Page 26 of Tension
“You look better,” she admits, her voice tinged with reluctant pride. “But I can’t help worrying. Dancing…” she pauses, the word hanging between us like a ghost. “Dancing brought you so much joy, but it also brought you so much pain. When you admitted to wanting to dance again during our last phone call, I became worried. I needed to see you.”
There’s no doubt in my mind that she has a sixth sense about my dancing. It’s in our blood, the red essence brimming with melody. To deny it now would be a mistake, one she would see as a betrayal of her trust, something I have barely earned back. So I don’t admit or deny.
I swallow hard, meeting her gaze again. “It’s different this time, Mami. I’m different.”
Her lips press together, and for a moment, I think she might argue, but then she nods, her shoulders relaxing slightly. “You have to prove it, Mateo. Not just to me, but to yourself. Every day.”
“I know.” The apprehension leaves my body with a long exhale. “And I will.”
She studies me for a moment longer, then steps back, her poise as perfect as ever. “I’ll stay for a little while,” she declares as she removes her jacket. “We can have dinner together, and you can tell me more about all thesenew thingsyou’re trying.”
I chuckle, relief washing over me. “I’d like that.”
As she moves to the kitchen, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. The anxiety lingers, but so does the delicate hope that maybe I’ve taken another step toward earning her trust. She’ll be the one to convince my father, and before long, I will be Mateo Sanchez, world champion once again.
TEN
Mateo
The past few days have been a blur of routine and restraint. My mother hasn’t left yet, her presence as steadfast and imposing as a metronome. She rides with me to school, her eyes scanning the world outside the car window as if trying to find the cracks in my story. Roger’s usually lighthearted commentary has shifted to an unspoken awkwardness, like he’s caught between us and doesn’t know which side to take.
She’s even started waiting in the car while I attend my meetings, her gaze drilling into me when I climb back in, as if looking for signs of weakness. The city is coming alive with festive decorations, the stores preparing for the holiday season, and I’ve been taking her shopping, just to keep her busy. Every day, her lingering worry feels like a noose tied around my neck. Tonight is a dance meeting, and I can’t afford to miss it. The Paris competition is too important, but how do I leave without her noticing?
I have yet to tell my mother that I’ve joined a class; we only spoke briefly about me wanting to. I don’t know how she would react if she knew I was actually doing it.
Dinner stretches on longer than usual, my mother’s conversation warm but laced with subtle probes. She asks about school, about my meetings, about the books stacked neatly on my bedside table. Every answer feels like a carefully balanced step, as if I’m performing a dance with words instead of movement. Finally, after a meal that feels more like an interrogation, she leans back in her chair, a glass of lemonade in hand. Wine is forbidden anywhere in this apartment, as if wine was my problem. Her gaze softens as she lets out a tired sigh.
“It’s good to be here with you, Mateo,” she hums, her voice losing its usual edge. “I’ve missed this.”
“I’ve missed you too, Mami,” I reply, and I mean it. The guilt gnaws at me, knowing that I’m about to betray her trust.
By the time we clear the table and she settles onto the couch, which she’s folded out into a bed, with a book, I’m already formulating my plan. She’ll fall asleep soon as she always does after dinner. All I need is patience.
It’s an hour later, nearly seven, when I hear her breathing deepen with the telltale rhythm of sleep. I’ve been sitting on a stool at my kitchen counter, staring at an open textbook but reading none of the words. Quietly, I push my stool back and grab my dance bag from the closet. My heart pounds as I slip on my sneakers and pull on a hoodie, the soft rustle of fabric sounding deafening in the silence.
As I grab my jacket from the hook, I check the living room. She’s sprawled on the couch bed, her book resting on her chest, and her expression peaceful. Guilt twists in my gut, but I remind myself of why I’m doing this. The competition. My future. My recovery. It all hinges on my ability to prove I can handle this.
I slip into the hallway, the door clicking softly behind me, and make my way up the stairs to the roof access door. The rooftop is cold, the wind biting against my face as I step outside. I’m careful to close the access door without letting it slam, fear of amplifying every small sound making my movements slower.
The fire escape is sturdy but narrow, the metal groaning faintly under my weight as I descend. My heart races with every slippery step, a mixture of adrenaline and fear. If my mother wakes up and finds me gone, there’s no telling what she’ll do, but I can’t think about that now. My focus needs to be on my routine and the rhythm Vaeda is insisting I find.
The walk to the studio is brisk, the city alive with its festive lights and decorations. I’ve always loved the way New York feels after dusk, but it’s even more electric during the holidays. The energy shifts and the pace slows just enough to notice the details: the way the streetlights create curious shadows, the distant sound of music spilling from open windows, and the occasional laughter of strangers.
When I arrive at Fusion Core, the familiar sight of the building calms me. I open the door and step inside, the polished floors gleaming under the fluorescent lights. The studio is quiet, the air cool and still. I’m early, but I prefer it that way. It gives me time to warm up, to center myself.
As I stretch by the mirrors, I catch my reflection and pause. My face is thinner than it used to be, and my eyes appear older, but there’s something else there now, a determination I haven’t seen in a long time. I pull my shoulders back, exhaling slowly. All of this is worth it just to see an echo of the man I used to be, the man who found joy on a dance floor and not at the sight of a prescription bottle.
The door opens behind me, and I glance over my shoulder to see Greyson stride in, his ever-present clipboard in hand. He gives me a nod of acknowledgment before heading to the soundsystem. I know Vaeda will be here soon, and the thought sends a ripple of nerves through me. Not just because of her critiques, but because of the way her presence shifts the air in the room. Intense. Unpredictable. Magnetic. I’m teetering on the edge of my next hit.
I shake off the thought and focus on my routine, the sound of my movements filling the quiet studio. For now, it’s just me and the rhythm, the steps etched into my body like muscle memory, and although the weight of my choices hangs over my head precariously, the music offers a fleeting sense of freedom. Each step, each turn, a chance to prove that I’m still standing.
The door opens once again, and I watch as Yvonne, Adam, and Kari walk in together. Their laughter and easy conversation fill the room, and for a moment, I feel a pang of envy. They’ve become a tight-knit group, their friendship evident in the way they move and talk as though they’re a unit.
I keep my distance, focusing on my stretches as they head toward the center of the studio. Yvonne waves at me, her smile bright, but I only nod in return. Sobriety has made me cautious, careful about letting people in. The line between connection and temptation is too thin, too dangerous to tread.
Vaeda arrives shortly after, her presence shifting the energy in the room. Her piercing gaze sweeps over all of us, her clipboard in hand as always. Greyson claps his hands, drawing our attention.
“Alright, everyone, let’s sit down for a moment,” he says, his tone brisk and punctuating. “We have some news to share.”
