“That’s not why I’m sad to miss it.” His voice drops. “I wanted to support you. I want to be close.”
My heart does something complicated in my chest. “I know. But you’ll be in Atlanta next week, right? It’s two back-to-back nights.”
“I’ll be there. I swear it.”
“Good. Now tell me to have a killer show so I can go have a killer show.”
“Have a killer show, Tweety.” I can hear him smiling. “I’ll be watching the hashtags. Make them lose their minds.”
“That’s the plan.”
“And, Charlie?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for calling.” He stops. Clears his throat. “Thank you for thinking about me.”
My pulse stutters. “I’m always thinking about you, Taio Wilkes. See you on the other side, babe.”
There’s a pause, then: “Did you just call me ‘babe’?”
I bite my lip, wincing at my own boldness. “Sorry—was that weird? I was just trying it on for size…”
A warm chuckle vibrates through the phone, his voice dropping to a register I’ve never heard before. “I’ve never beenbabebefore,” he says softly. “I like it.”
I don’t care if he can hear my sigh of relief. The scales between us still feel uneven. There’s me, obsessing over his texts at three in the morning, analyzing every inflection in his voice. Then there’s him, caring in that steady, measured way that normal, experienced people do. I catch myself sometimes, reel back the spiral of thoughts that threatens to consume me. But maybe that’s what happens when you fall for someone for the first time. Maybe it’s supposed to feel like…well, falling. Totally out of control.
“Well, okay,babe. I’ll call you after,” I manage. “With a full report.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
The call ends, and I remain still, clutching the phone against my chest alongside his notes. My stomach still twists with that familiar serpent of stage fright, but beneath the cold knot of fear, a small flame of comfort has kindled—steady, warm, refusing to be extinguished.
I’m not alone. Even when he’s not here, I’m not alone.
A knock on the door. “Showtime, Charlie!”
I tuck Taio’s notes carefully back into the box, right on top where I can see them. Then I check my reflection one last time—sparkly bodysuit, hair teased to perfection, makeup that could best a hurricane…and then I head for the wings guided by the stadium’s security team.
Time to give them a show.
The roar of the crowd hits me like a physical force.
Tens of thousands of people packed into the Tampa arena, a sea of waving phone lights and homemade signs bobbing above upstretched arms. The screaming hits me in waves—piercing shrieks that make my eardrums vibrate, then deeper roars that I feel in my chest cavity. The energy is electric, crackling through the air like lightning about to strike, leaving the taste of metal on my tongue. I can feel it in my bones, that familiar pre-show tremor that starts in my knees and radiates outward, making my fingertips tingle and my stomach clench no matter how many times I do this.
Devon appears at my elbow, already bouncing on his feet. Sweat glistens on his forehead—he’s been warming up the dancers, running through the new formations one last time. “You ready?”
“No.”
“Perfect. Neither are we.” He grins. “Let’s do this anyway.”
The opening notes of “Hypnotic” thunder through the speakers, bass so deep I feel it in my ribs, and I take a breath, and step into the light.
The first thirty seconds are terrifying. At first I feel like an out-of-place marionette, not sure what strings to pull. I’m doing a lotlesson stage. Without the intricate dance sequences I usually hide behind, I feel exposed. Naked, almost. Like the audience can see every flaw, every insecurity, every reason I don’t deserve to be on this stage.
My earpiece crackles with the stage manager’s voice, calling cues, none of them belonging to me. The lights are blinding. The crowd is a faceless mass of noise and heat. I start to drift away.
And then something shifts.
