Page 52 of The Perfect Mistake

We work well together. He’s direct and to the point, but I’m used to that. It’s not like any of my dance instructors or company directors coddled me before. If anything, Alec might be the most lenient boss I’ve ever had.

I’m not sure most other people would agree, though. He doesn’t do small talk with Katja or Mac. He doesn’t give his smiles and approvals readily. But he is consistent, and if you do what he asks of you, easy to get along with.

It’s almost ten on a Thursday morning, and the day is mine entirely until it’s time to pick up the kids. Many of my days are like this, and it’s an unexpected span of freedom. For so long, each of my hours was earmarked, my food controlled, and I trained until my body ached every night. And now, I’m staring at Central Park outside the window, on a weekday, with nothing to do.

My phone chimes again. It’s done that consistently over the past few days, my family group chat and the chat with my siblings, both equally active.

Dad loves sending memes to the family. He discovered them a few years ago and now forwards about five too many every week. I think he gets most of them from the guys at his office, and more than a few times, the memes are wildly outdated.

Use this for your routine, he’ll write, adding five exclamation points. He rarely specifies who he talks to, but he doesn’t really need to, either, when it’s only my little sister who has a routine anymore. She’s a budding stand-up comedian, premiering a new comedy set on Friday night next week. I’m going, and so is my brother. Sebastian won’t ask as many questions as my mother and father would… which is why I’ve been avoiding visiting my parents. They ask out of love, but I dread the inquisition anyway.

Because it’s not like I know the answers.

Will I go back to dancing? What is this nannying job? You’re not planning on making this a career? What about going to university—you were always bright in school! Tell me more about this hotshot you’re nannying for. He hasn’t tried anything, has he? Are you paid all right? How terrible are the kids?

Well, I know the answers to some of those. He hasn’t tried anything. I was the one who tried, and he was the one who shut it down.

Humiliation had kept me awake during the nights since. I half expected a phone call from him or a formal email. This isn’t working out.

You’re fired.

It’s not that I doubted his attraction. He’d kissed me back. My cheeks heat at the memory of the intensity, of the way he kissed me like he wanted to savor and swallow me whole. But he had been pretty clear in other conversations that he wasn’t looking to date. Wasn’t open to anything romantic.

Grabbing my yoga mat, I unroll it onto the living room floor. October sunlight filters in through the giant windows and makes the polished hardwood floors gleam. If there’s one thing that’s always been able to center me, it’s exercise. I should have at least an hour before Katja arrives and starts her daily rounds of meal prepping, laundry, and cleaning.

I start the yoga routine that Connie and I follow every Saturday, but it doesn’t take long until I’m pushing the limits. Holding poses longer than we usually do, until the muscles in my arms and stomach are shaking. It feels good. Familiar. At least this part of my body works, and it knows the movements intimately. The ache of my muscles, the soreness after prolonged stretch have been my companions for as long as I remember.

I could become a yoga instructor. The thought is bitter. There’s nothing wrong with that, but God, going from the thrill of performing on stage every night to telling a room full of people to breathe deeply feels tragic.

My phone chimes again. I should have put it on silent. Elena and Sebastian have been painfully active in our group chat since I got cut from the Company. It’s like they need to check on me all the time. But asking how are you feeling today? gets old rather quickly, so they have been rephrasing it by sending pics out of school yearbooks and family albums, or weird photos of things that happen in their lives. An oddly shaped bagel. A funny sign on the subway. Engage, every message begs me. Laugh.

Be happy.

None of us knows how to adjust, I think. They were newborns when I started dancing ballet. They’ve never known a world where being a prima ballerina wasn’t my ultimate goal, either.

I sink into a three-legged downward dog, kicking my left leg up as high as it can go. It feels good. Like I’m a spring, gathering energy, coiled to strike.

I breathe deeply. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

One day at a time.

That’s all I need to focus on.

One day at a time, and maybe to not kiss my employer again.

There’s a sound to my right, and then an indrawn breath. I look over my shoulder and catch sight of someone standing in the living room.

I lose the pose immediately. My leg drops to the floor and, feeling panic in each cell of my body, I push up to stand.

It’s Alec. He’s in a suit, hair impeccable, and he’s staring at me with borderline anger in his expression.

Shit.

I’m not wearing a stitch of makeup, my hair is in a messy ponytail, and I’m in my skimpiest of workout clothes. A sports bra and shorts that are more like hot pants. I’ve spent many times in outfits similar to this one while stretching and training during the warm summer days, especially when the room felt more like a sauna than a studio.

But I’m not in a studio. I’m in his living room.

His eyes rake over my body before rising to meet mine. There’s a furrow between his brows, drawn low over his darkened gaze.

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