Page 51 of Tension
Relief crashes over me so fast and hard that I nearly sag in my seat. “Yeah,” I agree, my voice steadier than I feel. “Same here. I’ve been cramping like crazy during rehearsals. No way I’m making it worse.”
Adam’s mouth splits into a wide grin when the tray of shots arrives, and Yvonne casually waves her hand, refusing one. “C’mon,” he teases. “What happened to the fearless Yvonne who drank whiskey straight after nationals?”
“She got tired of puking in rental car parking lots,” she fires back coolly, making Kari laugh.
I follow her lead, nodding as I decline mine. “Same. I’d like to keep what’s left of my dignity intact.”
“Lame.” Adam grins, then promptly downs his shot. Kari joins him with an overzealous cheer, the two of them giggling like it’s their first time tasting tequila.
I can’t even look at the glasses. My pulse is still erratic, but the danger has passed, for now.
Yvonne pushes back from the booth a moment later, stretching her arms. “I think I’m going to call it a night,” she announces. “It’s been a long week.”
“Already?” Kari pouts.
“Early class tomorrow,” Yvonne states simply, and then glances toward me. “Mateo?”
I don’t hesitate. “Yeah. I should head out too.”
No one protests. The night has mellowed into background music and inside jokes. I slip into my coat as Yvonne does the same. I’m so damn grateful she didn’t make a big deal about the lifeline she tossed me.
Once we step outside, the biting chill hits my face, leaving me feeling refreshed. I take a deep breath, letting the cool air soak through me. My body is still humming from the anxiety, but I can already feel it starting to ease.
“You okay?” she asks quietly as we walk toward the curb.
“Yeah,” I say, and I mean it, but only because of her.
VAEDA
It’s been two days since our last studio session. I’ve sent three simple texts. Neutral. Just checking in. A quiet “Hope your classes are going well,” or “Let me know if you need anything.” I told myself I was doing the right thing by backing off. That the distance was healthy. Necessary. That his silence is proof that he’s doing better without me, but my chest feels like it’s caving in.
Fusion Core was where I was supposed to be this morning. Greyson and I had plans to finish the dance sequences for Paris,finalize the costume notes, and review music cues, but somehow, my feet carried me here instead.
I’m standing outside the hip-hop studio Mateo and I visited together, the one with the graffiti-painted door and the faded gold lettering. I haven’t been back since that day. Since his fingers gripped my hips and the music made my skin feel too tight for my body. Since he pressed his mouth to my ear and asked if he was doing it right.
I told myself it was a mistake, a line crossed in a moment of heat and confusion. I told myself the kisses we shared were reckless, born of too much chemistry and not enough clarity, and yet... here I am.
The sun is still low in the sky, spilling amber light across the cracked sidewalk as I step toward the building. I’m not even sure what I’m doing or why I came. There’s no class right now. No reason for me to be here.
Except him.
I press my hand to the cold metal of the studio’s doorframe and inhale deeply. The scent of the city, of asphalt and coffee, and something slightly burnt floods my lungs.
I miss him. It’s that simple. That stupid. That devastating.
I miss the way his gaze cuts through a room and lands on me like it’s the only place he wants to look. I miss the honesty in his voice, even when it rattles me. I miss the way his dancing holds a kind of pain no choreography could tame. I miss the boy who looked at me like I was his beginning.
And now? Now he’s with Yvonne. Young, bright-eyed, uncomplicated Yvonne.
I watched them again two days ago, walking into rehearsal five minutes late, laughing about something private. She touched his arm. He didn’t flinch. I should be relieved. He’s healing. That’s what I wanted, isn’t it? For him to be okay. For him to have a future, but I didn’t expect it to feel like grief.
The studio door doesn’t open when I press the handle—it’s locked, of course—but I stand there anyway, forehead resting against the glass. Maybe this was a mistake, maybe I’m chasing ghosts, or maybe I just needed to come here and remember that once, for a moment, he danced with me like I was more than an instructor. More than a married woman. More than a mistake waiting to happen.
He danced with me like I was his, and I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself for not completely giving in.
The glass is cold against my forehead, my breath fogging the lower corner of the door as I try to convince myself to leave. This was foolish and sentimental. I should go.
“Hey,” a voice says behind me, soft but full of life. I turn quickly to find a woman in joggers and a cropped hoodie, earbuds dangling from around her neck. “You here for the free intro class?”
