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So much had changed since I’d come back. My feelings about the Princes had shifted again, and I wasn’t sure of my footing in this strange new territory.
But for all the things that had changed, the one thing that had remained constant was my determination.
It’d gotten me this far.
It was too late to change course now.
On Saturday, I snuck into the gym and spent several hours in the studio. Because Finn didn’t know I was there, it was just me in the small room as I ran through my routine several times, making tweaks and adjustments, smoothing out rough bits, and changing the ending.
He had asked me how I choreographed a dance piece, and I’d given him the best answer I could, but it was hard to put the process into words. It was a melding of intuition and technique, of art and science. And his observation had been uncannily accurate. A good dance piece was like a story—a conversation between the audience and the dancer.
What I hadn’t realized until the day he said that was what story my piece told.
It was about me and the Princes.
About hate, hope, betrayal, and heartache.
I hadn’t set out to tell the story, had simply built the choreography out of the raw materials of myself and my emotional state. My view of the world.
But what I hadn’t recognized was that the Princes had influenced all those things. That the story living under my skin, waiting to be told through the graceful lines of my body, the shapes and rhythms I created on stage, was theirs.
Mine.
Ours.
Maybe that was why I couldn’t get the damn ending right.
When I’d first started to put the piece together, it had ended with fire and fury, with sharp, brutal motions and a sudden, violent stop.
That didn’t feel right anymore. I could still do the movements, obviously, and they worked well with the piece. They were dramatic and attention grabbing. But the problem was, I wasn’t filling them the same way I’d used to. When I had first composed the piece, it’d been easy to find the fury in myself, to let it pour out of me through the choreography.
But now, even though the movements hadn’t changed, the drive behind them had dwindled.
The fury was ebbing.
I tilted my head up toward the studio ceiling and let out a long breath. The audition was in a week and I really didn’t have time to fuck around with new choreography. But I wanted it to be perfect.
Looking back down, I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror, taking in the long, lean legs, slim waist, and brown hair tied up in a messy bun. The girl in the mirror stood tall
, strong but not unbreakable, fierce but not cruel.
She wasn’t perfect, but she was… me.
Keeping my gaze on that girl, I tried out a couple of experimental movements, not judging, just letting my body move through space however it wanted to.
That’s better. Maybe something like—
The door opened behind me, and I turned quickly, my pulse picking up. It was stupid, but I’d almost asked Finn to come with me today. Being alone in this room still made me a little nervous after Oliver, although I refused to let it stop me.
But as I caught sight of the boy who’d stepped inside, my heart rate slowed again, pounding hard a few times like a racehorse skidding to a trot.
It was Finn.
He grinned at me, ducking his head. “Sorry. I’m not here, I’m not here.”
Holding up a hand to block his face like a celebrity avoiding paparazzi, he slipped into the room and sank into his usual spot against the wall by the door.
I stopped and put my hands on my hips, breathing hard. I’d been working for the past couple hours, and a light sheen of sweat covered my body, the tendrils of hair that had escaped my bun sticking to my skin. “No, you are here. What are you doing? How did you even know I was in here?”
