We drink. The wine is decent, a leftover from some celebration I can’t remember, and it warms me from the inside, loosening something that’s been wound too tight for days.
“Can I ask you something?” The words spill out between sips.
“That depends on what you’re asking.”
“The bracelet.” I nod toward his left wrist. “You never take it off. Even during practice, when it must get in the way. Why?”
His hand moves to cover it with the same reflexive gesture from the studio. “It’s... sentimental.”
“You don’t strike me as the sentimental type.”
“Shows how much you know.” But there’s an edge to his voice now, something guarded. “It was a gift. From someone important. A long time ago.”
“The stones?—”
“The stones are none of your concern.” He says it gently, but it’s a clear shutdown. “Some things need to remain private. Even between partners.”
I want to push. I want to demand answers and explanations, some insight into the mystery that is Malachi Vexis. But the food arrives before I can, and the moment passes, and somehow we end up sitting on my living room floor with cartons spread between us like a picnic, talking about everything except the things that matter.
Dinner is unexpectedly fun. There’s no other word for it. Fun—pure, uncomplicated, almost foreign in its simplicity. Mal tells stories about his travels that are vague on details, but vivid on descriptions while I counter with competition disasters like the wardrobe malfunction in Tampa and the partner who dropped me in front of three hundred people. We argue about music and food and somehow circle back to dancing.
“You started young,” he says, studying one of the photographs on my wall. Seven-year-old me in a sequined dress, holding a trophy nearly as tall as I was.
“Three.”
“Three?” His eyebrows rise. “That seems... early.”
“My mother had me in dance shoes before I could walk.”
“By choice?”
“Hers or mine?” I take a long sip of wine. “I don’t remember a time before dancing. It’s like asking if I chose to breathe.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“Isn’t it?”
He’s quiet for a moment, and when he speaks again, his voice is softer. “Did you ever want to stop?”
The question hits somewhere tender.
“Once.” I don’t look at him. “I was sixteen. I was exhausted and sick of competing. I told my mother I wanted to quit.”
“What happened?”
“She didn’t speak to me for two weeks.” The memory still stings, even now, even after everything. “Not a word. Not a glance. I was invisible. A ghost in my own home. Until I apologized, promised to try harder, recommitted to the schedule.”
“That’s...” He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to.
“It’s fine. It made me who I am. Disciplined. Focused.” I drain my glass. “Successful.”
“Is that what you are?”
“Isn’t it?”
“I think you’re lonely. I think you’ve built this life around achievement because achievement feels like love. Because somewhere along the way, you learned that your value was measured in trophies and ribbons and perfect technique, and now you don’t know who you are without them.”
I should be angry. I should push back and dismiss his amateur psychology with the contempt it deserves. Instead, my eyes sting.
