Page 2

“Yes,” I say.

His fingers slip between mine, and then we leave. I ignore Archie’s stunned glare, which I can feel burning holes in my back. I don’t care about him anymore. Nothing matters.

Just him.

Part 1 Act 1

Chapter 1

Lia

I nervously bite my lower lip and tap my phone to call my mother again, while all around me, parents hug their children and couples kiss each other. The joy of reunion reverberates through the room, or maybe through me. I’m not sure, maybe it’s both. But inside me is only emptiness, because there’s no one here for me to be reunited with. Mom is nowhere to be seen.

The voicemail picks up immediately on the other end of the line, and Mom’s voice politely explains that she’s currently unavailable and I should try again later. Sighing, I end the call and slip the phone back into the pocket of my dress, trying to ignore the stab of disappointment in my chest. It doesn’t work.

I’ve been gone for almost three months, on another continent. Three months. And Mom isn’t here at the airport to pick me up. She promised me she would be. My stomach cramps, and I blink to keep back the tears. I feel awful. I really thought it would be different this time. Just this once. But nothing has changed, because Mom’s the way she is.

I take a shaky breath and fight to control myself, swallowing against the tightness in my throat. Pull yourself together. Get it together, damn it. She didn’t pick me up, so what? It doesn’t matter. I’m an adult, I can manage on my own. I always manage on my own, don’t I?

I straighten my back, grab my suitcase, and am about to leave the building to find a taxi into town when my phone rings. It’s her, I know it without even having to look. I start to pick up the phone, but I can’t bring myself to do it. It rings and rings. She’s not here, and I hate that something or someone is more important to her than I am, otherwise she would have come. But if I don’t answer now, she won’t call again. That’s why I finally pull the phone out of my pocket on the ninth ring, force a smile onto my face—even though she can’t see me—and take the call.

“Lia, you called?” she says before I can even say a word. That’s when I realize what happened: She simply forgot about me. There’s no good reason for her not to be here. No patient who needed unscheduled surgery or whose baby decided to arrive a few days early. No excuse. Otherwise, she would have let me know as soon as I picked up. No, she just forgot about me.

I clench the phone so tightly that the edges dig painfully into my skin. In the background, I can hear voices and laughter. One deep, booming voice belongs to Dad; I can’t identify the other, but it doesn’t matter. Mom is with Dad, and there’s loud music, which means they’re not at the hospital or the clinic.

“Yes, I called,” I say curtly and then press my lips together. I let go of my suitcase and rub my burning eyes. Any other day, I wouldn’t say a word. I would pretend that nothing was wrong. But I’m tired. The flight from Heathrow to Logan was a disaster. We had hours of turbulence. I sat on the plane for too long and didn’t sleep a wink the whole time.

And now she’s not here. My throat tightens with disappointment. It’s too much. I’m too tired, and I’m not in control of myself, which is the only reason I keep talking.

“You were supposed to pick me up from the airport. Today is the first day of school, and I’m already late.” Way too late, because I should have been back two days ago. But because of a strike, all flights were delayed, resulting in me almost missing the first day of my senior year at the New England School of Ballet.

I’m met with silence, just for a moment, and then she regains her composure.

“Oh, Lia, I thought you weren’t coming back until next week. We’re having brunch with the Petersons,” she says, as if that explains everything. In a way, it does. It’s just not what I want to hear. We spoke on the phone only two days ago when I told her I had to take a different flight and wouldn’t be back until Monday, not on Saturday as planned. We talked about her taking the day off, at least in the morning, so she could pick me up. It seems she didn’t listen to me at all but took the day off anyway. Except she didn’t do it for me. And now . . . now she doesn’t even apologize.

I bite my lip until I taste blood while disappointment solidifies into a knot in my stomach.

“You can make it to school on your own, can’t you?” Mom says, and the way she asks the question makes it pretty clear what she expects me to do.

“I’m on my way,” I lie, my gaze fixed on the yellow cabs in front of me, waiting in a long line for their next passengers. The sun beats down mercilessly from the bright-blue sky, completely inappropriate for my current mood. I wish I were back in rainy London. Then I could cry, and no one would notice because my tears would blend in with the rain. How melodramatic I am. But it’s true.

“Wonderful. You can call me tomorrow, and then we can talk about London.”

“I will,” I say, my voice breaking a little. I hate that I’m going to do it. I’m going to call her so I can tell her about my time at the Royal Academy of Dance.

“See you tomorrow,” she says cheerfully.

“See you, Mom,” I manage to say. I want to tell her that I missed her, but she’s already hung up. Only now do I realize that she didn’t ask me if I was okay or how the flight was.

I get into a taxi, and then I can’t hold back the tears anymore. They blur my vision, flowing hot and salty down my cheeks. Right now, I don’t care if the taxi driver notices that I’m crying. A quiet sob escapes. I can’t stop it, even though I know I should. I don’t have the strength right now to pretend that everything is fine. Because absolutely nothing is fine.

I struggle to breathe. My chest is tight, and everything hurts. It hurts far too much. But I have to breathe. I have to calm down. I have to pull myself together.

Breathe. In and out.

“Miss? Are you okay?” The taxi driver glances at me with concern in the rearview mirror, and his presence stops me from breaking down completely. Sniffing, I wipe the tears off my face and force myself to smile.

“I’m fine, thank you. I’m just jetlagged.”