Page 72 of The Hollywood Switch-up

He shrugged. “Anyway. The point is, even the worst dancers can learn. There’s hope for everyone.”

“Is that the moral of the story?”

“The moral is that my grandmother was a saint for not murdering me, and also that this wine is growing on me.”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She was drifting again, gaze sliding toward the dark window, her fingers tightening on the stem of her glass.

His wine glass went down. Then hers, beside it on the coffee table. He stood and held out his hand.

She stared at it. “If this is some kind of actor exercise, I’m not in the mood.”

“My Tita didn’t spend six months in steel-toed boots so I could waste a perfectly good evening watching you disappear inside your own head.” He wiggled his fingers. “Up.”

She took his hand.

He pulled her to her feet, guiding her to the small, clear space between the couch and the kitchenette. His hand found the small of her back, the other keeping hold of hers, and he moved, basic steps his Tita had drilled into him until he could do it in his sleep.

“There’s no music, Stefan.”

“There’s always music. You just have to be less stubborn than the silence.” He pulled her a little closer and started humming, an old song his grandmother used to play, something with too much accordion that Tita would have sung along to.

“That’s what you’re going with? That’s the song?”

“It’s a classic. You have no taste.”

“I have excellent taste. That’s how I know this is terrible. You sound like a dying cat.”

“My Tita would be proud. That’s exactly what she said.”

A small laugh escaped her. She let him lead, her head dropping to rest against his shoulder, and for a moment they swayed in the candlelight.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she said, her voice muffled against his shirt.

“Dancing? You’re doing fine. Only stepped on me twice.”

“Not the dancing.” She pulled back just enough to look at him. “Any of it.”

He slowed their movement but didn’t let go, his hand warm against her back. “Talk to me.”

“I’ve spent my entire life being the responsible one. The backup plan. The twin who stays home and keeps things running while Anneliese chases the spotlight.” Her fingers curled into his shirt. “I don’t know how to just . . . want something. For me. Without calculating all the ways it could go wrong or hurt someone else.”

He stayed quiet. His thumb moved on her back, small circles, but he didn’t speak.

“And now I’m here, and you’re here, and I—” She stopped, pressing her lips together like she was trying to hold the words in. “I’ve never done anything just because I wanted to. Not once. And I don’t even know what that would feel like.”

“You know what my Tita would say?”

“Something about donkeys?”

A soft laugh escaped him. “She’d say that wanting things isn’t selfish. It’s human.” He tilted her chin up. “And anyone who made you feel like you don’t deserve to want things for yourself was wrong.”

Her eyes were bright with tears. Then she pulled away. His hand fell from her chin.

“You’re standing here being perfect, and I can’t even—” She gestured at herself, unraveling. “Anneliese always decided. What we did, where we went, who we—and I just followed.” Her voice cracked. “And now I’m here, and you’re asking me to choose, and I don’t—I don’t know how.”

Hostia. He crossed the distance she’d created.

“You don’t have to apologize for not being ready.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “And you don’t have to know why.”