I grip the stems of the bouquet harder than I mean to out of anger, thorns biting into my palm, and march out into the hallway. A trash can sits near the stage door. I shove the roses in, stems and all, until all I can see is dark metal and wilted red.
When I walk back to the dressing room, my hand is bleeding in three places.
The necklace box sits on the vanity when I return, glossy and obscene.
I don’t touch it.
Not yet.
I’ll send it back when I figure out how—when I find a way to return it that doesn’t give anyone an excuse to accuse me of theft. That’s the kind of trap my father would love.
For now, I shove the box into the bottom of my dance bag, under a pile of sweaters and spare tights, hoping to suffocate it of oxygen. Just looking at it makes my skin crawl.
My phone buzzes on the table.
For a wild second, I think it might be my father. Or Maxim again.
It’s not.
Scottie:Lost tonight. Refs were trash, and we couldn’t stay out of the box, so that’s on us. But it’s done. I’ve been thinking about you all night instead of the game anyway, so maybe that’s karma.
A shaky laugh catches in my throat.
Scottie:How’d opening night go, KitKat? I’ll be on a flight home after media and dinner, so you can tell me everything. I wish I could’ve been there.
Tears sting my eyes.
How do I tell him?
How do I explain that my grandmother is on her way across the world to inspect our marriage like it’s a crime scene? That Maxim showed up with a half-million-dollar necklace that looked more like my noose, and my father’s expectations on his tongue?
That suddenly I’m less sure than ever that this is going to work…that I won’t get sent back, that our lie will hold, that I won’t be forced into a life where Scottie doesn’t exist?
My fingers hover over the keyboard.
Me:Thank you for the tea.
Scottie:I looked up your schedule and I have it on auto delivery for all of your shows.
Of course he did, because he’s always looking for ways to take care of me.
I could tell him….I should tell him.
Instead, I lock the phone and drop it back on the table like it burned me.
I’m a coward. And even I know it.
But right now, I feel like I’m standing on a tightrope stretched between two skyscrapers and one wrong word will snap the wire.
I just need one night.
One night of pretending this didn’t just happen. He’ll be home soon, and I could use his arms around me.
I change into warm-ups and sneakers, sling my bag over my shoulder, and leave through the stage door, the cool Seattle air hitting my face like a slap.
The city is alive, though I feel as far from alive as a person can feel. Cab drivers honking, cars skidding at the red light, voices ofpeople walking by, and distant sirens, but I feel oddly separate from all of it, like I’m moving underwater.
