XAVIER AND DIANA and Dion and Iza stand up on stage, awaiting their fate. Last night, Dolla and me got a rockin’ score in the bolero, and so did Vika and Tony in the waltz. Someone’s about to get the axe.

“And the couple leaving us tonight, Di . . . on and Izabella.” Matt says. Diana shrieks and jumps up and down then hugs Xavier. She lives another week.

After our usual onslaught of interviews, Iza and Dion hop into a limo to take them to the airport. They’re booked on the red eye to New York for the losers’ round of morning talk shows.

Which means tonight, I’ll finally have Genya to myself.

Diana rushes over to me backstage, handing me my phone and my purse. “I can’t believe we made it. One more week. I thought for sure this time we’d be gone. Let’s go celebrate.”

My phone flashes.

From Genya (Mobile): Meet me in my hotel room in one hour.

Jenny comes bounding from behind. She gives Diana a big hug. “See! I told you everything would be fine. Where do you guys want to go? Let’s go to Nobu. I’m craving their abalone.”

I stash my phone in my purse. I can’t tell them about Genya. Not yet. I barely know what’s up myself. “You guys go ahead. I’m not in the sushi mood.” The reporters start exiting so we move to the side of the stage.

“Fine, no sushi. Let’s go to The Ivy.” Jenny picks up her phone and starts dialing. “Not a raw fish in that place.”

I take her hand. “Not tonight, Jen. I’m super tired. I have an early flight to New York tomorrow so I’m gonna just get a hotel room so I can get some sleep.”

Jenny looks at me kind of funny, but Diana is so happy-happy-joy-joy she doesn’t give me a second thought.

“Then it’s just Jen and me,” our little Mormon chirps. “Sal, you call us later. I need to par-tay!”

“Oh, God,” Jenny mutters as Diana pulls her over to the lingering media. “We’ve created a monster, Sal,” she calls over her shoulder.

I shrug and give her a thumbs-up, watching them disappear around the corner with the reporters. Bingo! Exit, stage right! I duck out the back of the studio, call my driver, and tell him to meet me in forty-five minutes.

* * *

I rush to my trailer across the back lot and shimmy out of my dress before the door’s even closed. Shower! Scrubbing the orange tanning cream off myself under the hot water, I marvel for the millionth time that a Latina has to paint her skin like some kind of coloring book. It’s the dumbest thing ever—and God, do I hate the smell of the stuff! I nearly graft my skin trying to loofa it off, but I still have orangey running streaks all over my body. I swear, I look like a stubby giraffe. I slather on Palmer’s Cocoa Butter to mask the smell. Sure, I can afford the expensive creams and all now, but I love my Palmer’s so it stays. My mane of hair is all over the place so I scrunch in some spray gel and stuff it up into a big floppy hat.

I’m halfway to the limo waiting outside the studio door before I realize that I need to pee. Dammit! I look at my watch. I don’t want to head all the way back to my trailer . . . I’ll just sneak into the bathrooms at the back of the stage. Busting left, I cut around a corner and beeline to the backstage area. When I get there it’s deserted—no dancers, so no media. Or maybe it’s the other way around. I duck into the ladies room, do my thing, then dash back out again—running smack into two guys making out.

“Oh! Sorry, guys,” I mumble and look down at my feet, shielding my face from embarrassment. “I totally wasn’t looking.”

“No worries,” I hear. His buddy cracks up and they run toward the men’s room, covering their faces.

No worries. I know that voice! I whip my head back for a look and see Eric and some man plowing through the restroom door. Not that I need to see—I know Eric’s voice when I hear it. Eric as in Nicole’s husband. Good God! The couple with the only perfect ballroom marriage. Eric was my original coach for five years before I met Ricardo; I just know that was him.

I practically stumble to the limo then throw myself into the backseat. Tequila, I need tequila. I pour myself one on the rocks. Eric with a guy? Nicole would totally freak if she knew. Or . . . maybe she does know. Oh, God, that’s not possible, is it? Shit! They’re fucking Cinderella and Prince Charming—if their love isn’t real then there’s no hope for the rest of us. Whenever I doubt getting back together with Genya, I always come back to “if Eric and Nicole can make it work, so can we.” What does this mean?

I pour myself another tequila, skipping the ice this time.

This is so bad. I mean, if the fairy tale isn’t real, then what’s the point of it all? The only guy I’ve been with besides Genya was some guy as drunk as I was after a competition in South Africa—and that was three whole years ago. For me, it’s always been Genya, always. And now he’s throwing himself at me . . . but shit, what isn’t throwing itself at me right now? I’ve been offered ownership in dance studios, free clothes, even endorsement opportunities for diet pills. I wanted change and, hell, did I get it? Money, fame, Dolla and his videos, everything I want is falling in my lap and Genya decides he wants me back now? It’s all I ever dreamed of—Genya, ballroom dance, love everlasting, the whole pretty package. Only, it doesn’t fit anymore. Crap. Crap, crap, crap!

What am I going to do? I love Genya, I know I do, but I also know I don’t love what he does anymore, and I know that’s what he wants—he’s all about the ballroom fantasy, partners on and off the floor. But that clearly doesn’t exist, just ask Prince Fucking Charming. And I honestly don’t know if I ever want to compete again.

I take a swig of tequila, straight out of the bottle. Fuck the glass.

The driver pulls up at the lobby. I hobble out and check for paparazzi. Cool, coast is clear. I cover my face with my hand just in case the front desk attendants recognize me. I don’t want anyone to know what I’m doing until I do.

I head into the elevator but nearly step out again before the doors close. The ride up takes forever. Fifth floor . . . sixth floor . . . seventh floor. Ding! I step off.

Breathe, baby.

Room 715 . . . 717 . . . 719 . . . I look to the next door and see Genya, wearing Calvin Klein pajama bottoms and a white T-shirt, wedged in the doorway, waiting for me.

I nearly bolt back to the elevator.

But before I can do or say anything, he seizes me, pulling me into the brightly lit room, and starts kissing my neck.

“I’ve been waiting for this since the day you left me.” He clasps my hands in his. I melt. He seems stronger now than when we were just kids.

“Dimka. Wait.” I separate from him and move toward the door.

“What is it?” He runs his hands through his hair, the same old nervous gesture from forever ago. “Sal, where are you going?”

“Here.” I stop short of the door and turn off the light. Now he won’t see my speckled skin. Or my big ass. He’s used to Iza’s tight curves, flat belly, and perky breasts. I can’t possibly turn him on. I hear his loud sigh. Maybe I’m not the only one who’s scared.

I make out his face in the darkness. “Dimka . . . can you just hold me?”

“Come here.” The covers rustle as he gets into the bed. I lie down and cuddle up on his chest. “No rush,” he whispers, “we’re gonna be together forever. This time, I’m not letting you go.”

That’s all I need to hear. I roll on top of him. Our bodies remember each other. He slowly undresses me, taking his time exploring my body. He lifts off his shirt. Man, has he filled out. We kiss for what seems like forever, just like when we were fifteen years old.

“You’re even sweeter than I remember,” he whispers.

Another star for Palmer’s Cocoa Butter.