Page 3 of Shadow Dance

Times like this I wonder, in the quietest part of my brain, if I made the wrong choice coming out here. Back home in Boston I had a solid spot in my company’s corps de ballet. And I had—have—a lot of people who love me. People who’d be around to pick me up from dance andhelp me take care of this ankle. But I’m not home, and apparently, I have only myself.

I’m merging onto the 580 when Callum finally calls back. “Hey,” he says, his voice filling my car via the Bluetooth connection. “Just saw your texts. Are you okay? Can you walk on it?”

“Not without crutches,” I reply. “Sabine lent me some, though. She probably feels bad.”

He pauses, and I can hear him talking to someone else before returning to me. I roll my eyes.Of course, he’s with the guys. He might as well be married to his cousin Griff and bestie Mac. They followed him out to the West Coast too, but unlike me, they actually get to see him. “About your fall?” he says finally.

“About her sister tripping me.”

“Manon tripped you?” he asks. “Why would she do that?”

“Because she’s psychotic,” I say, wincing as my ankle brushes the side of the car. “I told you she’s had it out for me since I got here.”

He chuckles, which really fucking irritates me. I won’t be able to dance for God knows how long because another ballerina tripped me and he’slaughing?

“Glad you find this so amusing.”

“Sorry, Mae. It’s just.” He pauses. “Crazy. I can’t imagine her doing something like that. She’s always seemed so sweet.”

“Because you’re not a threat to her.” In fact, he’s the opposite—whenever I see Manon around Callum, she’s a flirty little beam of sunshine. “Ballet is competitive, Callum. Manon is everyone’s favorite, and she wants to keep it that way.”

Manon and Sabine’s family owns Michel’s, a small, exclusive dance company in the heart of Oakland. I was only invited to audition as a favor to Callum’s mother, whose family has known the Michels for years. It’d seemed like a stroke of good luck at first, but I soon realized that the tight-knit group of dancers, while polite, had no room for a newcomer. I was promptly put in the corps and forgotten about.

Well, until they realized how good I was. Manon didnotlike that, hence the passive-aggressive bs.

Traffic slows. I peek down at my throbbing ankle, now a nasty bloom of black and blue. I’ll have to elevate it as soon as I get home. I swallow the lump in my throat, desperate to keep it together.

“Crazy,” Callum says again, sounding distracted. “Anyway, you’re strong. You’ll probably be back on it in a week or two.”

“I don’t know,” I say dubiously. “It feels pretty bad this time.”

“So, rest it. Take a break.”

I know he’s trying to make me feel better, but once I start spiraling it’s hard to stop. The last time I was forced to take an injury-related break, it cost me a solo in my university’s production ofLe Corsaire. I know how easy it is to fall behind, especially in the world of dance.

“You should come down to San Clemente with me this weekend,” he goes on, oblivious to my angst. “It’ll be fun.”

“Fun for you, maybe. I won’t be able to walk,” I remind him.

“Better than moping around at home,” he quips. Someone yells something in the background and they all laugh. “Anyway, I gotta go. See you at home.”

“Fine.” My chest cracks, and the tears I’ve been holding back for the past hour finally spill free.

It’s nearlydusk by the time I pull into the driveway. There’s no one else home, not that I expected there to be. Popping a couple of extra-strength ibuprofen, I struggle through a quick shower and grab a glass of wine before collapsing into bed.

We have a housekeeper who does a lot of the shopping, so the kitchen is generally well-stocked, but there’s no way in hell I’m making dinner tonight. Instead, I pull up a delivery app on my phone and order in.

I’m just polishing off my Greek salad when Callum’s Mercedes roars into the driveway, followed by another vehicle. Griff’s, I’m sure. He’s one of the Barry cousins from Brooklyn—he and Mac moved out here soon after Callum did. The front door opens, their voices echoing in the foyer as they come inside.

A moment later, Callum enters our bedroom, pouting when he sees my ankle propped on pillows and wrapped in ice packs. “Hey, baby.”

Putting my salad aside, I wipe my hands on a napkin. “Hey.”

He comes closer, letting his backpack fall to the floor as he leans down to kiss me. His cheeks are flushed. “I’m really sorry about yourankle,” he says softly, ghosting his fingers over it. “You wanna smoke or something?”

“Not really,” I say with a shrug. “I just want to sleep.”

Nodding, he grabs his backpack and disappears into the walk-in closet. “I got us an Airbnb right on the beach,” he calls, voice muffled.

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