Page 104 of Just Like Home

What would she have said if she knew Charlotte was the reason behind the event that drove her away from the ballet? Would that unconditional love still be hers?

She leapt wider, higher, farther than she ever had, and as she landed, something inside her snapped.

A heaviness settled on top of her, and for a moment, she couldn’t breathe. She’d betrayed her only friend. And maybe it had all worked out—maybe Julianna had gone on to live exactly the life she was meant to live.

But what if she hadn’t? What if there had been a different path—a path in the ballet, a path that could’ve kept her from driving on that country road at the exact moment another driver was preoccupied by his phone?

Would she still be here?

Had Charlotte stolen that from her?

She collapsed in a heap on the floor, the weight of her decisions, the secrets she’d kept, all too much to bear. The music played on as she struggled to catch her breath, tears streaming down her cheeks, pain welling up within her.

She’d yet to cry for Jules. She’d yet to cry for what she’d done. More than anything, she wanted to be absolved of her sin, but the one person who could’ve offered forgiveness was gone.

“Hey.” The voice sliced through the now-silent room as the song ended and in its place, only the sound of her quiet sobs remained.

She looked up and found Cole, standing in the doorway, brows drawn like the curtains at night as confusion hung on his face.

She turned away, wiping her cheeks dry. Had it already been two hours? Had she been so caught up in whatever had just happened she’d completely lost track of time?

“Sorry, I’m early,” he said. “I can go if . . .” He seemed unable to finish the sentence.

If you need more time to completely lose it.

She forced herself to stand. “No, I’m fine.”

She couldn’t think of anyone worse to have walked in at that precise moment. Surely he was thinking the same thing.

He took a step into the studio and she moved away, toward her phone, which had started playing a classical piece. She silenced it and turned to find him only a few feet away. And he was holding . . . flowers?

She frowned.

He followed her gaze to the brown-paper-wrapped bouquet of wildflowers, then met her eyes, an unexpected and uncharacteristic shyness coming over him.

“You brought flowers?” she asked.

He stuck them out toward her. “Seemed appropriate.”

“Did it?” She took the bouquet but held on to his gaze.

“It’s an apology,” he said. “For being such a jerk.”

Nobody had ever given her non-dance flowers. “Thank you.” She drew them to her nose and inhaled their sweet aroma. “They’re beautiful.”

Oh gosh, was she going to start crying again?

His nod communicated finality, as if it was a topic they should stop discussing, then he found her eyes again. His head tilted as he regarded her for a fleeting moment.

Her skin tingled in awareness of his eyes. “What?” she finally asked, mostly to fill the awkward space.

He shook his head and looked away. “Nothing.” But when he turned back, it was clearly not nothing. “Just wondering if you’re okay.”

It had been one thing to find him attractive yet crabby. But lately, her feelings where he was concerned were shifting. “I’m fine.”

He nodded again, as if it were an acceptable answer, but then he squinted down at her, a question behind his blue eyes. “But you were crying.”

She set the flowers down with a scoff. “It was nothing. Is Amelia on her way?”

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