Page 111 of Keep Me Close

Maybe she’s right and I don’t belong here. Maybe this entire thing is me pretending I’m still the girl who used to spend hours in rehearsal rooms before cameras, contracts, and publicists turned my life into a circus for public consumption.

For a second, I’m seventeen again, standing in a dance studio with my hair in a knot, sweaty and breathless and happy, dreaming about a future that looked nothing like the one I ended up with.

The memory punches the air right out of me. I look down at my hands and flex my fingers, trying to stop the mental spiral before it sucks me under completely.

No.

You want this.

You came here for this.

You don’t get to run because one person looked at you and saw the version of Cheyenne Benson the world thinks they know.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, then another. My heartbeat is still racing, but at least I can breathe again. I picture Knox this morning with his hand pressed against my cheek, his eyes fastened to mine, his voice low and certain.

You’re going to nail it.

A shaky half-laugh catches in my throat. He says things like that as if they’re facts. As if failure doesn’t exist where I’m concerned. As if he sees something in me no one else does.

The people in this room see a reality star. A headline. A woman who doesn’t belong.

Knox sees me.

That thought quiets the insecurities trying to eat me alive. I roll my shoulders back and force my fingers to loosen from the strap of my purse.

You don’t have to be the best in the room.

You just have to be brave enough to walk inside it.

A door opens at the end of the hallway, and one of the assistants steps out with a clipboard in hand.

“All right,” she calls. “We’re ready for the next group.”

Everyone shifts as papers rustle, and my heart lodges in the middle of my throat.

The assistant looks down at the list. “Cheyenne Benson?”

For a split second, I forget how to breathe. The room quiets as everything narrows to this moment. And I realize that if I really wanted to, I could leave. I could mumble an excuse and walk right out the door. No one would stop me. I could save myself the humiliation of trying and failing in front of people who have been doing this for years.

Or I could go through with the audition.

My fingers tighten around my bag again before I consciously relax them.

I didn’t come this far only to walk away without trying.

I force myself to step forward. My boots echo against the floor as every doubt in my head starts screaming at once.

You’re going to embarrass yourself.

You don’t belong here.

They’re going to laugh at you.

My mouth dries and my pulse pounds hard enough to echo in my ears. I smooth my hand down the front of my shirt before lifting my chin and taking a second step. And then another. By the time I reach the door, I’m still shaking.

But I’m here.

The assistant pushes it open. “You can go in.”