“I get why you walked out on him,” Nia says as she stabs a fork into her Cobb salad with no avocado, no cheese, no egg, no bacon, and no dressing. “But you do realize that you were also walking out on fifteen large?”

“Sixteen,” I say, then grimace. “Wyatt offered to pay what would have been my winnings from the strip club, but I told him to keep his money.”

She flashes one of her superior looks, the kind that only a woman as perfectly sculpted as Nia can pull off. “Did you lose your common sense in your sofa cushions? What is wrong with you?”

“He makes me frazzled,” I admit, because there really is no other explanation. “He always has.”

She reaches across the table and stabs three of my French fries with her fork.

“Hey!” I protest. “If you’re hungry, try eating a salad with actual food in it.”

“I have a bikini shoot coming up. I’m dieting.”

I stare pointedly at the fries.

“That’s not a cheat. It’s my carb load for the day.”

I consider suggesting we check her sofa cushions, but decide it really isn’t worth it. Instead, I shove four fries in my mouth, just to make sure I get a few before she decides to load up a bit more.

“I still can’t believe that W. Royce is your Wyatt.”

“He’s not my Wyatt,” I say, making air quotes. “And I couldn’t believe it, either.”

“I don’t get why you bolted. I mean, come on, Kels. You killed it at a strip club. A strip club. So I think you’re ready for prime time.”

I jab another fry into some ketchup. “Maybe. But I’m not sure I’m ready for Wyatt. He—”

“What?”

How do I explain it? That certainty that once I open the Wyatt door, I’ll push through it at full force. I know that Nia will say that’s a good thing, but it’s not. That’s a scary thing. And I liked the feel of his hands on me a little too much.

He’s dangerous, that man. My heart already broke once over him. I’m not sure I could survive a second time.

“Kelsey?”

“He just scares me,” I say, then wait for her lecture. Except it doesn’t come. Instead, she just looks at me a little sadly and takes another bite of her pathetic, naked salad.

“And that’s not the only reason,” I rush to add, because suddenly it seems as if protecting my heart is a stupid reason that I have to justify. “It may be summer break, but I have a job. As a kindergarten teacher, you might recall. I can’t pose like that. Once the school gets wind of it, I’ll be out of work in a heartbeat.”

I teach at a public school, and the district is pretty conservative. Even if it weren’t, though, erotic kindergarten teacher photos just wouldn’t fly. If the school didn’t fire me, the parents would make my life miserable.

I can tell from Nia’s face that this point resonates with her. “The photos were really that racy?”

“Even you couldn’t imagine these photos,” I say dryly, to which she raises her eyebrows with interest.

“That seals it, then. Whether you’re in it or not, we’re going to the premiere.”

“Nia!”

“I’m just trying to lighten the mood.” She pushes her half-eaten salad away and leans back. “Maybe you ought to do it anyway. I still say it would be good for you.”

“No,” I say firmly. “It wouldn’t.” I don’t tell her that I thought that very thing last night, as I tossed and turned on Griff’s bed, where he insisted I sleep despite my protests. I’d tell myself I could never pose like that, and especially not around Wyatt. Then I’d tell myself that the only thing in the world that I really wanted was to do exactly that. To feel for longer than a few short minutes the way I’d felt when he’d touched me last night.

In other words, I’m a mental mess, and I’m not even around the guy.

“Have you considered that you can see him but not pose for him?”

“You mean date him?” The idea makes my body warm in a positively lovely way. “I couldn’t possibly.”

Her gaze dips to my wrist. “Cool bracelet,” she says, glancing at my silver cuff in the shape of infinity. “I don’t think I’ve seen it before.”

“Oh.” I feel my cheeks burn, and I’m absolutely certain that Nia knows everything. “I’ve had it for a while.”

“Uh-huh.”

I slide my arm back under the table, then use my other hand to sip my iced tea. I’d gone home to change after I woke up at Griffin’s. But I don’t know what possessed me to pull the bracelet out of the box of keepsakes I store on the top shelf of my closet, much less why I decided to wear it today.

Then again, maybe I do know. Because the bracelet is a reminder of something I want—but also something I can’t have.

Nia’s eyes go from the bracelet to mine. “You want to tell me again why you can’t possibly date the guy?”

“Dammit, Nia,” I snap, and she laughs.

“Tsk-tsk. Language, Kelsey.”

I sink back in the booth. “You’re pushing my buttons.”

“Too bad you want them pushed by someone else.”

I glare, but otherwise ignore her smug expression and singsong voice.

“I’m just saying.”

“Fine,” I snap. “You win. I’m not going to date him for a lot of reasons. Not the least of which is because he’s not interested in me. He’s still holding a grudge. All he wants to do is punish me. He said so himself.”

“Oh, please. He said he wanted to punish you, and then he got you all hot and bothered? No. Trust me. He wants you. He’s pissed at you, I’ll buy that. But he wants you.”

“Well, he can’t have me, because there’s still reason number two—he’s not good for me.”

“I’m not so sure about that, either,” Nia says. “You’re a mess today, I’ll grant you that. But you’re also kind of glowing.”

“I am not.” But I don’t protest too much, because part of me knows she’s right. Yes, I bolted. But the reason I did has a lot to do with the way he made me feel. Lit from the inside. Alive.

And, yeah, there might be a bit of a lingering afterglow.

But that really isn’t the issue.

“Being with him isn’t good for me,” I repeat more firmly. “And it definitely isn’t good for other people.”

Her shoulders fall as she exhales, then reaches for my hand. “Sweetie, what happened to Griffin wasn’t your fault.”

“Yeah,” I say, tugging my hand away. “It was.”

“Fine. Whatever. I’m not going to argue about it anymore. You think it was your fault, then fine. Avoid Wyatt. But don’t avoid life. You’re wound up too tight, girlfriend. And you know your father’s an ass—I know you know, because we’ve talked about it. You need to let go a little. Because if you don’t, you’re going to suffocate and die inside. You’ll be walking and talking, but you’ll just be a shell of Kelsey. You know I’m right, even if you won’t admit it out loud.”

I blink back a sudden rush of tears. Because she is right, but I’m not sure that matters.

“I’m scared,” I whisper, and she deflates a little as she looks at me with compassion.

“I know,” she says, and this time when she takes my hand I let her hold it. “But I promise I’ve got your back. Always.”

Nia’s words linger like some horrible prophecy as I arrive at the dance studio and greet my pint-sized dancers.

I look at them in their little pink leotards with the pretty pink bows in their hair, and I can’t help but hope that their parents cherish them. That no one will ever warn them that they’re hiding from life, and if they aren’t careful they’re going to suffocate.

I want these girls to know that they can grow up to dance and date and do whatever they want, and not have the voice of a wounded parent whispering in their ear, making them think they have to be someone other than they are.

The hard part is that I get it. I really and truly understand that my dad’s to blame for the shell that Nia sees around me. And, heck, I see it, too. But shells are hard by definition, and I’ve been trying without success to break out of this one for years.

I shake off my melancholy and clap my hands. “Okay, girls. Everyone to the mirror for warm-up.”

They scurry away, some graceful, some clunky. I don’t think I have anybody in this class who’ll grow up to take the stage, but what I want for them is to not only develop a love for dance, but to also be comfortable with their bodies. To realize that it really is only a shell, though hopefully not as stifling as the one Nia described. And that they need to take care of it even while they use dance to escape from it. Because no dancer ever stays inside herself. That’s the point. To rise up with the music. To chase your soul. With your body only coming along for the ride.

“Can we jump, Miss Draper?” Amanda asks after the warm-up, and all the other girls bounce and shout, “Please, please!”

And even though I have another class planned out, I agree. Then line them up across the room, remind them of what to do, and then stand by as each races toward me, gathers her courage, and then leaps up, trusting me to catch her the way Johnny catches Baby in Dirty Dancing, one of my all-time favorite movies.

We do three rounds of jumps, then rehearse for the parent recital coming in four weeks. And then that’s it. The time has literally flown by.

I accept all the hugs and promise I’ll see them at the next class. Then I lock the door behind them, and for the first time in days I can completely relax. Because I don’t have another class until Zumba, and nobody else is using this room until then.

I go to the jam box, turn on the music, and simply dance. Sometimes I rehearse a routine or try to choreograph something new. But not today. Today, I just want to get lost. And as the music takes me, I let go, relishing the freedom of the melody. The power that fills me. And not just the strength in my limbs, but the wellspring of emotion that rises inside me.

It’s as if I’m soaring. As if gravity means nothing. It’s wonderful and thrilling and exciting.

I’m letting go completely, and that’s something I never do in the real world. But in here, with the music, I’m always me.

It’s the only place I’ve ever truly felt like me.

But as I fall to the ground in time with the final strains of music, breathless and alive, I realize that’s not entirely true.

I felt this way twelve years ago in Wyatt’s arms.

I felt it again last night.

And I’m not sure that I have the strength to stay away from the one man who can truly bring me to life.