“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Her laugh floats through the phone, soft and warm as honey in sunlight. “You’ve got it bad for me, Taio. Don’t you try to deny it.”
“It’s not a secret.” I smile back, picturing her—those lips that curve into a perfect Cupid’s bow when she’s pleased with herself, eyes the color of sunshine-filled blue skies, wide and expressive, framed by those unruly lashes she’s always batting at me when she wants something. I can almost see the tiny freckle at the corner of her mouth that I’ve memorized like a secret constellation. She reminds me of all my favorite romance books rolled into one. She’s all the best parts.
“When I get back, how about neither of us sleeps alone anymore?”
“That sounds really nice.” She yawns, the sound muffled like she’s trying to hide it. “Sorry. It’s not you. It’s just been a long day of rehearsals and emotional processing.”
“You should sleep.”
“I don’t want to hang up.”
“Then don’t.” I walk to my bedroom, turning off the hallway light as I pass. “Stay on with me. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
“You need sleep too.”
“I’ll sleep. We’ll sleep together. Separately. You know what I mean.”
She laughs softly. “Phone sleeping. Very modern romance.”
“We’re trendsetters.”
More rustling on her end. I picture her burrowing into the blanket fort, pulling the covers up to her chin, Black Cat curled against her side. God, how I wish I was there.
“Taio?” Her voice is muzzy now, sleep pulling at the edges.
“Yeah?”
But her breathing has already started to even out, the slow rhythm of someone slipping under.
“Charlie?”
Nothing. Just soft, steady breaths.
I stay on the line for a long time, listening to her sleep, wondering what she was trying to tell me.
“Goodnight, Tweety,” I whisper to her sleeping breath. “I’m coming back soon. I promise.”
chapter 21
Charlie
I must’ve paced a mile by now. My legs are tired, I’m a little breathless, and I’m burning precious energy I should be saving for the stage.
Tampa’s dressing room outshines Miami’s in every way—mirrors that don’t distort, lights that flatter instead of interrogate, a pristine couch unmarked by mascara-streaked breakdowns. I should feel at ease here, but my reflection stares back with wide eyes as I check my watch again.
Thirty minutes left.
I’ve done this so many times I should feel prepared. But tonight is different. Risky. The stakes have never been this high. We’re attempting choreography we’ve only run through a handful of times. My dancers have solos that could launch or sink them. And my voice—my actual, unprocessed voice—will have nowhere to hide.
And in attendance? The critics, waiting to declare Miami a lucky accident.
I pause, fixing my sights on the giant mirror above the counter still riddled with the glam team’s supplies. My hands areshaking as I reach for the familiar wooden box on my vanity—it’s time to participate in the familiar pre-show ritual. My mother’s words and warning, responsible for fueling all of my confidence, and eliminating my self-doubt. It’s such a heavy burden for paper to hold.
I flip open the lid and freeze.
