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SPEAK UP.
SPEAK UP.
Fear cripples me as I watch him make his way to the door.
“Lance,” I croak my hopes crashing with his every step, “I swear to God, I love you.”
He looks back at me with resignation in his eyes. “I know,” he says softly. “You were good at it.”
And with that, he closes the door.
The rest of his life starts now, and my silence just bought my front row seat.
Harper
Six weeks later…
Racing through the airport to my gate with my passport in hand, I stop short when I see my flight’s delayed. We have our last show in Canada, and from there, I’m stuck auditioning again. Forever searching for the next gig. It’s terrifying when your career jumps from a small place of certainty to the unknown. Shouldering my bag, I make my way toward the bar. I’m in a martini kind of mood and have been for the last six weeks. I can’t, for the life of me, continue my life as if those days at Christmas didn’t happen. Winter got colder, more dismal, more miserable, more colorless when Lance left my apartment. I’m done denying that I didn’t make the biggest mistake of my life letting him walk out of it, losing him a second time. If it was for the best, then I could let go, but I can’t hold a candle of an excuse, save one.
It’s not just dancing. It’s never been just about dancing.
I ran away from the truth then, and I’m still running from it now, but it’s caught up with me in the most painful and colossal way. There’s no more denying it. Lance Prescott is the love of my life, and I didn’t need him to remind me, I was all too aware, but now, now I’ve twisted our separation reasons into a distorted version of the truth. I lived it for two years—lying—lying to myself, lying to him.
Pulling up my phone, I scroll through his feed, searching for anything new. He’d obliterated his opponent in his last fight. Tony’s been quiet with him on social, only showcasing a few of his workouts. I’m sure he’s prepping for his premiere heavyweight fight taking place in only two weeks. A fight I would trade everything to see. A fight I deserve to attend. Search empty, I unwrap my scarf as the bartender approaches.
“What are you having?”
“Grey Goose martini, one olive.”
“Sure.”
I thumb my necklace, a new habit as I stare at my phone, willing it to come to life with a message, a single word, but I know it’s a foolish hope.
I can’t blame him. He thinks I’ve been too quick to dismiss a future for us, again. I sip my fresh martini dreading the showcase in the days ahead. Even dancing has lost some of its joy.
“Harper? Harper Elliot?”
I turn to see the man calling my name from the opposite side of the bar.
“Troy?”
“I thought that was you, hey there,” he says, picking up his beer and heading my way. Troy was my first real college crush, one I kept from a distance until an insanely handsome cornerback came crashing in and stole every bit of his thunder. Our friendship formed when I was with Lance, and he’d revealed to me Troy was covering for us. I hadn’t realized how vital said friendship would be until the day he saved me. But along with all things I left in Texas, our budding friendship was cut short when the truth came out, dividing me from my life there. Troy takes the stool next to me and leans in with a light hug in greeting.
“How are you?”
“Good,” I say, nostalgic tears threatening. I haven’t been back to College Station since I left. Not even when my sister begged me when things got worse. But Troy’s presence now reminds me of the ever-present sun I miss with his bleached hair and year-round tan. He represents home so well that I have to turn away from him briefly to gather myself.
“Harper, not to be an asshole, but you’re on the verge of tears, and all I said was hello.”
“It’s nothing,” I sniff, cursing my inability to get my emotions in check. “Just memories. You look good,” I say, trying to change the subject. “I was so happy for you when you got drafted, and I wanted to reach out, but I didn’t know if it would be weird.”
He frowns. “Why would it be weird?”
“Because I’m your ex-roommate’s ex-girlfriend.”
“We were, are friends, hence why I’m sitting with you and not on the other side of the bar.”
“You know what I mean.”
