Page 7 of Tension
Marissa nods encouragingly. “But you’re taking those steps, Mateo. That’s what matters.”
Her words feel hollow, but I nod anyway, the pressure in my chest easing slightly as the attention shifts to the next person. I listen as others share their struggles and victories from the past week. A missed temptation here, a celebrated milestone there.Their words wash over me, some striking chords of empathy, others fading into the background noise of my own thoughts.
As the meeting continues, I focus on the stories of finding strength after faltering. There’s a rawness in the honesty shared here that I both respect and fear. One man, whose name we learn is Dan, speaks about relapsing after three years of being clean. His voice cracks as he admits to feeling like he’s back at square one. I catch myself clenching my fists, the fear of falling into the same trap making my stomach churn.
When the meeting ends, my muscles are tense, my jaw aching from being clenched for so long. I stand from my chair and nod to a few others who are sticking around to talk a little more. As much as these meetings help me, I never stay beyond the hour I’m required. It’s as though the stories told inside these walls still hover over us, their whispers a constant reminder of our failures. So I head for the exit and thank Marissa on my way out, her hand brushing mine in a gesture of support.
The cold winter air outside bites at my face, a welcome contrast to the stifling warmth of the meeting room, and I wrap my jacket a little tighter around me. Winter in New York is such a drastic change from the California weather I’m used to, and instead of making me homesick, it feels like a cleansing restart.
I find Roger waiting by the curb, his hulking frame leaning against his black Range Rover. He’s been a great companion since I’ve arrived, and knowing he’s an old family friend of my father’s makes me feel less alone. Before me, Roger worked security detail for events and high-profile people. Then my father filled him in on the failures of his only son and begged him to take this job after he exiled me.
He straightens when he sees me, pulling open the door with a practiced motion. “That was a good crowd this afternoon,” he remarks as I climb into the back seat. “How was the meeting?”
“Fine,” I reply curtly, pulling the seat belt across my chest. The word feels inadequate, but I don’t have the energy to elaborate. Roger nods as he closes the door. He never forces me to divulge everything, and his patience is appreciated, even though I know my father grills him for information every day.
I relax into the seat as the city lights cast fleeting shadows across the interior of the SUV, then press my forehead against the cool glass of the window, my breath fogging up the surface as we weave through traffic. My mind drifts to the studio and its polished floors, the mirrored walls, and the echo of my shoes against the wood. I can’t stop thinking about it.
“You know,” Roger drawls after a stretch of silence, his voice tentative. “You’re braver than you think, Mateo. A lot of people wouldn’t have the guts to face each day after what you’ve been through.”
I glance at him through the rearview mirror, caught off guard by his words. “Thanks, Roger,” I murmur, unsure of how to respond. It’s the first time he’s ever said anything about my overdose, and for a moment, it chips away at the wall I’ve built between us.
When we pull up in front of my building, Roger turns to look at me. “Get some rest tonight, Mateo. You look like you need it.”
I force a small smile. “Thanks, Roger. Good night.”
The elevator ride to my loft feels endless, the buzz of the machinery matching the thrum of anxiety in my veins. By the time I step inside, the quiet of my apartment reminds me that I am utterly alone. My parents are across the country and still trying to work through my betrayal, and my sister is on another continent, keeping her promise of never speaking to me again. It hurts to even think of her, so I work hard not to. I toss my bag onto the couch and head straight to the closet where I keep my dance shoes.
Sliding my feet into the familiar leather, I feel a jolt of electricity rush through me. The cloud of despair begins to lift as I step onto the hardwood floor of my large living room, the space giving me a reprieve from my loneliness.
I start a song on my phone, the rhythmic beats of a Cha-Cha filling the loft. My muscles remember the steps before my mind can catch up, my body moving with the beat. The sway of my hips, the snap of my arms, the seductive power in every movement. It’s the greatest high, and I wonder why I ever searched for more.
The large, ornate mirror I bought when I moved in is propped against the wall, reflecting my form, and for a moment, I see a glimpse of the dancer I used to be. The one who could captivate a room with just a glance, who could command the floor like it was an extension of his body, but the illusion is fleeting, replaced by the gaunt shadow of the man I’ve become.
I push harder, sweat beading on my forehead as I lose myself in the rhythm. The music shifts to a Viennese Waltz, and I transition seamlessly, my movements softer now, more fluid. The elegance of the dance wars with the turmoil inside me, but it’s a solace I desperately need.
As the song fades, I pause, catching my breath. The silence in the room feels welcoming now, wrapping around me like a heavy blanket. I walk to the window, the city lights below twinkling like a distant beacon. It’s always there, deep inside me, the need to find an easy high. Leaning my forehead against the glass, I close my eyes and let the memories wash over me. The competitions, the crowds, the overwhelming rush of adrenaline as I performed… They all feel like a lifetime ago.
Before I can dwell too long in the past, I push off of the window and head into the kitchen, grabbing a towel to wipe the sweat from my face. I’m not ready to stop, not yet. The next song on the playlist is a Samba, its lively rhythm jolting me back tothe present. I slip back into position, my feet gliding effortlessly across the floor as I chase the transient feeling of freedom.
Time blurs as I dance, each song pulling me deeper into the movements, into the person I used to be. It’s only when my legs give out and I collapse onto the couch that I realize how late it is. My chest rises and falls in heavy bursts, my body spent but my mind clearer than it’s been in a long time.
Staring up at the ceiling, I think about the studio, about what Greyson and Vaeda must see when they look at me. A project? A risk? Either way, I’m hoping to prove that I’m a dancer worth believing in.
For now, I’ll settle for surviving the night. I’ll lace up my shoes again tomorrow and take one more step forward. Even if I don’t believe in myself yet, I can’t bear the thought of proving everyone else right by giving up.
FOUR
Vaeda
The morning sunlight streams through the large windows of the studio, throwing long streaks of light across the polished floor. I move through my stretches in front of the mirrored wall, my reflection a farce. The image is similar to the dancer I used to be, but it’s only an apparition. My movements feel stiff today, every pull and stretch tugging at the old injury in my achilles. A pang of frustration surges through me as I try to deepen the stretch, only for the sharp twinge to remind me that my body no longer bends to my will the way it once did.
“Damn it,” I mutter under my breath, dropping my hands to my knees as I take a deep breath. The dull ache isn’t new, but it’s a cruel reminder of the career I was forced to abandon. I push up and shake out my legs, focusing on loosening up before my next class arrives.
This morning, I woke up to a cold, empty bed. Gerardo left early for his shift as an editor for the local newspaper and didn’t bother to wake me with an ‘I love you’ or a kiss. It’s been that way for the last few years, and even though I know we’re slippingaway from each other, I can’t seem to find the need to fix it. Our marriage isn’t as important to us as it once was, but that’s normal when a couple has been together for as long as we have. Right?
The sound of the studio’s front door opening pulls my attention, and I straighten my posture, rolling my shoulders back. Despite the lingering tightness in my heel, I force myself to exude confidence and poise. The couples file in, some preparing for their wedding and others wanting to learn a ballroom dance before they’re too old to attempt it, their chatter filling the room with an energy that’s both invigorating and bittersweet. They’re here for the joy of movement, the connection that dance brings, and I’m here to guide them, even if I can’t fully feel that joy myself anymore.
“Good morning, everyone!” I call out, clapping my hands together. My voice carries through the space, and the group quiets down, turning their attention toward me. “Welcome back to beginner’s Waltz class. Let’s line up and start with some basic framework.”
