He grins then, a wide thing.
“Then you’ll get it.” He looks off, and instinctively, I know it’s the alarm clock beside his bed. He sighs, confirming mythoughts. “I should let you go. I gotta get ready. Jesse and Madden will be here at 8:30, and I have some work to do before they arrive.”
"Headed to the furniture store today?" I ask, and he nods. He’s almost done with the guest room; he’s furnishing it today. I told him to wait for me, but he reminded me we’d have better things to do during my short visits to Holly Ridge. Even though it was disappointing, he was right. "Send me pictures of that, too," I say. "I made a Pinterest board for the second guest room. I’ll show you my vision when I come home next weekend."
When I talk about our future, his eyes soften.
“I can’t wait.”
“Me, neither.” We sit there for a moment before he sighs and sits up.
“Okay. I’ll let you go get ready for the day. I love you, honey,” he says, soft. He always says it that way, like he thinks it’s precious and gentle, and it never fails to feel that way each time he says it.
“Love you, too. Bye, Leo.”
Another moment passes before he smiles and hangs up, knowing I’ll never be the first to do it.
Then, finally, I go on about my daily routine.
But I still skip the green juice.
Hours later, I’m packing my things after a couple of hours dancing with Margo. Even though I’ve danced on hundreds of stages for tens of thousands of people, she never fails to have me an exhausted mess at the end of one of our lessons, giving me a laundry list of things to work on to improve my form.
“Thank you, Margo. This was exactly what I needed,” I say, because it is: a few hours of turning my brain off, moving my body, and most importantly, laughing with one of the few people I consider an old friend.
“Thank me when you get those turns perfect. You’re getting lazy,” she says, smiling. She adds, “Thankyoufor the extra scholarship. Things have been tough, and some of my best girls’ families are struggling. I help when I can, but rent here isn’t cheap.”
I’ve offered to cover it more than once, knowing the good she does for the dance community. She always declines. Scholarships are the best I can do.
“Of course,” I say, reaching out and holding her hand, my eyes sincere. “And if youeverwant some extra eyes on the place, media or advertising or anything like that, you know to just let me know.”
“Oh, hell no. I don’t need all those snobs thinking they’ll be your next backup dancer if they take lessons here. If word gets out about that, it’s over for me. You know I’m not guilty for the press.”
I smile, thinking about when Leo had to clean up a mess after a reporter came to the studio about one of the graduates. She cursed them out in very colorful terms, and the reporter took it poorly.
“Yeah, yeah, well, you let me know if you need anything.” She rolls her eyes and opens her mouth to say something, but is stopped by a loud cheer.
And then my moment of peace shatters.
The front doors open, and in walks Chris, a man holding a video camera, another handheld camera following him, his eyes brightening and a wide smile spreading across his face as he walks toward me.
“Willa! Baby!” he says, arm out to grab me, but my entire body is stiff, and I’m frozen in place. He looks over his shoulder at the cameras behind him, then tilts his head towards me, that wide smile on his lips, looking so unnatural and fake as they all start moving towards us. I turn to Margo, who looks concerned, unsure of the interlopers, and in an effort to fix this, I step away from her, making my way towards Chris.
“Chris,” I say, my voice tight but my Willa Stone smile in place. I take in deep breaths, trying to center myself, but my pulse races as I move towards him. I scan the room, seeing the cameras and panic a bit, wondering if they caught anything that I could get picked apart for, but then calm moves through me, knowing that if they did, Leo will bury it.
He always protects me.
“What are you doing here?” I ask with a tight smile as he pulls me in for a hug, thankfully no kiss, before tucking me into his side. His cologne is strong, and I force myself not to cough or make a face.
“I heard you were going to be here, and I wanted to give props to the amazing things the love of my life does.”
Giving Margo one last apologetic look, I put my hand on Chris’s back and try to usher him to the door.
“Unfortunately, this area hasn’t been cleared for filming, and I know Margo is not interested in something like that, so in order to respect her wishes, we do have to leave,” I say, my professional face glued on.
“I’m sure—” Chris starts, preparing to argue.
“Now, Chris, sweetie,” I say, hoping the venom in my veins doesn’t leak into my words. “We need to be respectful of others.” My tone is chiding, the kind you’d use on a child who wants a cookie before dinner, and for a moment, his face flashes with not just irritation, but utter hatred.
