I took a shaky breath, forcing the words out before I could second-guess them. “I do,” I said softly. “I also think I’m done being the thing you reschedule.”
There was a pause on his end. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means we’re over, Kyle. You don’t have to worry about fitting me in anymore.”
He sounded stunned. “El—wait?—”
But I didn’t. I ended the call before I could lose my nerve.
For a moment, all I could hear was the echo of my own heartbeat. My hand was shaking as I lowered the phone. I stared at the screen until it dimmed, my reflection staring back—flushed cheeks, trembling lip, eyes that suddenly looked a little clearer.
A laugh—half disbelief, half heartbreak—slipped out before I could stop it. “Well,” I whispered, “you did it. You finally stopped waiting.”
The door cracked open, and light spilled into the hallway. Naomi peeked through, whispering urgently, “Two minutes, boss.”
I nodded, sliding the phone into my clutch. My chest still ached, but there was something steadier underneath it—a kind of relief that felt new and terrifying.
As I walked back toward the ballroom, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror hanging near the door. My lipstick was still perfect. My shoulders were squared.
The woman looking back wasn’t someone’s backup plan.
The faint murmur of the ballroom filtered through the curtains—music, laughter, silverware clinking against plates. All those people out there waiting to see the confident, composed face of the foundation. Not the woman standing here with her heart freshly cracked open.
The door creaked, and Naomi poked her head in. Her bun was already starting to unravel, her clipboard tucked under one arm. “They’re seating everyone,” she said softly. Her eyes scanned my face, instantly reading me like a book. “You okay?”
I inhaled, deep and steady, letting the air fill every corner of me until it didn’t hurt quite as much. Then I smiled—the practiced kind. The one I’d perfected over years of balancing deadlines and disappointment. “I’m great.”
Naomi raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “You sure? Because you look like you’re about to murder a bottle of champagne and call it therapy.”
That earned a small laugh from me—just enough to sound human. “After my speech,” I promised.
She lingered for a second, then nodded and slipped back through the curtain, leaving me alone again with the mirror.
I stared at the reflection—at the woman who’d just ended a relationship between lighting cues and donor greetings—and tried to reconcile her with the one who was about to go out there and make people believe in hope and perseverance.
If I cry now, my mascara will win, I thought wryly. The absurdity of it almost made me smile again.
So I blinked once, twice, forcing the shine out of my eyes. Lifted my chin. Rolled my shoulders back until I looked like someone in control.
Then I tucked my cue cards under my arm, squared my stance, and whispered to my reflection, “Showtime.”
And for the first time all night, I didn’t wait for someone else to steady me. I did it myself.
The emcee’s voice boomed through the speakers, smooth and practiced, “Please welcome the director of the West Michigan Youth Foundation, Ellery James!”
Applause swelled—warm, bright, and deafening. For half a heartbeat, I froze behind the curtain, hand still clutching my cue cards. Then the stage lights hit, and instinct took over.
I stepped onto the stage as the applause began to fade, scanning the crowd, the lights, the sea of faces that had come to support the foundation. And somewhere near the back, I found Beckett watching me—steady, quiet, exactly where he said he’d be.
For the first time all night, I didn’t have to pretend to breathe. I just did.
The mirror behind the stage caught me off guard. I hadn’t meant to look, but there I was—lipstick perfect, hair smooth, gown flawless—and eyes that gave everything away. They looked glassy, brittle. The kind of eyes that didn’t belong to someone about to give a speech, but to someone who’d just let go of something she’d been clinging to for too long.
I smoothed my dress even though it didn’t need smoothing, straightened the stack of cue cards that I’d already memorized. Anything to keep my hands from trembling.
“Good evening, everyone.” My voice came out steady—thank God. “First off, I want to thank all of you for being here tonight. Every person in this room represents a piece of what we’re building: opportunity, community, and a future for kids who might not believe they have one yet.”
A pause. Smiles from the crowd. I let the silence breathe for a second before continuing.
