I was numb. I couldn’t even remember how I got home. The only thing going through my head was, not good enough, not good enough, not good enough.

Inside my apartment, I sank to the floor, sobbing. I’d left Hillstone behind, and Hank and my parents—my whole life—only to be not good enough. Not good enough for anything but working at a diner. I buried my face in my hands and cried snotty tears into them. I’d come to Vegas with no back-up plan. No other goal than getting into EDT. Right now, that goal seemed impossible.

Something touched my hair and I reared back, my head hitting the door. Bronwyn stood over me.

“What’s wrong?” For once, her voice sounded kind. Not that she’d ever been mean. More brutally honest than anything.

I scrubbed my eyes, wincing at the black streaks mascara left on my fingers. “Nothing.”

Bronwyn snorted. “Really? I’d hate to see you upset then.”

I scrambled off the floor and walked away. “I’m fine.” I didn’t want to talk to Bronwyn about it, or anyone. Failure wasn’t something I wanted to broadcast to the world.

She followed me into my bedroom. “Look, I know I barely know you, but Frasier is my friend and he’d kill me if he knew something happened to you and I did nothing.”

“Thanks for your concern,” I said without turning around. “But there’s nothing you can do.”

I face-planted on my bed. The tears were gone but the sense of defeat lingered. I didn’t even want to think about what came next.

The bed rustled. Bronwyn was still there, another problem I couldn’t get rid of.

“You don’t have to tell me what happened,” she said. “In fact, I really don’t want to know.” I rolled my eyes. Too bad she couldn’t see. “Come out to dinner with me. It’ll take your mind off whatever.”

I didn’t respond.

“I’ll…pay.”

Those words sounded like they were difficult for her to say, and that in itself made me want to take her up on the offer. But I didn’t want to go out. I didn’t want to reapply my makeup and pretend life was peachy. I wanted to wallow in my misery. Truth was, I hadn’t had much of it so far. This whole misery feeling was new to me and I clung to it, though I had no idea why.

“Let’s go, Hale,” Bronwyn barked. I turned, trying to give her a dirty look. “Whoa, ugly. Go wash your face. You’re scaring me.”

My mouth dropped open.

“Move it, or I’ll revoke my offer and you’ll have to pay for your own dinner.” She headed for my door. “And put on something sexy, it always helps.”

An hour later, Bronwyn and I were at a small but fancy restaurant. Or at least, fancy to me. The only nice place we had in Hillstone was the Garber B & B, and the only thing that made it nice was their overpriced steak, red wine, and the candles they lit at night.

Bronwyn raised her wine glass to me. She had on a very short purple dress, tight around her hips, and stiletto heels. Her lips were colored purple to match her dress and a light dusting of glitter made her dark skin glow under the dim lights. And here I’d figured her for a tomboy. Her muscles, spandex outfits, and racing bike were very misleading. I was tall, but she had an inch or so on me. She would have been extremely intimidating if I hadn’t known she’d made out with my brother once.

Who was I kidding? She was still intimidating as heck.

“I asked Nico to come,” she said, “but he’s not feeling great.” I nodded like it meant something to me. “You’ll have to meet him another time.”

“Have you been dating long?”

“Over a year.” She skimmed the menu. “Nothing over twenty bucks, got it? I’m not made of money.”

I stared at the menu. The prices were decent, and I settled on a seventeen-dollar chicken and vegetables meal.

“How is Fraze, anyway?” she asked after we’d ordered.

“He’s good,” I replied, adjusting my top. I didn’t have a whole lot of sexy to wear—my dad wouldn’t allow it—so I’d settled on skinny jeans, heels, and a dark blouse. Bronwyn had been vocally disappointed. I refrained from snapping that I’d get a new wardrobe when I got a new life.

“I haven’t seen him in a few years,” I said. “But he’s good. Traveling all over, you know, being Fraze.”

She laughed like she knew exactly what I meant.

“Did you two make out, or not?” I asked. “It’s hard to believe everything Fraze says. Gotta set the record straight here.”

Her lips twitched. “If I told you the truth, it would ruin my reputation.”

“What reputation is that?”

She waved at herself. “Fraze isn’t exactly my type.”

“But you’re his?” I asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Every girl is Frasier Hale’s type.”

It was true, he wasn’t picky. He liked them tall, short, dark, light, big, small, mean, nice, smart, dumb, and every weird combination in between. Frasier couldn’t settle on a type any more than he could settle on a job or a place to live.

I stared Bronwyn down, waiting for a confession. After a few long minutes, not that she was intimidated by me I’m sure, she finally gave it up. “Fine, yes. We made out. I was fourteen and stupid.”

“You could do worse.” She could do better too, but I would never speak out against my brother. Even in my head it sounded like treason.

She swirled her wine around in her glass. “We’ve been friends ever since. That’s what’s really great about it, you know? Not the kissing. The friendship that came after. He still sends me these random postcards from whatever city he’s in, with lipstick kisses pressed into them. I can totally imagine him putting on sample lipstick in the drugstore, just so he can kiss the stupid things.”

I smiled.

“Are you going to tell me what happened now?”

I looked down at my plate. “I thought you didn’t want to know.”

“I don’t. But I have a feeling you need to spit it out.”

So I did. I told her about running away from Hank and his proposal, then my dream of dancing with Essence Dance Theater being crushed.

“Seriously?” she said. “That’s what you were all sobby about?”

I glared.

“So you didn’t get in this time. You’re what, eighteen?”

“Nineteen.”

“Whatever.” She leaned toward me. “You don’t give up after one try. How pathetic would that be? Take classes like that chick said. Practice. Get better. Audition again. And again and again if you have to.”

“I know, but—”

“Shut up,” she said, but there was no sting. “Do you really want to dance there? Or do you want to pretend like you do and whine about it while working at a diner for the rest of your life? Maybe you wanna go back and marry that hick after all because you have nothing better to do?” She leaned back, resting one arm beside her plate. “Yeah, you should do that. Forget all this. Vegas isn’t for you anyway. Go back and marry your cowboy and have a million babies.”

I bristled. “Just because I told you a little bit about myself, doesn’t mean you know me.”

“Run back home and you’ll be doing exactly what I expect.”

I hated that she was right. It would be easy to go back to the life I knew. To give up. I’d failed the first time, I didn’t know if I could handle it again. But I’d never get the life I was looking for if I slunk back home.

Bronwyn drummed her fingers on the table but didn’t say anything.

“Are you being a jerk to get me fired up?” I asked.

“If that’s what you want to think.”

“I hate you.” The words surprised me, I’d never said them to anyone before. But she laughed.

“I know. But stick around, you’ll grow to love me.”

To: Frasier Hale,

---

From: Margaret Hale,

---

I’ve got good news and bad news, which do you want to hear first?

I guess you have no choice since it’s my email and I’m God here, so there. (Don’t tell Dad I said that.)

The good news: Bronwyn and I are friends. Sort of. She took me out to dinner and reamed me out and was generally nice in a mean sort of way. I’m starting to see it—why you like her. We’ve hung out a few more times since and she wants me to meet her boyfriend, Nico, which I’ll be doing on Thursday because I finally get a night off from the diner.

Did I tell you I got a diner job? That’s not good or bad news, just a reality and I don’t really want to talk about it.

The bad news: I auditioned for EDT (Essence Dance Theater but that’s a pain to spell out all the time) but I didn’t get in. Miss Hugo, AKA Miss Brooke, told me I wasn’t good enough. Yep, those were her exact words and yep, they hurt like a you-know-what. But I’ve decided to take some classes and try again in the spring. A teacher at the audition told me I should, she was rooting for me, so at least there’s that.

Anyway, I’ve got a scripture apron to put on. (Don’t ask.) Have fun in Seattle. Wasn’t that whole grunge thing over in the nineties? Or do they still worship Kurt Cobain? Don’t wear too much flannel—it’s not a good look for anyone.

I took my first drop-in contemporary class at Fluidity after my shift at the diner on Thursday. I was exhausted from crabby customers and scripture-themed menu items, and my feet hurt something fierce, but I forced myself to go. I’d never improve my technique if I didn’t practice.

The studio faced a busy street where anyone on the road could look in and see the dancers. I paid my twenty dollars and then stretched while waiting for class to start. The class was a mix of adults and kids in their late teens, both men and women. I hung back but the teacher—an African American woman named Robbie—quickly drew me out. She had that way with all the students, engaging them in the class, and free with both praise and correction. The pressure to be the best threatened to stress me out, but Robbie made the class fun and I couldn’t wait to go back for another.

Afterward, I bussed back to the diner, grateful that I didn’t have to work the late shift. I was on my way to meet Bronwyn and her boyfriend at his place, which was supposedly nearby. Almost kitty corner to the diner, if I had the address right.

I glanced at the address in my phone and then at the building in front of me. It was a gym, large and square with a giant shirtless man wearing boxing gloves painted on one side, a sign proclaiming it Eastside Boxing. I must’ve typed in the wrong address, Bronwyn’s boyfriend couldn’t live here.

Movement down the road drew my attention. A tall man had ducked into a big SUV. He started the car, but didn’t drive away. From a distance, it seemed like he was looking at me. He probably wasn’t, but my heartbeat quickened and I darted inside the gym.

Inside, Eastside Boxing appeared empty. Lights shone over the front desk and down one side of the gym, but it was dark over the boxing ring. Punching bags hung from the ceiling, and there were mats on the floor. The faint hum of voices reached my ears so I planted myself in front of the desk, looking for a bell to announce myself. There wasn’t one.

I texted Bronwyn, asking if I was at the right place.

That’s the place. He lives upstairs. Running late. Be there soon. Just yell for him.

Shoving my phone in my purse, I peered around the gym. There was an upstairs landing at the back of the gym. I headed toward the voices, skirting the ring, my flats noiseless on the mats.

At the back of the gym, a light dangled over two guys fighting on the floor, one clearly winning. Two men stood on either side watching the fight, one tall and brown-skinned, the other short, stocky, and white. Both were wearing gray sweatsuits. I stopped, not wanting to interrupt a class. There was a cry. Blood flew.

I rushed forward. “Stop! What are you doing?”

Three big men all turned their ugly stares to me.