“I’m sorry, I’ll work on the steps a bit more tonight, and then we can try again.” I’m not sure more practice will help, but I have to offer something.
“It’s not the steps, Covey. It’s your head. Where is it?” Krisztina points to the side of her head.
“I don’t know. I’m trying.”
“Well, maybe that’s the problem. You’re trying too hard. Dance is here.” She taps her chest a few times. It’s not a new sentiment. I’ve heard the same thing a hundred times throughout my training. Still, no matter how much heart and dedication go into it, at least some of it is in my head. And a bit in my feet and legs. “You need to free your heart to focus on the dance.”
No idea what it means, but I nod my head assuredly, hoping she’ll buy it.
“We’ll try again tomorrow, Covey.” She gives me a quick hug and peck on the cheek. It’s mildly reassuring. Now I’ve got twenty-four hours to get over whatever funk I’ve gotten myself into.
As soon as the door closes behind her, I make a beeline for my bag and my phone. Aidan’s name is in my notifications, which makes the dread coursing through me ease up a bit. It’s because he’s such a good friend, and after a day like this, I could use one.
Aidan
Busy tonight?
Am I? Realistically, I should spend the rest of the evening rewatching the video recordings from previous years and working on the steps. Maybe meditating a bit to clear my mind—of heart—to be ready for tomorrow. But there’s a nagging sensation begging me to see him. Maybe I can do both? Yeah, probably not, but I’m willing to try.
Me
Nope. Come over?
CHAPTER 11
COVEY
The thing about having spent my early adult years moving around a lot is that I never accumulated much stuff. Even back in Amsterdam, I didn’t have many possessions. The place I rented came with furniture, which was perfect, and I only picked up the necessities. Between travel for different productions, the constant worry that I’d end up somewhere else the following year, and a general lack of energy to spend time shopping for random household items, I got by on the bare minimum.
When I moved to Burlington, I took only what I could fit in my two checked suitcases and a couple of small boxes.I donated everything else to the new hires at the company. I lucked out and found a place here that’s largely furnished, removing the need to spend time and money shopping for basics. It’s a bit bare bones.
In my first days, I picked up a few small things. A couple of throw pillows, a fake plant for the windowsill, and somecurtains for the bedroom. Nothing else seemed important. I’ll survive a year and then decide whether to stay in this apartment before investing in anything more serious.
Maybe even look at buying a place of my own if everything goes to plan.
All that seemed reasonable as recently as last week. Now, I’m standing in the living room, trying to see the space through Aidan’s eyes. It’s very college student chic. His place has an air of sophistication, decorated like a real adult, with coordinating furniture and actual artwork on the walls.
Fuck. There’s not much I can do about it in the next… two minutes.
A knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts. He’s early. Okay, not that early, but those two minutes were essential to me getting my shit together, which shouldn’t be necessary. I’ve had a handful of company members over in the last few months, and I never had this problem.
I don’t have time to examine my anxiety right now. Instead, I open the door and gesture for him to come in.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Aidan replies, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his puffy coat. So, yeah, the evening is going swimmingly. If I didn’t know better, I’d say this was an awkward first date. It’s not even our first fake date.
Except it’s not a date at all. It’s two friends hanging out together, learning more about each other to deceive their friends and family into thinking they’re dating—a regular Thursday night.For someone, probably.
“Is there somewhere I can put my coat?” Aidan asks.
“Yeah, sorry, a bit tired this evening. Give it to me, and I can put it in the closet.” That’s further than I usually get with my outerwear. Usually, I dump it on a chair or the kitchen counter until I’m ready to go out again.It doesn’t make sense to put it away for a whopping twelve hours.
“We don’t have to do this if you aren’t up for it,” he says, tugging his arms out of the sleeves. Under the heavy layer, he’s got on what must be his work clothes. A dark gray sweater over a white button-down shirt, paired with a pair of black trousers. He looks incredible. Maybe I should’ve opted for something that’s not sweatpants.
I own very few things that fall into that category. My closet is sixty percent dance gear, thirty percent comfy clothes, and a whole ten percent of what people would considernormal.
“No, I’m…” I’m tempted to tell him the whole thing. How I’m wildly screwing up thepas de deuxwith my partner. How I can’t quite manage to stay focused, and she’s ready to come for my head. How it feels like my whole career is in jeopardy. Except no one wants to hear all of that. “A bit sore.”
