Bea chewed the inside of her cheek. “We’re circling back to this.”
“I know,” Claire said, finally giving her a faint smile. “But I do have a second piece of news. Don’t freak out.”
“No promises.”
“I’m moving to the UR.”
Chapter Twelve
The studio itself was normal enough. Mirrors. Speakers that could wake the dead. Polished floor. The difference was the wall of glass overlooking the marina outside. Bea had never practiced choreography in a place where the scenery came with captains.
“Happy hens!”
The exclamation was clearly unrehearsed and slightly off on timing. Bea lost her footing as she was pulled forward, arms looping around her from both sides until she was boxed in by warmth and noise from more than a dozen friends in Lululemon tights and ponytails. Even Maris stood, arms folded, in sleek black athleisure that she’d bet had never known sweat.
“Careful,” Isabel said from behind her head, steadying her. “We need her intact.”
“We don’t,” Georgie deadpanned. “Rafael does.”
Bea chortled to herself. Seven nights left. They were clinging to this vow of celibacy with their fingernails.
“Shhh.” Naomi laughed, waving a hand. “Don’t scare her.”
Lillian hovered, tucking the tag of Bea’s tank top neatly inside the fabric. “Bey can handle it. She’s marrying him, isn’t she?”
Claire chose that moment to reappear, shoving a towel into Bea’s hands, then a cold bottle of barley tea.
“Hydrate,” she ordered. “We’re about to sweat off several poor life choices.”
Their instructor clapped for attention. Flannel tied around her waist, white crop top, black kicks. Bea would have followed her into a dogfight.
“Welcome, future Mrs. Griffin,” she said with a light Korean accent, grinning. “Let’s have some fun with your hens tonight. Follow my lead, ladies. And five, six…five, six, seven, eight.”
The music hit.
Georgina moved like she’d been born under a stage light, with a hint of the theatrical. Naomi attacked the choreography with enthusiasm and nearly took it down with her. Lillian—quiet, gentle Lils—shocked everyone by beingincredible. Fluid, committed, dutch braid swinging like she’d graduated from a Seoul underground training camp.
“I had a K-pop era in Year Twelve,” she panted at one point.
Maris danced the way she worked: no wasted movement, no apology. Claire delivered chaos powered by commitment, and Isabel…no one knew what she was doing, but it resembled summoning spirits.
Bea let her body take over. Childhood muscle memory, her mother watching from the kitchen, late-night YouTube rabbit holes all came back. Her limbs knew where to go before she thought to send them.
The group fed off each other. They cheered when someone nailed a move, dissolved into laughter when one didn’t.
Nearly two hours later, they were starfished across the studio floor like fallen idols, blissfully past caring about dignity. It was only the promise of dinner that had them tiredly getting off the floor and heading to the showers. Bea overheard her M&Sfriends: Belinda plotted revenge against the instructor, while Mikaela was googling private lessons.
When they emerged from clouds of perfume and blow-dryer heat, the studio had transformed. A long, low table faced the glass wall, cushions set out in perfect symmetry. Enormous lacquered bento boxes had been set out in perfect rows, as if a luxury Japanese pop-up had simply decided to happen here.
Warmth spread through Bea’s chest. The women around her gasped their approval.
She spotted Lillian fussing with a napkin fold. “Lils. You did this?”
Quiet pride lit Lillian’s face. “Claire was in charge of energy. I had atmosphere and sustenance.”
“Rafael handled invoices,” Isabel supplied.
They sat cross-legged. Steam lifted from tiny bowls of miso. Bento lids opened like presents: glistening eel, aburi torched to perfection, sashimi folded like petals.
