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Bestie: Victorious. Essentially, they’re concerned I’m missing too many practices, and wondering how I’ll manage the shows. They’re questioning my commitment and if they can count on me.
Better Half: All of them?
Bestie: Yes. But most just wanted a confirmation and were not interested in challenging it. Freaking Victoria started talking about ratios of practices made and missed. Ridiculous.
Not finding what I was looking for, I dropped to my knees and leaned my head low to the floor. Ah, good. Mini marshmallows. Standing back up, I caught Ava’s response and felt my brows lower into a deep V over my eyes.
Better Half: Hmm.
Bestie: What do you mean, hmm?
Better Half: Okay…First off, Victoria is a bitch. We know this. Take her out of the equation. The fact that all the nice girls were there tells me you need to listen to their concerns.
I drummed my forefinger against the bow of my lip. She had a point.
Bestie: What’s the point in gaining a better job if I’m losing something I love? I want the job. I do. But I don’t want it to be my whole life!
Better Half: I don’t know what to tell you. What can you commit to?
Bestie: The performances are on weekends. I can make them all. It’s the practices that are problematic. Especially when we have new routines to learn. I mean, if we schedule them for the weeks I’m home… Okay. I see what you mean. But I started this troupe! I source and book the performances! Surely, they can give me some leeway while I figure out this new job?
Better Half: Did you put it to them like that?
I thought back to the barrage of information that spewed from my lips.
Bestie: Something like that. I might have babbled a bit.
Better Half: Wouldn’t be you if you didn’t.
Closing my messages, I took my hot chocolate into the bathroom and filled the tub to almost overflowing then gingerly stepped in, sinking into the bubbles.
So, I got a new job, but a shitty boss. More travel, but a pissed-off kid. Higher pay, but might lose dance, the one thing I couldn’t do without.
And the icing on the cake?
Fuckingotherwise.
I had no recollection of him leaving me in the sunroom.
No recollection of gathering my things or heading back to my room.
His face.
The sadness on his face filled my vision. Sorrow. Brokenness. Regret. The grief in his soul touched mine and expanded, filling every available space.
My heart bled. My soul ached.
For him.
It was only once I got into the shower in my suite that my mind began to process the sharp spear of rejection and the fact I’d have to work with him the following day. In no way did I want to add my disappointment to his regret.
I hid it well.
But I tasted it.
I raised the mug to my lips and breathed in the sweet smell of cocoa as I took my first sip. Hopefully, the sweetness of it would wash away my bitterness.
It was a lot to ask.
