Page 217 of One Wild Wish

The ballerina glanced at the bathroom door, and her wrinkled cheeks colored. “Look at me, keeping you from relieving yourself. Go on, then.”

He shot me another glare. Hopefully she read the aggravated scowl as pained . “If you stay here a minute,” he said through gritted teeth, “I can autograph something for you when I’m out.”

Embarrassed or not, he was thinking ahead, giving me more time with our mark.

She tipped her head. “Consider it done.”

He escaped into the bathroom.

She turned to me. “The Sunshine Girls were three girls who danced here a few times a week, often on their own. Two sisters and one friend. They would light up a room, hence the name. Real free spirits. They always drew a crowd.”

Those visuals rocked me as much as August being recognized, but the confirmation of my aunt’s identity had me frowning. I’d assumed my mother and her sister’s relationship had always been tumultuous, one easy to toss away. If they’d been close enough to dance and rehearse together, how had they wound up so estranged my mother had cut her sister off? She’d even refused to contact Aunt Sarah when she’d gotten sick, and I couldn’t find a number to let my aunt know her sister had passed.

If I had to guess, it was likely my mother’s “sunny” personality that had led to their falling out, whatever the reason. Not that it mattered now. All that mattered was finding my father. “Mary Hamilton was the middle girl in the photo,” I told the ballerina. “She was also my mother.”

She clasped her hands in front of her waist. “Was?” I nodded, and she clucked her tongue. “I’m sorry, dear. I remember her being quite the clown, always laughing with her friends. She brought a lot of life to this place.”

Forget being rocked. That information was like being shoved, elbowed, and kicked in the gut. My mother’s dislike for me hadn’t been a secret. She’d barely glance at my school work, regardless of my prodding. She’d eat her dinner early some nights and leave me at the table alone. She’d never once called me after I’d moved out. The only reason we’d ever seen each other was because I’d initiated contact.

Her lack of affection and sharp words hadn’t needed deciphering. Her disdain for me and her life had been crystal clear. But if she’d been such a clown, a bright light in this place , it meant I really had been the thing that drained the music from her world. The big change in her life.

Questions flooded my mind. “What do you mean by clown, exactly? Like what did she—” Abruptly, I censored my tongue. Asking about the Mary before would only result in another harsh blow. Nothing learned now would undo her harsh parenting. Best to stick to my interrogation. “Sorry. What I’m actually after is information about a boy who watched her dance.”

“Many boys watched those girls. Drew them like bees to honey.”

Mary Hamilton, the Male Magnet. Another impossible fact. The ballerina checked her watch and tightened her lips. A bathroom toilet flushed. Time wasn’t on my side.

“This guy picked her up some days,” I added quickly. “Waited for her to finish.”

She studied the ceiling while pointing and flexing her foot. “Sorry, but that’s all I know. You could try speaking with Mr. Hawton. He’s the only other instructor left from back then. He’s away for a month, but should return toward the middle of May.”

August emerged, ending my interrogation. Not that it mattered. I may have learned my mother had been a silly clown who’d lightened rooms and had seduced men, but this lead had dried up.

Adorning his rock star persona, August escorted his fan to the exit. She fawned over his music and the song about him dousing me—my shadow —in gasoline. Always a good time. After having her purse signed and cheeks kissed by her crush, Loretta Walsh, as we’d come to know her, left the center a happy lady.

August, however, glared at me from inside the exit. “A bad stomach? I just love my refried beans?”

I swirled my hand in a dramatic flourish. “I was in character.”

“And now rumors will spread that I get the shits.”

I didn’t even try to curb my snickering. “Everyone uses the bathroom and puts their pants on one leg at a time. You’re no different, Mr. Rock God.”

A sweet blush highlighted his cheekbones. He dropped his gaze and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m no rock god. I just play music.”

His modesty had my heart tripping over itself. “Don’t downplay what you do.” When he didn’t reply, I said, “I lied, by the way—at my mother’s house. I listen to your music all the time. It’s brilliant.”

He glanced at me through his thick lashes. One beat dragged into two. “Thank you,” he said softly.

Forget tripping. My heart freefell, taking my belly with it. And my IQ. It was nice to be joking with him again, talking about real things, even as my wits scattered, but his earlier reserve lingered. He hadn’t moved to touch my back or hold my hand.

When with my friends, I never hesitated calling them on their bullshit. I believed in laying your cards on the table, being honest with those in your life. After my WTF, I’d realized too late how vital it was to be honest with yourself . Yet here I was, since August had parachuted into my life, hemming and hawing, thinking more than speaking. Keeping the depths of my thoughts on mute.

“We should take off,” I said. “Before someone breaks into our cars.” Not the thing I should have said. It was the easy thing. The don’t get hurt thing. “We’ll need to read more of my mother’s diary, search for more clues.”

He cast a dark glance at the street beyond the exit. “Best to meet somewhere else, a bar or something that doesn’t come with men who want your sugar.”

Heading to our separate vehicles meant another round of erratic driving. I was bound to lose my license before I officially lost my mind. “Maybe we should pare down to one car? We can meet at my apartment. Go through the diary there, then stick together after.”