Page 13 of Tension
“It’s not just fun,” I insist, stepping into the kitchen. “For one, it’s unprofessional, and two, Mateo isn’t like the others. He doesn’t need distractions with his checkered past.”
Gerardo picks up the dough and slaps it down on the counter with a thud. “Or maybe he does,” he suggests mildly. “Just because he had a slipup in the past doesn’t mean he needs to be micromanaged now, Vaeda.”
The calm in his tone fuels my frustration. “You don’t understand,” I snap. “I’ve seen people going through what he is before. He’s not ready. If Yvonne pushes too hard—”
“And if he surprises you?” Gerardo interrupts, his voice still maddeningly even. “If he’s stronger than you think?”
I press my lips together, unwilling to give in. “I don’t trust him. He’s not here because he wants to be. He’s here because he needs something. An escape or a distraction. That’s dangerous.”
“Maybe or maybe not,” Gerardo concedes with a shrug. “But you’re not always right, Vaeda.”
I narrow my eyes, his casual dismissal like a stone in my shoe. “This isn’t about being right. This is about protecting the studio.”
“And by doing that, you’re alienating Mateo?” Gerardo counters, his tone calm but pointed. “Maybe you should think about that before you push too hard.Youdon’t want to be the reason he relapses.”
He studies me for a moment longer, then puts the new loaf into the oven and leaves the kitchen, his usual warmth replaced by quiet detachment. I know I’ve pushed too hard, but I can’t shake the feeling that I’m right. Mateo’s future at the studio, his future period, is too precarious to leave to chance.
Left alone in the quiet, I lean against the counter, my hands gripping the cool marble surface. The night stretches outside my floor-to-ceiling windows, the surrounding buildings alight with life. The frustration bubbles up and I push it back down, concentrating on the ambient noise of the city below, muted as though the world itself is holding its breath.
I glance toward the living room, the glow of the city lights filtering through the tall windows. Gerardo’s touch iseverywhere in plants I never remember to water, books stacked haphazardly on the coffee table, and a throw blanket draped over the couch. The warmth of his personality stands in sharp contrast to my need for order. It’s a balance we’ve always had, but tonight it feels like a divide.
With guilt burning its way from my stomach up into my throat, I head toward our bedroom with the intent of making up with him. We don’t find ourselves at odds often, and when we are, it’s the worst feeling in the world. He’s always been there for me, no matter what, and doesn’t deserve the attitude I bring home after a hard day at work.
I make my way down the hallway toward our bedroom when I notice the door to his office is ajar, casting soft, golden light onto the tiled floor. Inside, I hear muffled voices and music, and curiosity gets the better of me. With a slight push, the door opens a little wider, and I find the TV on, the image on the screen taking my breath away.
It’s me and Gerardo during our final competition, a month before our lives changed forever. He’s spinning me across the floor during a Paso Doble, his strong steps full of passion and testosterone as my full red skirt flares out around my hips. We look regal, and in all honesty, at the time, we were. We dominated the competitive circuit, and the sight of us in our glory twists the knife in my chest deeper.
It’s a punch to the gut to see him being nostalgic for the life we once had. In my mind, he was content being married to me and living a life away from the pressure of competing and keeping that number one spot. Clearly I was wrong.
Gerardo lifts a crystal tumbler of whiskey to his mouth, his back to me, while he sits on the couch and watches us on the screen. The guilt I was feeling a few moments before becomes a boulder-size weight on my chest as I back out of the room andhead to our room, my hand slapping over my mouth to hold in the sob that’s working its way up my throat.
As soon as I’m in our bedroom, I uncover my mouth and let the cries break free. It’s rare for me to lose control like this, to give in to the buried pool of despair and set the tidal wave free. I scramble into our closet and shut the door as I crawl into the corner and drag my knees up to my chest, rocking back and forth as tears stream down my cheeks and drip from my jaw.
It’s my fault we no longer have champion titles, and it’s me who stripped Gerardo of the chance to have more. He made the choice to leave with me, but it’s because of me he even had to.
My eyes skip to the bag beside me as a fresh sob slips from my mouth. The lingerie bag will probably never be opened, and that beautiful red outfit will never kiss my body like I bought it for.
Everything feels like it’s crumbling around me as my control slips, and I curl into a ball and force myself to feel before I shut it all down for good.
SIX
Vaeda
The studio is quiet when I unlock the front doors early Saturday morning, the polished floors reflecting the muted glow of the overhead lights. This time of day is my favorite, the stillness before the chaos of classes and rehearsals. It gives me a chance to center myself, to remind myself why I’ve poured so much into this place.
I set my bag on the bench by the mirrors and slip off my coat, pulling my hair into a tight bun. My reflection stares back at me, my expression nonchalant and calm. Today, I’ll need all the calm I can muster because I need to make it through an entire class with Yvonne and Mateo without losing my mind. My eyes are still a little pink and my skin looks a bit sallow, but I feel renewed after my few hours alone wallowing in depression the night before.
Gerardo came to bed late, his breath thick with whiskey and his steps sloppy. It’s been a while since we’ve fallen into bed together and let sleep overtake us. Lately, I’m either crashing before him or he’s fast asleep before I even step out of theshower, so this display I witnessed last night as I pretended to sleep was new.
How often does Gerardo drink? And how often does he do it while watching us dance?
I’m midway through a series of stretches when the sound of the front door opening catches my attention. Glancing at the clock, I frown. It’s too early for the others to be arriving. I straighten and turn just as Mateo steps into the studio, his dance bag slung over his shoulder.
“You’re early,” I say as I study him. He’s dressed in another pair of sweatpants, which are tied low on his waist, and a thick sweater, the hood up over his head. He walked here. I can tell by the pink staining his cheeks from the chilly weather.
He looks slightly taken aback by my presence, but he recovers quickly. “I thought I’d get some extra practice in before class,” he replies, dropping his bag near the wall. “Greyson told me it would be alright.”
I nod, watching as he takes off his sweater and changes into his dance shoes. His shoulders are stiff, his body looking coiled and ready to strike, or maybe I’m just seeing things. Instead of being annoyed with him taking time away from my solitude, I see an opportunity to forget my troubles.
