Page 11 of If Ever

"Nope." I stare back, silently daring him to confess he wants out.

"Well, there's not much progress we can make if you're going to clam up."

"Am I not doing everything you've asked? Granted, I'm not the best, but I'm trying. I'm here every day in this dank, moldy studio, working my ass off. My muscles ache and my feet are bleeding. This is me working hard."

Dominic shakes his head. "I think you've got a whole lot more in there. How about some emotion in the dance, some attitude? You keep giving me a stone-faced reaction. Let your guard down."

His efforts at pretending to care are pushing me to the brink. Neither one of us wants to be here anymore, but neither has the guts to admit it. I grunt. "I guess that brings us back to the trust issue. Unless I entirely trust someone, I can't let my guard down."

He says nothing.

By the time show day rolls around, I'm exhausted from the six hours of rehearsal every day not to mention the various production, marketing, and concept meetings that interrupt and stretch our days longer. We can barely tolerate each other. I'm trussed up in my tango costume, a breath sucking bustier, full skirt, heels and dark makeup feeling more like Vampira than a seductress.

During dress rehearsal I’m a little disappointed that this is likely my last day on set, but watching Dominic laugh with his friends while I wait on the sidelines for our cue is depressing. I'm back in high school with all its cliques and social positioning.

We run our tango and it goes pretty well. I try to hold frame like Dominic drilled into me hour after hour for the past week.

"That wasn't bad," he says. "But you didn’t look at me once. This is an aggressive dance of passion. We need to sell the emotion."

Is he really going to keep up the false pretenses? "You know. I can learn those steps and wear the costume, but I can't show an emotion with someone who's just counting the hours until he's free."

He has the nerve to act surprised. "What?"

I shake my head and walk away. "Never mind."

"What the hell! You want to explain yourself?" He follows me.

I really don't, but I'm done pretending. "I know you don't want to be here. It was a colossal mistake to have me on this show."

"What are you talking about?"

"How about you stop pretending? You wanted to partner with someone else and when that fell through you were saddled with me."

He has the decency to look away, guilty as charged.

"That's fine, but don't expect me to buy this whole, we're buddies, we're friends game you play to the cameras and then switch off when they're gone. I know I'm an embarrassment."

He rubs his forehead. "You're not."

"Let's not play games. I'll try not to embarrass you, and you can stop pretending this is something it's not. I'm sure it will be over soon."

"If that's what you think, then I'm sure it will be, but you aren't an embarrassment, and I'm offended you'd say that."

"Whatever."

I hide out in my trailer with a bag of chocolate chips and a jar of Skippy, paging through entertainment magazines. One features a full spread on the show and runs odds on who might win. No surprise, Dominic and I are at the bottom, a long shot at best.

We avoid each other until show time and don't speak until we're in the wings waiting for our cue. But while Dominic and I don't see eye to eye on much, we are united in not wanting to embarrass ourselves on national TV. I rub my sweaty palms on my skirt, but the satiny fabric isn't conducive to absorbing my nerves.

"Just remember your frame. You know the dance inside and out, so relax and enjoy it. You're gonna nail this."

I huff. "Seriously? After all your criticism and bullying, now you believe in me?"

Host Marcus MacIntyre introduces our video package. We take our places on the dance floor as the video shows several of our arguments from the week before. I watch the screen and cringe as Dominic chastises me for not trying hard enough, and me acting flippant and bitchy. I look haggard wearing minimal makeup and with my not-totally-clean blond hair shoved in a knot on my head, but Dominic looks professional and camera ready, other than the constant glare of contempt on his face. I glance at him and he seems just as irritated that the producers chose to show our low points.

I stare at the floor and try to drown out the noise. I hear Anna's voice in my head. One thing at a time. All I need to do is get through this dance.

Dominic gives me the cue and we take our position. The intro sounds and we perform the rhythmic steps around the dance floor. I focus on each move, completing it with as much precision as I can muster with my feet in agony beneath broken blisters.

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