Page 41 of Until We Come Home

“Got it,” he says, rougher than before. “Sounds good.”

"Super helpful," I say, turning away toward my tote bag. "Top-tier dance partner work there."

"Anytime," he says.

I drop down on my knees and start aggressively shoving things into my tote—my water bottle, my phone, a stray hair tie—anything to keep from making eye contact. Behind me, I hear the rustle of paper as he gathers the takeout containers and snaps the lids shut one by one.

"I'll walk you back to your place," he says.

I can't do it. There is zero chance I can survive a ten-minute walk beside him right now, brushing shoulders on the sidewalk, standing close while he holds a door, pretending everything is totally normal.

I’m buzzing so hard I can barely remember my own address, and if he so much as brushes a hand against my back to guide me across the street, I'm going to cross a line we can't uncross.

“No, it’s all good," I say, straightening up. “I’ll grab an Uber in a bit. I want to run a couple more things anyway while I’ve got the room. You go ahead. I’ll see you tomorrow at the shoot.”

He looks at me. “You sure?”

"Totally," I lie, flashing a quick smile.

"Okay," he says, and picks up his dinner. "Night, Mia."

"Night, Mateo."

The heavy door clicks shut, his steady footsteps fading down the quiet corridor, and I'm left alone in the dark studio, my face burning up in the silence.

I catch my reflection in the mirror wall. A deep flush spreads all the way down my chest, and my T-shirt is still bunched up on one side where his hand rested against my waist. I yank it down with shaking fingers and turn my back on my own image.

The kids are vibrating with energy in the studio, twenty of them moving through the space as the morning light pours across the wood floor. Class is winding down, but they’re throwing everything they’ve got into the routine we’ve been working on all week, the one they’ll perform at the benefit on the last day of the intensive.

“Alright, and five, six, seven, eight,” I call out over the music, watching their reflections in the mirror as it comes together. “Drop the weight, let the floor take it. Yes. Breathe on the hold, don’t grip it. Good, Ruby. Go, go, travel.”

I walk the floor as they move, offering a few subtle adjustments, a hand flat between someone’s shoulder blades to get them to soften there, two fingers under an elbow to lengthen a line.

They’re having a blast, each of them bringing something of their own to the choreography. Teaching them in this room is the best part of my day, and to think I came so close to turning down this summer contract.

When the music ends I let them hold the final shape for a beat, all twenty of them down on one knee with an arm reaching toward the windows, chests heaving, and then I let them go.

“That’s time,” I say. “Thank you, that was the best run yet. Good work today, you guys. Really, really good.”

We run through the cooldown, then there is the usual chorus of enthusiastic goodbyes and chatter as they break for the water bottles lined up under the windows. They pour out into the hallway, their laughter echoing back through the doorway. As the room clears, Jada steps in around the last of them, wearing her company sweats and smiling as she crosses the floor toward me.

“Looks like you’ve got them totally won over,” she says, leaning against the barre as I step into the open center space.

“I hope so,” I say with a laugh, dropping to the floor. “I’m constantly amazed by them.”

“Well, you’re a natural with them,” Jada says, swinging her leg up onto the barre and folding over it to stretch her hamstring. “Oh, by the way, Carly’s in town this week. We should all grab drinks before she heads out again. She’s only here for a brief stopover.”

“She’s on tour right now, right? Backup dancing for that pop run?” I ask, holding a side stretch, feeling the pull all the way down into my hip.

“Yep,” Jada says. “She’s a bit like you, hates staying in one place too long, always bouncing to the next gig on the road.”

“Right. A bit like me.” I ease out of the stretch, turning those words over slowly in my mind.

“Speaking of,” Jada says, switching legs. “What’s your next move after this? Come September?”

“Oh, um.” I deepen my stretch to avoid her eyes. “I haven’t really locked anything down. Probably pick up another tour or fly back to LA to see what’s floating around.”

I haven’t thought about it. At all. I told my agent I'd weigh my options later, but I haven't been prioritizing it. The thought of jumping straight onto another commercial tour—something that usually keeps me buzzing—brings a strange, hollow drop somewhere under my ribs, and constant travel suddenly sounds exhausting.