Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother Chapter 13

The waiting room buzzes with a kind of nervous energy that clings to the air like humidity, thick and heavy and impossible to escape.

I sit cross-legged on the smooth wood floor, my body folded low into a deep stretch, my head bowed over my knees, the quiet crackle of my muscles and joints almost loud against the whispered conversations and the shuffle of restless feet.

All around me, the other dancers move like ghosts, their faces pale and drawn, their bodies bending and folding into warm-ups with a kind of frantic, desperate urgency that makes my own heart thud louder in my chest.

Some girls are crying quietly, heads bowed, hands trembling as they tug at the satin ribbons of their pointe shoes.

Some sit against the walls, hugging their knees, faces buried deep in the sleeves of their sweaters.

One girl—a tiny brunette with shaking hands—throws up into a trash can at the far end of the room, her friend rubbing circles into her back with a look of helplessness that makes my stomach knot.

The door to the audition hall stays closed.

Silent.

Waiting.

And none of us know when it will open next, when a name will be called, when everything we’ve worked for will come down to five breathless minutes under the unforgiving lights.

I close my eyes, breathing in deep through my nose, stretching my arms overhead until the muscles along my sides pull tight, trying to shake the tension building in my spine.

I have to stay sharp.

I have to stay focused.

This is what I worked for.

Every early morning.

Every late night.

Every blister and bruise and rehearsal that left me too sore to move.

It all led here.

I remind myself of that with every breath, every stretch, every quiet, determined flex of my fingers and toes inside my well-worn slippers.

I’m ready.

Or at least, I want to believe I am.

Across the room, the brunette who got sick tries to sip from a water bottle, her hands still trembling too badly to hold it steady.

Before I can second-guess myself, I stand up, crossing the room and pulling my own bottle from my bag.

"Here," I say, offering it to her with a small, encouraging smile.

She looks up at me with wide, glassy eyes, her face pale under the fluorescent lights, and for a second I think she might take it—but then she shakes her head, mutters something I can’t catch, and bolts out of the room, her dance bag banging against her legs as she runs.

The heavy door thuds shut behind her.

A few of the girls exchange looks, but no one says anything.

We all understand.

Sometimes, no matter how hard you want it, the fear wins.

I slide back down onto the floor, tucking my legs into another stretch, and exhale slowly, trying to push the knot of nerves from my chest.

It’s hard, though.

Hard not to feel the way the tension in the room coils tighter with every second.

Hard not to wonder if the door will swing open and my name will be next.

Hard not to think about how alone I really am right now.

I’m tying my pointe ribbons tighter, adjusting them until the pressure feels almost reassuring, when I hear someone drop onto the floor beside me.

I glance over and find Mila, her dark hair twisted into a messy bun, her cheeks flushed pink from nerves and warm-up drills.

"Hey," she says, giving me a quick, wobbly smile.

Relief floods through me so fast it leaves me a little dizzy.

I smile back. "Hey."

We stretch side by side in silence for a few minutes, the quiet comforting in a way words wouldn’t be, both of us lost in our own heads, in the slow, methodical movements we’ve been doing for so long they’re almost muscle memory now.

After a while, Mila nudges me with her knee, grinning crookedly.

"My right shoe’s trying to kill me," she mutters under her breath. "I think I’m going to lose half my toes before we even make it onstage."

I snort, biting back a laugh.

"At least you’ll have a good war story," I whisper back, tugging at the elastic of my own pointe to adjust the fit. "You can tell everyone you survived Swan Lake with three toes and sheer spite."

She laughs quietly, the sound breathless and real, and for a second the tight knot in my chest eases.

It’s easier to breathe when she’s around.

It always has been.

When we both settle back into stretching, I glance over at her, feeling a sudden ache I didn’t expect.

"My parents had to leave town for a conference," I say, keeping my voice light, like it doesn’t matter, like it doesn’t weigh heavier than my bag. "They’ll be gone all week. You should come hang out if you’re free."

Mila’s face softens, but she shakes her head, a little apologetic.

"I wish," she says. "But my family’s going out of town too. Last-minute trip."

I blink. "Really?"

She nods, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Since we get the week off after auditions, my parents figured it was the perfect time. We’re driving up to North Carolina to see my grandparents."

I force a smile, even though a small part of me deflates inside.

"That’s awesome," I say, meaning it, even if it leaves me standing a little more alone in the aftermath.

Mila beams. "Yeah, I’m excited. I haven’t seen them since last summer."

I squeeze her hand briefly, grateful for her honesty, for the way she never pretends to be anything she’s not.

"You’re going to have the best time," I say, and I mean that too.

Before she can answer, the door creaks open and a volunteer steps inside, clipboard in hand.

"Mila Rivas?"

Mila stiffens, her face going pale, but she gets to her feet with a determination I admire even more now, smoothing the wrinkles from her tights with trembling fingers.

I stand too, reaching out to hug her tight.

"You’ve got this," I whisper against her shoulder.

She hugs me back fiercely, her breath shaking a little, and then she pulls away, straightening her spine like she’s going to war instead of onto a stage.

"I’ll see you after," she says, her voice small but brave.

I nod, smiling even though my stomach twists tighter, and watch her walk toward the door, her back straight, her chin lifted, her hands fisted tight at her sides.

When the door shuts behind her, the room feels emptier somehow.

The waiting presses harder.

The silence folds tighter.

I sink back onto the floor, stretching deeper into a split, pressing my palms flat against the floor, breathing in and out slowly, counting the beats to anchor myself.

I can do this.