The Sweetest Fix
Tessa Bailey
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Reese held the audience in the palm of her hand.
There wasn’t a single movement in the sea of silhouettes.
She didn’t need a mental recitation of the counts because she’d been performing this routine since childhood. “All That Jazz” was engraved on her bones.
Hands up. Stretch. Make every movement of those fingers a meal. No wasted efforts.
She walked all five digits down her thigh like an elegant daddy longlegs spider, popping her left hip twice in quick succession. Bump. Bump.
Inhale.
Slow head roll.
There was a loud voice intruding in the back of her mind, peppered with static, but she ignored it and kept dancing, never breaking the spell she wove.
Toe ball heel, toe ball heel.
Step left. Cross it over. Turn.
She swayed those arms behind her, imaging them as peacock feathers, stopping on a dime to drop her knee, hips ticking like a clock, fingers snapping in time to the music. The grand finale was coming. It rose inside of her like the wings of a phoenix battling the north wind. Her emotions swelled along with it, tightening her throat muscles, excitement making her next few moves even sharper. Two turns were executed flawlessly, the tempo of the music picking up. She threw her head back and watched her hands arc, left then right.
Here it came. The applause. She could sense the audience gearing up to deliver the standing ovation to her home run. They’d walked in off the street, but she’d transported them into her world of glitter and lights and femme fatales.
Inhale. Quick head turn.
Throwing those hands up in the air, she was a puppet for the higher purpose.
A vessel for the arts.
Again, that nasal voice droned somewhere in the distance, saying something about free coffee in the lobby, but nothing could stop Reese from completing the final drop of those jazz fingers. Or from paying homage to that final genius note. And she did, satisfaction coasting from the top of her head all the way down to the sore toes crammed into the vintage oxfords she’d worn to capture Roxy Hart.
Finally, reality trickled in slowly and Reese opened her eyes, her stomach dropping to find her audience was not on their feet. The single elderly lady who’d stayed for the entire performance was perched on the leather seat of her walker, cleaning a pair of readers with the hem of her puff painted sweatshirt.
Reese determinedly swallowed the rust in her throat and waved at the pre-owned cars on the dealership lot. “Thank you!” She swept downward into a bow. “Thank you.”
“Thank you for coming to Cedarburg Chevrolet’s February Sales Event. Once you’re done browsing the lot, please feel free to come inside for a cup of free coffee. One again, the apple crumb cake is now gone. We apologize for any inconvenience this might have caused.” There was a high-pitched whine of feedback, then a muffled, “No, we don’t have any in the back, ma’am,” before the loudspeaker cut out.
Reese gathered her purple, faux-fur collared coat and wrapped it around her shoulders to combat the wintery Wisconsin wind, dropping her iPhone and connected speaker into the deep pocket and stomping her feet to keep the blood flowing.
She looked at the old lady.
The old lady stared back.
“Do you want me to wheel you inside?” Reese asked, blowing warm air into her hands.
“Yes.” The woman huddled into herself with a grumble. “The walkway was icy or I’d have been in there early enough to get the damn crumb cake.”
Reese circled around to the back of the walker and pushed it toward the lobby entrance, weariness settling into her shoulders. It was settling in faster and faster these days. Back in high school, it would take her hours to come down after a performance with her competitive dance team. Or after opening night of a high school musical. It hadn’t mattered where she performed or in front of whom—a real or imagined audience—only that she was performing.
Lately the glow started to fade almost immediately.
At twenty-one, her dreams of performing on Broadway were fading, too.
The people of Cedarburg, Wisconsin had spoken.
And they’d chosen Entenmann’s over Reese Stratton.
Even if she managed to scrape together enough money for a bus ticket to New York City for another audition, what made her think casting coordinators would feel any differently?
Reese used her hip to prop open the lobby door so she could push her unwilling audience of one inside, the warmth of the lobby sweeping around her ankles and thawing out her legs. She wheeled the woman to the coffee bar, which was teeming with more locals than the town pub at happy hour, and swept the showroom for the owner.
“Mister Mulcahey.” Reese plastered on her best smile, praying none of her lipstick had transferred to her teeth during the performance. “I’m all finished.”
Without looking up from his clipboard, he nodded.
Reese shifted in her oxfords. “About my payment…”
“See Cheryl at the front desk.”
“Will do! Thank you.”
Briskly, she turned on a heel, but the owner of the dealership stopped her progress. “Oh, uh, Miss Stratton.” He scratched behind his ear. “We don’t need you tomorrow.”
“Why? Tomorrow is Saturday. Is the sale ending early?”
He hurried to look back down at his clipboard. “No.”
“Oh.” She swallowed a handful of tacks. “Gotcha.”
Minutes later, Reese clutched the envelope containing a twenty-dollar bill to her chest and tried not to slip on the ice on the way to the station wagon she’d borrowed from her mother for the gig this morning. A bumper sticker affixed to the rear window read Dance Mom Taxi. To the right, there was another one that said Sorry, We’re Late for Dance. Directly above that one was Dance, Sleep, Repeat. All three of them were faded.
Reese threw herself into the driver’s side and started the engine. The radio came on full blast and she smacked it off, dropping her forehead to the steering wheel, watching her misty breath curl in front of the speedometers.
“If you stumble,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes closed, “make it part of the dance.”
On the drive home, she passed beneath a sign on Main Street heralding the 2021 Regional Dance Champions and their coach, Lorna Stratton.
Over the course of a decade, Reese’s mother, once a celebrated dancer in her own right, had led Cedarburg’s dance teams to regional victories—and even one state title. She was nothing short of a local legend. And although it riddled Reese with guilt to admit it, even silently to herself, Lorna was the last person she wanted to face right now, fresh from her mortification and holding twenty bucks. Walking proof that their dream for her hadn’t come to fruition.
Unfortunately, sneaking into the house wasn’t a likely possibility when the engine of the station wagon announced her arrival like a freaking missile launcher. Reese winced at the drag of the gear shift and shut off the engine, pulling her coat tight around her body and exiting the car, looking left and right upon entering the kitchen. Creeping on the balls of her feet—
“Reese’s Pi
eces! At last, you are home!” Lorna twirled into the kitchen on a painted pink toe, her shirt tied up beneath her breasts, proudly displaying her stretch marks and a couple of tattoos circa the eighties.
Reese’s lips curled into an automatic smile. It couldn’t be helped. She adored her single mother-turned-dance coach superstar mother. Truly, she did. The woman’s energy, optimism and confidence were unmatched.
It was just really, really hard for Reese to be around her when disappointment hung over the kitchen like a raincloud, casting everything that was once so bright in shadows.
“How did the performance go?” Lorna asked, perching her chin on folded hands.
“Amazing.” Reese upped the wattage of her smile. “You couldn’t drag them away.”
From the free coffee.
“That’s my girl,” Lorna said, coming around the kitchen island.
No, strutting. Doing kind of a slow step-bounce, her lips folded inwardly.
It was how she walked when she had big news. Or a secret.
Or when she knew who’d gotten sent home from The Bachelorette and was trying not to spill the beans but couldn’t help being super smug about it.
“Mom. What is it?”
“Oh nothing.” She dropped into a plié, pulling something out into the open from behind her back. “Only that you got a letter from the contest.”
Reese’s stomach dropped to the floor. “What contest?”
Which was a stupid question. A stalling tactic. She’d entered one contest and one contest only in the last year. Dance for Bexley.
Once a year, Bernard Bexley, famed Broadway choreographer and elusive New York City culture icon, chose five Broadway hopefuls to perform in his presence on the stage of the Bexley Theater. If they managed to impress the stoic luminary, he would green light them. In other words, he would make the appropriate calls to fast track the dancer to The Dream. Also known as a paying position in a Broadway ensemble cast. His assistance was invaluable.
The stuff of every dancer’s fantasies, including Reese.
“It’s probably a rejection,” she said now. “Thousands of dancers submit. From all over the country.”
“Don’t think like that!” Lorna scolded, slapping the envelope into Reese’s palm. “There’s no reason he wouldn’t pick you. That audition tape was transcendent.”
“It was pretty great.”
“Of course it was. I did the choreo and you slayed it.”
Reese blew out a breath and kicked off her oxfords so she could dance around on the balls of her feet. “Okay. Oh, Jesus. I’m going to open it.”
“Hold on. We need better lighting.”
Her mother tapped the dimmer switch, considered, tapped it again. “Perfect. Go.”
Reese slipped a finger beneath the envelope flap and paused. “Come on, Bexley.” She ripped it open and drew out the letter, her insides curling up like the Wicked Witch’s toes after the house got dropped on her head. Due to her utter anxiety, the lines were blurred for a moment before racing back together and clearing.
Dear Miss Stratton,
Congratulations.
We are pleased to inform you that Bernard Bexley will receive your three-minute audition at the Bexley Theater this year. Please read carefully and adhere to all Dance for Bexley Contest policies and procedures as written. There will be no makeups or schedule changes. If for any reason you cannot make your appointment on…
Reese dropped the letter and screamed.
Lorna echoed her, their faces inches apart.
“I’m in! I’m in!”
“Shut up! Holy crap!” They clung to each other, jumping up and down in tandem, their feet slapping down on the kitchen tile. “I can’t believe it. Thousands of people submit! From all over the country!”
Reese leaned away. “What was all that transcendent talk?”
“I meant it, but your odds were still horrible!”
“I know.” Tears blurred Reese’s vision. “Oh my God, I’m in, Mom. I’m going to dance in front of Bernard freaking Bexley.”
Her mother pulled a bottle of wine out of the cabinet, two glasses off the shelf. “When is the audition?” she asked, looking back over her shoulder.
Barely coherent, hands shaking, Reese stooped down and picked up the letter, savoring the opening line one more time before scanning for a date and…
Panic dropped like the steel blade of a guillotine.
“Oh my God.” She was already halfway up the stairs when the letter floated back to the ground. “It’s tomorrow!”
Chapter 2
No. This couldn’t be happening.
This had to be a nightmare.
Reese stared at the locked door of the Bexley Theater in a nightmarish haze.
The unthinkable had happened. She’d missed her audition.
She’d…shown up late to the appointment to change her life.
To make her dreams come true.
How? How?
Reese turned and fell back against the door, staring out at the lively Theater District street, and absently wondered how so many people could move that fast without bumping into each other. How did they change directions at the very last second every single time?
These people probably never missed anything important.
They would have parachuted off their delayed flight, right down onto the stage. Or rented a car when a snowstorm had forced the plane to land in Pittsburgh, instead of trying to save cash by buying a bus ticket. Once the bus got a flat tire on the turnpike, they would have gotten out and ran, instead of sitting frozen in her seat, hoping for a miracle.
These New Yorkers definitely would know what to do now.
Whereas she was at a complete loss.
One did not simply miss an audition with Bexley. The man was rarely seen in public anymore, deigning to attend opening nights on occasion and without warning. He descended from his lofty Upper West Side perch once a year to entertain the dreams of five hopefuls before becoming unattainable once again. There was no phone number to call and reschedule. The acceptance note she’d received in the mail wasn’t even on letterhead. No email address, no social media handles, nothing. Not to mention the rules were cut and dried.
Reese’s phone buzzed in her purse and she pulled it out, shoving it right back in with a squeak when she saw it was her mother calling.
Oh God, what was she going to tell her?
Of course, she’d kept Lorna posted about the travel delays, but they’d hung up with the understanding that she would beg, borrow and steal to get there on time. If she’d only splurged and rented the car, she could have made it.
Numb down to her toes, Reese shouldered the royal blue duffel bag with her name embroidered on the side and walked blindly into the fray of humanity, Times Square flashing with moving advertisements and color in the distance. She hadn’t eaten since scarfing down a bag of chips on the flight, but she wasn’t sure she’d even consume food again, considering her stomach had turned into a crime scene. Sick. She was going to be sick.
I missed my last chance.
And might as well admit it. That’s what this audition had been. She had no college degree or any other useful skill to fall back on. Since graduating high school, she’d been assisting her mother part time at the Cedar-Boogie Dance School, working night shifts at Dairy Queen. Using all of her spare money to attend dance classes in Milwaukee on her nights off. Appearing in community productions where she could as an ensemble dancer. Her plan since childhood had always been to see her name in lights. To succeed at the one and only thing she loved. On three separate occasions since high school, she’d saved up enough money to travel to New York for open casting calls, but she’d never gotten a callback.
Was this a sign from the universe that it wasn’t meant to be?
The next time Reese glanced up, she was in the thick of Times Square.
She slumped down on a stone pillar, bag in her lap, and watched the electronic stock market ticker tape fly left beneath a Cal
vin Klein billboard. And she tried to gather enough courage to take the phone back out of her purse and call her mother with the devastating news.
“Rough day, honey?”
Reese looked around for the source of the raspy voice, but none of the people currently zooming in both directions appeared to be speaking to her.
“Over here.” Again, she looked, but there was no one paying her the least bit of attention. “The Pikachu, honey. I’m literally sitting right next to you.”
“Oh.” She shook herself, doing a quick once-over of the man leaned up against the neighboring pillar. Indeed, he was well over six feet, dressed like the bright yellow Pokémon character, with a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth. “Er…hello.”
“Don’t feel bad for overlooking me,” he said, taking a long drag. “In my experience, not getting excited by a grown man in a costume is a good sign you’re a well-adjusted adult. We’re more for the kids, you know? It’s uncomfortable when grown-ups get excited over a Pikachu.”
Reese ordered up a smile, though it felt nothing short of sickly. “Well. If you were SpongeBob, all bets would be off.”
“Ouch. You really went there.” He clucked his tongue. “There’s a lot of competition between us yellow guys, you know.”
“I sincerely apologize.”
“Ah, I’m just fucking with you.” He offered her a yellow…paw? “I’m Link.”
“Reese.” She shook the cushioned felt. “And yes, you could say it’s been a rough day.”
“You want to talk about it?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“You sure? I’m dressed as Pikachu in Times Square.” He blew out a jet stream of cigarette smoke. “I’m the undisputed king of bad days.”
What would it hurt to unburden herself to this stranger at the crossroads of the world? There was virtually no chance that she would ever run into him again. Besides, she could see through the face hole of his costume that he was roughly nearing the end of his forties and the lines on his face gave him kind of a fatherly vibe. Or what she imagined might be one. At the very least, telling Link what happened would delay the phone call with her mother by a few minutes. “I missed my audition. It was a huge one, with the king of musical theater.” She swallowed, the reality of the situation washing over her again in a hot wave. “I had some…no, a lot of travel issues trying to get here with one day’s notice and it was my only chance. I can’t keep pretending I’m going to make it one day when that is becoming less likely by the minute.”
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