Page 2 of If This Was a Movie

Heavy on the tears, if I’m being honest.

I love walking into this place every day, knowing I helped to lay every plank of wood, that I picked out the fixtures and painted the walls. KnowingIbuilt this wonderful, amazing thing all on my own when the people who were supposed to believe in me the most rolled their eyes and told me I’d fail.

“I’m just saying, if you had him help you six months ago when I first suggested it, you wouldn’t have kids jump-scaring you every five seconds because the girls would have their own place to get ready and warm up.” She is right, of course. “You could even have a man to get you out of your dry spell, since he’s single and, objectively, because he’s my brother and that’s disgusting, pretty good-looking.”

“I’m not looking for a man,” I remind her.

“Oh, yes, yes, I forgot. You found your dream man a whole year ago, spent one night with him, decided he was the one, only to find out he was a piece of trash. Got it. That makes sense, you meet one piece of shit and rule out all romance for the rest of your life. Logic, you know?”

I glare at my friend. “It was two nights, thank you very much,” I say.

Claire smiles and opens her mouth but is interrupted.

“Miss JULES!” another girl yells, entering my office.

A door.

First thing after the winter recital, I’m buying and installing a goddamn door. Who cares if I do things out of order if it means I get asemblanceof peace?

“Martina says she’s going to be the sugar plum fairy next year, but I said I am going to and?—”

“How about we figure this out next year?” Claire says with a calm smile, ushering the arguing girls out of my office. “Part of those decisions are made based on how you do at this recital, so why don’t you go warm-up with Miss Christine downstairs, yes?” There’s more mumbling before Claire is back in my office, closing the door behind her with a sigh.

“You know, if this was a movie—” I start before she cuts me off.

“Let me guess, you’d have a group of hot men doing your hair and makeup rather than getting a cramp while doing it over a bookshelf in a messy office?”

I pause with the mascara wand once more near my lashes before turning to look at her.

“What kind of movies are you watching?” I ask.

“The good kind,” she replies with a smile.

“Uh, I was going to say that this is where some rich billionaire would kick down the door and tell me I deserve the world and magically fix all of my issues.”

She laughs out loud, grabbing a can of hairspray and dousing my tight bun before nodding like she approves of what she sees.

I wasn’t supposed to get into a dancer's costume today, much less get completely dolled up, but it’s dress rehearsal for our winter performance, and one of the dancers called in sick. I want to make sure the kids get the full experience, and considering I stupidly penciled myself in as Gina’s understudy, I’m wearing a pink leotard and tutu while Claire finishes up my slicked-back bun.

It’s just another moment in a series of shitty luck I’ve been experiencing as of late: a dancer calling in sick (which means I now have to stress for the next two weeks to see if it’s the kind of sick that runs through the entire group or a one-off), the hot water in my apartment not working this morning, the kids reporting one of the sinks downstairs isn’t turning on, my mom once again incessantly calling me to set me up on a date, the contractor who was supposed to help me this month finish up the final studio telling me he double booked himself and had to postpone, and, of course, Claire leaving.

This utterly horrid string of bad luck all started nearly a year ago, not that I’ll let myself think about it that much. Instead, I force myself to think about the good: Ava meeting Jaime and getting engaged, Harper seemingly happy with Jeremy, even though he isn’t my first choice in partners for her, First Position doing exceedingly well, and?—

I don’t have time to continue my list of things I’m grateful for when a noise breaks into my conscious thoughts, forcing my hand to shift and swipe the mascara well past my lashes to my eyelid. At least I didn’t poke myself in the eye, right?

“Goddammit!” I groan, grabbing another makeup wipe and folding it to clean the spot precisely. When the blaring continues, I turn to Claire. “Can you please shut your phone up?”

She rolls her eyes and smiles. “Sorry, babe, that’s your phone.”

She’s right, of course. I forgot Ava changed the song to “Barbie Girl” the other day, and it is in fact my phone obnoxiously blaring from my bag. With a sigh, I cap the mascara before reaching for my phone and seeing a number I don’t know on the screen.

Don’t be more bad news. Please, God, don’t let it be more bad news.

Taking a deep breath, I hover over the answer button, but before I can, a fat drop of water falls on my head, trailing down my forehead to my nose, followed by another.

“What the?—”

And then all hell breaks loose.

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