Page 33 of Watch Me

“She’ll have the same.”

“I will not!”

“Then pick your favorite flavors.”

“You’re going to force me to eat ice cream?”

“I’m taking you away from ambition for a moment so you can just enjoy life.”

When was the last time I did that? I think back through the weeks, which become months…and quickly turned into years. The realization stuns me.

I hesitate, then I shrug. It’s ice cream, not a commitment. Tomorrow, I have a grueling practice. I’ll work the calories off.

“Chocolate chip cookie dough and French vanilla.”

Alejandro pays as another teenager behind the counter assembles our cones. In moments, we wander to a little table outside with our ice cream as the sun drops closer to the horizon, with the California breeze stirring all around us.

After the first taste, I moan. “This is amazing.”

He smiles. “I discovered this place a few years ago. It’s part of my weekly ritual.”

“Where do you put it?” I eye his hard body because I’m no stranger to his ripped abs.

“I make up for it with plenty of weights, cardio, and carrots the rest of the week. But life is meant to be lived, isn’t it?”

Have I ever thought about it in that context? “I suppose so.”

“You’ve been incredibly single-minded for years. Dance has been your focus, your ambition.”

“And my passion.”

“No one watching you dance would think otherwise. You’re very talented. You know that, right?”

I can dance. When I watch footage of competitions, it’s clear I hold my own in a room full of talented dancers. I even believe I’ve started shining just a tiny bit brighter because I practice harder and want it more.

“I’m pleased with my performances.”

“Does ambition make you happy?”

His question unsettles me. I’ve never thought of my life in a happy/unhappy context. It just is. Of course I’m frustrated that I’m not yet a champion. But I will be one. And once the trophy is in my hands, life will be very sweet. My sacrifices will have been worth it. Of course, questioning my life choices is too easy to do when I have a man like Alejandro in front of me, reminding me of everything I’ve been missing.

“Why shouldn't it?” I ask.

“The way that ice cream cone is dripping down your fingers and the fact that I rarely see you smile, I suspect you’ve spent so much time dancing, you’re out of practice when it comes to actually living.”

Dancing is life for me. So what if I don’t eat a lot of ice cream? “Why do you care?”

“Because I’m the man who would like to see you happy.” He brushes tender fingertips across my cheek. “What’s the worstthing that could happen if you don’t win Saturday night? Or ever?”

Immediately, I reject the thought. But it’s a fair question, one I ask myself during long nights when aching muscles, nagging injuries, and loneliness keep me awake.

“I don’t know.” I shake my head. “I can’t let that happen. Failure isn’t an option.”

“You can’t control what happens.”

Yeah, that’s what worries me.

“So what happens if you never win?”

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