Page 121 of Dancing in the Dark

“Yes, please!” Her head bobs wildly up and down. “I wanna see yours! I bet yours is way better than mine, huh? I’m still learning.”

“Exactly. You’re still learning, so mine can be my version of my best. And yours can be your version of your best. That way, they’re still the very best we can do, and at no point, ever, are we competing with each other.” I make quick work of my second shoe, tie the ribbons, flex and stretch my legs, then I push up from the ground and get a feel for how each one hugs my feet. “But.” I bring my eyes back to Mia and flash a bright smile. We’re about to make a brand-new happy memory. “I have a lot of practice at this, and I guess they thought I was pretty good at it, because I have a lot of trophies too. So if you want, and only if it would make you happy, I could help you get your jeté even better.”

She gasps and bounces on the tips of her toes, clasping her hands together with glee. “You would teach me, Fifi? Really?”

“Only if it makes your tummy feel good.” I crouch and luxuriate in the kiss of the soft breeze on my skin. Setting the very tip of my finger on her popped-forward stomach, I meet her eyes. “No pressure. No criticizing. I won’t tell you to do better, or to be different. I’ll never tell you to dance on a stage if you don’t want to. And if you do want to, I will only ever see how wonderful you are.”

“I fink this is my most favorite stage in the entire world.” She gestures out at our secret garden hidden in plain sight. “Please can you show me your jeté?” She swings her hands up and smooshes my face between her palms. “I won’t say it’s bad even if it’s bad.”

I choke out a watery laugh. “That’s very gracious of you.”

“But I bet it’s not bad. I bet it’s the best jeté I ever seen. Even better than Miss Debbie.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” I straighten my legs and trail my fingers along the column of her neck. “But remember, baby, we’re not comparing. When we come up here, we dance because our hearts want us to dance. We do it so we can be the best us. Not the best of everyone else.”

“Okay.” She stands tall and lifts her arms, elongates her neck, and shows off a devious smirk. “You ready? Do you fink your happy memories leotard can handle this?”

I set my hands on my hips, my feet automatically resting in fifth position, and get a front-row seat to her excited bum-wiggle. “I think it can. It’s waited a long time to fly again.”

Releasing her posture, Mia pokes her own stomach and grumbles. “Don’t fail me now, leotard. We don’t have time for wedgies.”

46

FLETCH

My bad mood is a living, breathing inferno boiling in my blood. It’s a poisonous gas seeping into every pore. A pulsing fury I tried to work through before stepping out of the station and starting this way.

I thought the walk home would ease the heat burning me up.

I thought the cool nine o’clock air would calm my racing thoughts.

Hell, I hoped the text from Sera an hour ago telling me she and Mia were home and, if it was okay with me, she’d like to stay the night, would temper the flames in my belly.

But they refuse to die down. Every time I think I have this shit under control, Anderson’s mocking smirk reignites my rage and I land my ass back at square one.

I can’t take this home to the girls. I refuse. But there’s only so many times I can walk from the station to my apartment and back again before someone notices and calls in for a welfare check.

It’s getting late, Mia has school tomorrow, and Sera already blasted me for my juggling skills back when she gave me a second chance.

Again.

“Fuck.” I cross the street a single block before my apartment and scrub a shaking hand over my face. Frustration consumes from the inside. My buzzing phone, each vibration against my leg, a reminder of the shit they’re saying in the media.

Miranda fucking London tries, tries, and tries so damn hard to get my attention and, if she’s lucky, something juicy to slap onto television screens with a breaking news banner right above it.

I absolutely refuse to take her calls.

“Fletch!” Archer’s voice bounces from half a block away. “Wait up!”

I spin and watch as his long strides eat up the sidewalk. As he glances left and right, checking for traffic before crossing over, then jogs the rest of the way and comes around to create a wall between me and my apartment a half a dozen doors down.

Motherfucker thinks he’s slick.

“What?”

“What?” His left brow shoots high on his forehead as fierce green eyes look me up and down. “You’re pissed, and you’re marching this way.”

“So?” I step left. “I’m exhausted, and you’re doing that smirky smirk thing you do, which means you wanna fight. I’m not interested.”