Page 66 of Tension
Vaeda nods at everyone in greeting, her gaze flitting over me like I’m nothing more than another student in her lineup. Then she lowers herself carefully into a chair, propping her injured foot on her suitcase.
“How’s it feeling?” Greyson asks, crouching beside her.
“Tight,” she grinds out, “but manageable.”
Manageable. Like pain is just a thing you carry without complaint. Like silence is strength.
Yvonne pulls out her earbuds and offers me one. I take it without thinking, even as my attention remains fixed on Vaeda. She avoids my stare, flipping open her passport and reviewing the boarding documents like she hasn’t already memorized every step of this process.
She hasn’t been the same with me since that night when I nearly made her mine and asked her to choose.
“I’m going to find a bathroom,” I murmur to Yvonne, who nods and slides into my seat the second I get up.
I don’t go far. Just enough to lean against a column and breathe. I watch her from a distance now, the way she shifts in her seat to adjust her leg, the furrow in her brows as Greyson says something that makes her nod slowly.
I wish she would just talk to me and tell me it meant nothing so I can truly move on, but she’s choosing silence, and maybe that’s her answer.
The flight is boarding in staggered groups, but our team was early enough that we all move on together. I hoist my bag into the overhead bin and glance over my shoulder just as Vaeda settles into her seat in a row next to me, beside Greyson. She places her crutches carefully along the window wall, then slips her sunglasses down over her eyes like a shield.
I drop into the seat next to Yvonne and buckle my belt. “Paris.” She grins, elbowing me. “Are you ready for this?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, forcing my tone to be conversational. I lean back in my seat, stretch my legs out, and glance toward the aisle. Vaeda’s not looking at me, so I decide to push. “You always get this excited when you’re on a plane, or is it just ‘cause you’re sitting next to me?” I tease Yvonne, pitching my voice just loud enough.
Yvonne laughs, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Oh, you know it’s you. You’re the reason I packed three different bras.”
“Good,” I rasp, letting a lazy grin stretch across my face. “Maybe I’ll help you pick one.” She giggles again, curling closer,her shoulder brushing mine as she shifts in her seat. I shouldn’t be flirting with her, especially knowing her true feelings, but I need to put a crack in the armor Vaeda has herself locked into.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Vaeda shift just a fraction, a subtle turn of her head. Good. I rest my hand casually on the armrest between me and Yvonne, fingers relaxed. Close, but not quite touching hers. I know exactly what I’m doing. I want Vaeda to feel even a fraction of the torment she’s put me through this week.
“This is your first time in Paris?” I ask Yvonne.
“Mhmm. I’ve been dreaming about it since I was a kid. I mean, romance, fashion, croissants... all the good stuff.”
“I’ll make sure you don’t miss any of it,” I murmur. She beams, and I nod like it means something. Like I mean it, but all I can think about is Vaeda’s mouth parting when I kissed her, her fingers curling in my shirt, and the breathy gasp she made when my hands slid beneath her sweater.
Then I think about the soft, sad tremble in her voice when she said she couldn’t choose me, and she still hasn’t, because maybe that reminder will make me stop waiting.
The cabin lights dim as the flight attendants prepare for takeoff, and Yvonne adjusts her neck pillow before resting her head lightly on my shoulder. I let her. I even tilt my head against hers, but I keep my eyes forward, and I hope to God Vaeda’s are on me.
TWENTY-SIX
Vaeda
Morning comes with the dull ache of pain and the slow rise of anxiety.
The hotel room is soaked in soft light, the Paris skyline a watercolor blur through the tall windowpanes. I shift under the crisp sheets, every movement a jolt to my ankle. The air is cool, perfumed faintly with lavender from the pillow spray provided on the nightstand, which is a little French luxury wrapped around this very complicated trip.
The pain is worse today. I sit up slowly, the sheets rustling against my legs, and reach for the small bottle on the desk across from the bed. The pills inside the container clink together, and for a moment, I hesitate. I just need one. My fingers twist the cap and I swallow a pill dry.
I force myself out of bed, stepping gingerly on my foot and hobbling toward the bathroom. It’s Friday, the first official day of the competition, and my body is protesting as if we’ve been here for days already. I miss my own bed, my favorite coffee, and I miss dancing along the floor of my studio.
The bathroom mirror reflects a pale, tired woman back at me. I don’t put on much makeup, just enough to blur the fatigue, then twist my hair into a low, sleek bun and pull on a black blazer over a fitted, navy blouse and slacks. Once I’m all put together, I give myself a quick perusal. I look commanding, stern, and classy. I may be limping through this trip, but no one else has to know just how badly I’m unraveling.
By the time I make it down to the hotel lobby, the world is fully awake. The hotel is a restored 19th-century palace in the 8th arrondissement, a stone’s throw from the Seine and just off the Champs-Élysées. The floors are marble, veined and gleaming beneath gold chandeliers, and the scent of espresso from the hotel café winds through the air. The concierge gives me a polite nod as I slowly descend the final steps.
Greyson is already there, looking far too fresh for someone who went to bed nearly as late as I did. He holds two coffees, offering one to me without a word, and I accept it with a grateful smile.
“You slept?” he asks.
