“AND JUST FOR old time’s sake, we will witness for the first time in six years the reunions of the famous partnerships of Stas and Vika, and Genya and Salomé,” Gabriel announces. He turns my way and smiles right in my face. He’s clearly happy to whip up a new controversy, the bastard. I nibble on my hair and chew off a split end.

Jenny squeezes my hand. “The little twerp,” she mumbles.

Diana moves in on my other side. “Are you gonna be okay?”

Good question. “I don’t know.”

Genya is kissing gorgeous Iza on her perfect non-wrinkled forehead as she garbles. He squeezes her hand, turns and walks toward me.

My body clenches and I get queasy. We haven’t said a word to each other in over six years. And now he is standing in front of me.

“Privet, Salomé,” he says.

I look up and meet Genya’s dark brown eyes. The eyes that I have avoided since the day we parted. The eyes that I still dream about and that can stop me in my tracks with just one glance. Genya Pavlov and Salomé Sanchez are together again.

Tears fill my own eyes as I remember when they called us “America’s Ballroom Sweethearts.” The entire industry pinned its hopes on our backs like a million freakin’ bull’s-eyes. Our careers were mapped out for us. We had sponsors who funded our travel, coaching expenses, and costumes. We were the future of dancesport.

Then I went and screwed it all up.

“Hey, Genya,” I say casually as he steps to me. Quickly, I blink back the tears. “So how you been?”

“Good. Really good.” He forces a smile, but he can’t look me in the eyes more than a millisecond. “How ‘bout you?”

Gabriel turns on George’s cover of “Feeling Good.” “Please take your partner and warm up with a slow foxtrot.” Everyone starts moving around the room, taking hands, locking up, letting the music do its magic.

“I’ve been awesome,” I finally answer Genya, the both of us still standing there as Gabriel cranks up the bass, confusing me. Is that the music or my heart pounding? “Never better. I’m psyched to take a break from competing with Ricardo.”

He shoots a dirty look in Ricardo’s direction. “Yeah—I figured that after last month’s comp.”

I turn red. “Right. I’ve been meaning to thank you for that.” What the hell—do I make the first move or do I wait for him to lead? Ah, hell, just do it Sal! I playfully nudge his arm, our skin touching for the first time in six years.

He takes my hand and pulls me into his arms. “No big deal. I would have done that for anyone.” He adjusts me into a classic foxtrot hold.

I’m so nervous I keep talking. “I’m totally stoked to dance with C. Dolla. I actually have to go meet him right after this rehearsal. Who’s your partner?”

He sways me back and forth. “Lilia Garcia?”

I give him a blank stare.

He laughs. “I know. I have no fucking clue who she is either. Some YouTube chick.” He takes my hand. “You’re lucky. C. Dolla seems pretty cool. And he’s probably good dancer.”

We take a few basic steps and he leads me into promenade. “Yeah, remember when we did that rumba show dance to his song, ‘Leaving You?’” We were so in love when we performed that number for his mom’s studio. When we kissed at the end of the number, he said, “I love you” for the first time.

He looks up and actually holds the gaze this time. I see the pain in his eyes. “I don’t remember,” he lies, I’m sure.

Gabriel interrupts our moment. “You two can profess your undying love and devotion later.” He pinches my butt and squeezes my stomach. “Salomé, I need you to come see me later about your weight problem. I have a diet and fitness plan for you. The purpose of this show is to entertain, not to depress.”

Dios mio! I’m not fat! How’s a size four fat? I’m just short and muscular and I’ve got some Latin child-bearing hips. Damn, Jenny was right. I should’ve never done this show. Maybe I can fall down the stairs or jump out of this huge window and break my leg.

Gabriel gives me a big hug. “Not that you’re not a fabulous dancer.” He steps away and claps his hands. “Okay, children. Back to your foxtrot.”

I cross my arms and contemplate the tradeoff of a long life in prison for the momentary joy of murdering a certain British dancer. Then I’m spun from behind and Genya is taking me back into his arms. “I still think you have perfect body,” he whispers in my ear.

Remind me why I ever left this man? Ah, right, because I am an idiot.

I hook my thumb around his right bicep and melt into his embrace. We actually never competed in Standard together but it doesn’t matter. I know every inch of his body and we merge together. Foxtrot is not my forte so Genya takes charge and guides me through the steps. We flow around the floor and I pray that the song will never end.

With impeccable timing, Gabriel changes the song. Joy of murder versus pain of prison . . .? “Jesus to a Child” starts playing. “Rumba, please,” he calls out.

Genya’s hand traces over my wrist. We begin to dance a slow, soulful rumba. Our rumba. And we become one. He pushes me away from him and leads me into an overturned back break and then pulls me back into him. He drops his hands around my waist and we grind our hips together. My body moves with his, perfectly in sync. I have grown as a dancer, and for the first time, I fill out his arms, move with his hips, and melt into his chest. Before, we danced as a boy and a girl. Now, we dance as a man and a woman. He tenderly brushes my cheek. I push a black lock of hair from his forehead. He traces his fingers down my body. “I miss you,” I whisper then wrap my leg around him.

Genya presses his lips to my ear and whispers, “I miss you, too, Saloméichka.” Then he slowly unwraps my leg and pushes my chin up with his thumb. “But as friend. Nothing more. I’m in love together with Iza.”

Gabriel cuts off the music.

“All right, everyone,” he shouts. “Take a five minute break and then we’ll start on the choreography.”

Jenny and Diana rush over to me as Iza claims her man.

“Oh my God, Sal, what did he say to you?” Diana asks. “Did you tell him you still love him? Are you guys gonna compete together again?”

Jenny is standing away, her arms crossed. “Get a grip, Diana. They danced together for like four whole minutes.”

“Four minutes is enough for true love,” Diana says.

I dig in my bag for my FIJI water then guzzle it. The girls are still standing there, waiting. I wipe my lips with my arm. “I told him I missed him. No biggie.”

Diana brightens like a light bulb. “And . . .”

“And . . . he says he misses me too.”

Diana squeals.

“Like a friend,” I add.

Diana smiles even bigger. “Just give him time. I know you two will get back together. You were just so perfect.”

“Diana, you live in the biggest bubble.” Jenny sits on a chair and starts frantically brushing her shoe soles. “I’m so glad they paired me with Eric. He’s a great dancer and very professional. At least it makes this process a tad more bearable.” She drops her foot to the ground and sighs. “Spa parties with Vika? I told you so.”

“It won’t be too bad,” I say. “We can always bury her in a mud bath.”

“I heard that,” Vika says, invading our side of the studio. “Salomé, looks like Genya isn’t happy about having to dance together with you. I mean Iza is very gorgeous. It must be letdown for him to push extra twenty pounds around floor. You could hurt him.”

So we’re back right where we left off. “Can’t be as bad as Stas having to dance with you. Didn’t he leave the country just to escape you?”

Vika’s eyes narrow ever so slightly. Bingo! A clink in the armor. “I still can’t even believe how they let you on show,” she says. “The wardrobe people must be working extra trying to find enough fabric to cover your ass.”

I jump into her space. “Enough, Vika. We’re not going to spend this entire season fighting. Why do you have to be such a bitch? You won an Emmy for my dance, and you beat me at Nationals. You win, okay? I’m not going to play your game. I just want to surround myself with positive people. Give it up.” I want to stomp all over her perfect pedicure and rip out her elegantly coiffed extensions.

“Fine. I’ll play nice. But this is my set. All you three do is make fun of my show. I can’t imagine why you want to do it.” Vika lowers her voice when she sees Benny glaring at her. “I won’t allow you to ruin my show.”

Nice to see Vika actually takes pride in something other than herself.

Iza walks up to Vika and kisses her on the cheek, then levels her green eyes on me. “I guess Gabriel says we must be friends with you,” she says. “As long as you stay away from my Genya, we can be okay.” She blinks her mile-long eyelashes. Who am I kidding? Genya will never leave her for me. She’s stunning. I mean, not that I want him to or anything.

Nicole walks over, cradling her baby. Genya and I used to talk about having a family . . .

“Ladies,” Nicole says, “I know some of you have had problems in the past, but we’re all going to have so much fun together. This show is so good for our industry. Enjoy the season. We’re going to attend movie premieres, store openings, charity events, award shows. I’m so happy we get to do this together. I think this is the best group of dancers yet.” She walks over to the craft service table, which is piled with goodies that I can’t even look at or I’ll gain a pound. She takes a glass of white wine and raises it high. “To the 2018 Dancing under the Stars cast!”

Uhh. Not another toast.

* * *

I RUN DOWN the staircase of the studio to catch the limo waiting to take me to meet C. Dolla.

“Miss Sanchez, I presume?” Dolla’s personal driver opens the door for me.

“That’s me.” I jump into the white Escalade stretch. There are three flat screen televisions in the car, all playing Dolla’s latest videos. Hello, Hollywood! I help myself to a glass of Don Julio Blanco and coke on the rocks and flick off my sandals. You’d think as a dancer I would have jacked-up feet, but my size five twinkle toes are adorable.

We cruise into the Hollywood Hills. It’s so beautiful up here. My exposure to Los Angeles, and to most of the world for that matter, has been limited to the airport terminal and the lobby and ballroom of the Los Angeles Airport Hilton. Life as a competitive ballroom dancer is rough, man. I didn’t go to prom—I was in Croatia at the Junior Worlds. No high school for that matter—I had to be homeschooled because of my competition schedule. I wasn’t even at my sister’s wedding. It was the weekend of Nationals two years ago and Ricardo wouldn’t consider it. She understood, but my parents were livid.

We pull up to this sick crib. A field producer shoves his head through the limo window and tells me to wait so he can set up the coveted first meeting shot. “Have a drink, babe. It’ll loosen you. Back in a few.”

Twist my arm, why don’t you? Producer’s orders . . .

Two glasses of tequila and coke later, he tells me he’s ready for me. I spray some gel into my hair, scrunch up the curls, take my new Christian Louboutin leopard print wedges out of my bag and slip them on, then shimmy out of the car. How’s that for an entrance, people?

Then reality kicks in. Christian Louboutin wedges hurt. I hobble along the paved driveway, praying that I don’t face plant and crash into the camera. Does it need to be an inch from my face?

“Okay, Salomé,” the camera director says. “You need to pretend that you have no idea who your partner is. Act surprised!”

I ring the bell and immediately Dolla opens the door. I saw on BET that this guy has some dude whose sole job in life is to hold his boss’s umbrella, yet The King Himself is opening his own door? So much for reality. Dolla’s wearing his own brand Jamal Trey white tracksuit with what looks like four carat diamond studs in each ear.

I stick out my hand. “Hi, Dolla. I’m so excited to meet you.”

“CUT,” the director shouts. “Okay, let’s do it again. Dolla go back inside.” The director grabs my hand. “Salomé, honey, I want you to scream or shriek. Tell him you’re his number one fan.”

“Okay, right. Sorry, guys.”

I rebalance my oversized handbag and dance shoes, take a deep breath, and ring the bell again.

Dolla opens the door.

“OhmyGOD!” I shriek as brainlessly as I can. “I can’t believe I’m dancing with you. I love your music.” I lean in to hug him. He smells divine. Cedar. Citrus. Rum. Damn.

His head cocks to the side and he embraces me. “Thanks, girl,” he says, way too loud. “I hear you’re da best dancer on the show. I need ta win dis thang. You game?”

“Hell, yeah—”

“CUT!” The producer waves me back. “One more time, people.”

“How long is this gonna take?” Dolla yells at the producer. “I don’t have time for amateurs.”

Amateurs? I’ve been a professional for over six years, thank you very much.

“Don’t worry, Dolla, I’ll take care of it.” Dolla slams the door on the producer’s face.

The producer leans in to me. “Salomé, girl, this time, let’s cut the price tag off your purse, shall we?”

I look down at my Coach purse. The tag is waving in the wind. Dang. Something tells me Vika wouldn’t be caught dead with her tag hanging out.

“C’mon, people, let’s try to get this before I die of old age. Hustle, hustle!”

I stumble back down the driveway for take number three, nearly killing myself twice. Stupid shoes.