“I’m taking on three extra night practices for the two weeks you’re gone.”
"That’s very good, sweetie. Practice makes perfect." My mother stops in front of me as I bring the stool to an abrupt halt.
I look into her face, the fresh Botox making her forehead freakishly smooth. Microbladed brows. Lash extensions.
She doesn't need all that.
She's truly beautiful, but turning forty next year has her in a bit of a spin.
"I'll be staying at the Hilton San Diego. The facility they have your dad at is only a couple of minutes from there. He needs support. He needs to know you're here, doing everything you can to make this dance company position a reality. You know he needs everything in perfect order right now. We both do. The best way you can support us is to make sure you do everything you can to be our perfect little girl, like you always have."
She blinks. I nod.
Being perfect has been the mantle I've carried around as far back as I can remember. I'm not even sure what perfect means, but I know it's heavy, and I know it's a destination you never quite reach.
"I'll do everything I can, Mom."
"Good girl. I've prepped Rye for the meeting on Tuesday. He'll be quiet and supportive.”
“Check and check.” I salute, which draws a disapproving look. “Sorry.”
She shakes her head on an exasperated sigh.
The meeting on Tuesday with Sophia and Alexander is the most important of my life, and Mom has already made her excuses for not being there. A minor procedure. They’ll understand.
What they would never understand is my father being in rehab. Depression and drinking definitely count as “drama”, and ifthere’s one thing I’ve had drummed into me, it’s that drama and baggage are not desirable in a new dancer.
“They know us, darling. They know how involved we are with your training and progression. If neither of us is here, it will raise suspicions. No one can tell the difference between Rye and your father, not unless they really know them both." She pauses. "I'm so nervous. Just make this happen for us, baby. We need this."
With that, she gives me a kiss on the forehead. I curl my toes. And she's out the front door.
I take a deep breath and square my shoulders, pop off the kitchen stool, bend at the waist, and press my palms to the floor. Let the blood rush to my head.How am I going to spend two weeks in the same house with the man I can't stop thinking about? The man who looks exactly like my father.It's just so wrong.
I take a deep breath, then stretch toward the ceiling, heat pooling down below my belly button.
It’s thirty minutes before I have to be at morning practice.
That'll eat three hours of my day. Then I have to figure out how to tell my best friend since second grade that I'm not going to join her bachelorette outing. She’s marrying some guy she met on Bumble three months ago. I don’t hate him, but the idea of marriage at our age terrifies me. I want to be supportive, and a mani-pedi and pizza night sounds great, I just haven't eaten pizza in, I don't know, ten years. My mother keeps my weight charts from the time I was five in a file on her computer. Apparently, the perfect daughter can only have five percent body fat.
I bound up the stairs to my bedroom and into the bathroom, dragging the brush through my hair, muscle memory taking over as I spin it into a tight, perfectly smooth bun on top of my head. I tug on a pair of gray sweatpants and an oversized gray sweatshirt over my practice uniform, loving the juxtaposition of plain, dumpy clothes over the perfection of pink. A quiet rebellion. The pink is what my life is expected to be. The gray is what it actually feels like.
Then I’m out the front door, into the immaculate mid-morning warmth of a Detroit spring that makes everything feel possible.
I hit the button on my key fob, and the 2024 Mercedes beeps, lights flashing, and my stomach does inappropriate things as I remember getting it for my sweet sixteen. I was with my high school friends at a local park, and then a flatbed truck rolled up with a blacked-out car in tow with the world's biggest pink bow on top. And pulling up right behind it in his own Mercedes was who else but Uncle Rye.
I throw myself behind the driver's wheel, hit the button, and it hums to life. I'm putting the car in reverse when my phone automatically pairs and the screen lights up with an incoming FaceTime from Anna. I chew my lip as I get the car moving forward down the street before I accept.
"Girl." She stabs her index finger toward me before I can say anything, signature bright red lipstick and wild black curls on full display. "Don't, Elodie. I can see it in your face. Youarecoming to my bachelorette party tonight. No excuses! “She’s been a fixture in my life, a steady structure that has given me most of the wildness I'm allowed — mostly when my parents aren't watching.
"I'm just—" I start, stammering, trying not to look at her narrowing eyes. How does she alwaysknow?
"Uh-uh." She cuts me off. "No. No, no,no, no, no. You'recoming. We are picking you up at seven-thirty. Be ready, and I want you to wear something scandalous. Do you hear me? Nothing gray."
I scoff. "I thought we were getting manicures and pedicures and eating pizza."
"Well, I want us to at least dress like we're in Vegas. We can'tgoto Vegas, but we're gonna ride this ride like we're recreatingThe Hangover. You got me? Wearred. Something short and tight. Show off that body to the world in something other than leotards and tutus."
My pulse kicks up, my heart rapping against my rib cage. When I get home tonight, Rye will be here, and what will he think if I come in late in a scandalous red dress? My skin heats like his eyes are on me right now. Would he look at me as something more than the sweet niece he’s spoiled his whole life? Would he be tempted to do more than take me to a thrift store or let me eat fried rice when mom wasn’t watching?
