Falling for my boyfriend's Navy brother Chapter 88

The school parking lot is already buzzing by the time we pull in. I step out of the car, book bag slung over one shoulder, Tyler falling in step beside me like always. His fingers brush mine and then link them gently.

We talked last night.

Really talked.

He apologized again—this time slower, more aware. He promised he’d be better. Less partying. Less slipping away when I needed him close. He said he’d try to be kinder, more thoughtful. He looked me in the eye when he said it, which made me want to believe him.

And I think I do. Or at least, I want to.

Still... when I went to sleep, Asher wasn’t back. And this morning, his bed was already made and cold by the time I stirred. Out on a run. Again. Like he needed to be away from us. Or maybe just from me.

That thought shouldn’t make my chest ache, but it does anyway.

As soon as we open the door to the school, my stomach drops.

A giant pink banner stretches across the entrance hall. Bold, glittery letters spell out CONGRATS PENELOPE! and on the corners, there are hand-drawn ballet slippers. Someone even added little sparkles to the laces.

My feet stop moving.

Tyler bumps into me, then looks up. “Whoa.”

Then—cheers.

Applause. Actual *applause*. From classmates. From students I don’t even know the names of.

My face flushes crimson.

The principal—Mr. Calder—steps into the hallway like he’s been waiting. “Miss Vales!” he says grandly, wrapping me in a hug I was not prepared for. “Congratulations. You’ve made the school proud. The lead in Swan Lake? That’s no small feat.”

“I—uh—thank you,” I stammer. “I didn’t... I didn’t know anyone knew.”

“Word travels fast,” he says with a wink.

More people are swarming now. Congratulating me. Patting my arm. Smiling wide. People I’ve maybe spoken to twice in my entire life.

A few girls I only recognize from across the cafeteria stop to give me actual hugs. It’s overwhelming. Beautiful. Weird. Slightly terrifying.

I smile. I thank everyone. I try not to cry or faint or vanish into the wall.

Tyler squeezes my hand and laughs. “Look at you. Superstar.”

I finally make it to class, still dazed. As I slip into my seat, I pull out my phone and scroll to the Hayes group chat—the one we made weeks ago when this all started.

**Me:** forgot to tell you guys, got the lead role! starting today 😬

Then I pull up the quick photo I snapped of the hallway banner earlier and send that too.

Mr. and Mrs. Hayes respond *instantly*.

**Mrs. H:** PENELOPE!!! 💃💃💃💃💃 WE KNEW YOU COULD DO IT!!!

**Mr. H:** That’s our girl!!! 🎉 So proud of you, sweetheart!!! 🍾

I smile. I didn’t realize how much their support would mean.

After class, I find Tyler waiting by my locker.

“So,” he says, leaning against the wall, “what’s the plan for the rest of your glamorous day?”

I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. “I’ve got my first rehearsal this afternoon. Until six.”

He nods. “Right, big day. You nervous?”

“A little.”

“You’ll kill it.”

I glance down, shifting the strap on my bag. “And after that... Asher invited me to dinner. To meet his friend. Rooster.”

Tyler’s brow lifts. “Oh?”

“Yeah. I mean, I remembered you had practice until eight, so I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“No, no. That’s true. I just...” He gives a crooked smile. “Didn’t know you two were hanging out like that.”

“We’re not.” I pause. “He just thought I’d like his friends. And I didn’t want to say no.”

Tyler studies me for a beat, then nods slowly. “Well, I’m glad you’re getting along with him.”

I nod. “Thanks.”

He leans in and kisses me—soft, like he’s being careful. “Good luck today.”

“Thanks,” I say again, and watch him walk off down the hall.

The bus ride feels longer than usual.

Not because it actually is, but because every second stretches under the weight of what’s waiting for me at the end of it—my first official rehearsal as the lead in Swan Lake.

Even now, those words feel surreal.

I press my forehead gently to the window, watching the streets pass. The rhythm of the bus is oddly soothing, a contrast to the nerves dancing in my chest like rogue ballerinas off-beat.

I check the time again.

I’m early.

Not by much, but early enough to get there, breathe, stretch, and maybe try not to vomit.

The studio’s in the nicer part of town, tucked in between a boutique flower shop and some overpriced café that smells like fresh croissants and regret. The sun glints off the windows, casting soft patterns of light across the sidewalk as I climb the steps. When I push open the studio door, the familiar scent of rosin and sweat wraps around me like a well-worn sweater.

Madame is already there.

Of course she is.

Standing tall and rigid like she’s the commander of an invisible army. Her fur-lined coat is draped over a chair, and her hair is slicked into its usual iron bun. She turns as soon as she hears the door.

“Penelope,” she says, nodding. “Good. You're early. Like a lead should be.”

My nerves flutter, but I manage a small smile. “Good afternoon, Madame.”

She gestures toward the center of the room where two dancers stand waiting. “Let me introduce your counterparts.”

The male dancer steps forward first.

He’s tall. Not like Asher tall—no one is Asher tall—but tall enough that I’ll have to tilt my head when we dance together. His build is strong but lean, like every muscle is purposefully placed. His dark blond hair is tousled in a way that looks accidental but probably isn’t, and his jawline is sharp enough to cut glass. But it’s his eyes that get me—warm, amber-brown and open, like he’s been through enough life to know how to be kind.

He offers his hand.

“Luc,” he says, his French accent subtle but present. “Luc Moreau. It is very nice to meet you, Penny.”

“Penelope,” Madame corrects automatically.

I shake his hand, surprised at how gentle his grip is.

“Nice to meet you too,” I say, then add, “You can call me Penny.”

He smiles. “Then Penny it is.”

The girl next to him steps forward next. She’s maybe a few inches shorter than me, wiry and delicate like a sparrow. Her dark curls are tied into a low bun and her freckles dust across her nose in a way that makes her seem younger than she probably is.

“I’m Sofia,” she says brightly. “I’m your understudy, and honestly I’m just so honored to be here, you’re... amazing.”

I blink. “Oh. Thank you. That’s really sweet.”

She grins. “Seriously. I saw your audition. Everyone was talking about it. You earned this.”

Madame clears her throat, and when I glance at her, she gives me a rare glint of something almost... conspiratorial.

When Luc and Sofia turn to grab their water bottles, Madame steps closer and whispers, “Sofia is sweet. But she is not even close to your level. So don’t worry.”

I nod, voice low. “I’m not.”

And I’m not. This role? I worked for it. Bled for it. I’ve scraped bones and blistered feet and bruised knees to get here. There’s no part of me that’s fumbling the bag now.

“Très bien,” Madame says, then turns back toward the center. “Let’s begin.”