A Season to Dance

by Rebecca Heflin

  Gone were the pale lavender walls and the posters of famous ballerinas like Gelsey Kirkland, Wendy Whelan, and Julie Kent, to name a few. In their place were robin’s-egg blue and paintings from various artists.

  Her trophies and ribbons had been relocated to her mother’s office, where her gold medal from the USA International Ballet Competition, the Olympics of ballet, hung in a shadow box behind Carly’s desk.

  She’d renovated the bathroom, upgrading the plumbing fixtures, adding a free-standing shower next to the tub, and retiling the floors.

  After washing her face, she ran a brush through her hair, detangling it before bed.

  It had been a long day, starting with the early arrival of Zach and ending with the late afternoon unloading of the supplies at the studio. Tyler had graciously come by to help with the heavy lifting, and it had been great to see him again. He had looked as handsome as ever with his sandy-blond hair and gray-blue eyes.

  And then . . . there was The Kiss.

  Closing her eyes, she pressed her fingertips to her lips.

  Seventeen years! Seventeen long, lonely years since she’d felt his mouth on hers. Dammit! Why’d he have to go and do that? Why couldn’t he have left well enough alone.

  Maybe she wasn’t over him, but at least she’d managed to get on with her life.

  As she undressed, she recalled her conversation with him in the pub. His belief in the veracity of the tabloid photos had troubled her. She couldn’t really say why. Frankly, it was none of his business if she’d slept with none of them or all of them. Just like his relationships were none of her business. At least that’s what she’d told herself while exercising restraint in asking about them.

  Brushing her teeth, she scowled in the mirror as she remembered his questions about her relationships. She’d only been semi-truthful about them. While it was true that she’d been in those two relationships, she hadn’t been in love with either one of the men. They weren’t jerks or anything. Far from it. Both were great guys.

  They just weren’t Zach.

  He’d been the love of her life, and she’d never met anyone who lived up to him.

  She’d been about nine years old when her mother bought the house two doors down from Zach and his father. His father had kept to himself, but Zach’s curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he’d wandered down as the movers arrived with their meager furniture and belongings.

  He’d been all legs and arms, not unlike her. His wavy hair a few weeks past a haircut, a skateboard tucked under his arm, he’d approached her with determined reticence. “Hi, I’m Zach.”

  “I’m Olivia.” She’d stuck out her hand to shake, only to have him stare at it like it held cooties. He’d finally reached out and curled her fingers into a fist then gave her a fist bump.

  Their friendship began that day. She couldn’t say it was love at first sight. Their relationship built through the years of science, math, and English classes, shared experiences like sitting at the old train station watching the trains as they lumbered past, speculating on where they came from, where they were going, and what they carried. Ice cream on hot summer days and hot chocolate on cold wintry nights. Swinging on her front porch, catching fireflies in jars, and skipping rocks on Polk Pond.

  Later, when he’d joined the junior high school baseball team, she’d gone to the games and cheered him on. It was somewhere around freshman year when something changed. The platonic feelings they shared for one another morphed into something . . . more. The first time he’d held her hand, a strange mix of both peace and excitement had settled over her. Nothing had ever felt so right.

  And nothing else had since.

  Two teenagers hopped up on hormones, it wasn’t long before they were sneaking into the dilapidated Hastings house for stolen make-out sessions.

  On the night of the high school talent show in their junior year, they’d made love for the first time. Despite their youth, inexperience, and raging hormones, it wasn’t something they’d taken lightly. They’d discussed it for weeks. Planned it all out. Olivia didn’t want to follow in her mother’s footsteps and get pregnant, and Zach wanted to ensure that Olivia was safe and comfortable.

  Zach took Olivia to a doctor in the neighboring town to discuss birth control and safe sex. Since they were both virgins, there were no issues with disease, so the doctor had given Olivia a prescription for birth control pills. They’d waited two weeks, a week longer than necessary, to ensure the pills would do their job. And then, after the show, Zach had taken her for the best dinner he could afford, at Dominick’s, before taking her to the abandoned house.

  When Olivia entered what had been the living room to find a bed made of layers of blankets and sleeping bags, flowers, camp lanterns, and an ice bucket with a bottle of champagne, she’d melted. She had no idea where he’d come by the champagne, but she’d felt very grown up drinking it.

  After a few sips of the cold bubbly, Zach had gathered her into his arms and kissed her with all the passion of a horny sixteen-year-old before looking her in the eye and asking, “Are you sure?”

  “As sure as I’ve ever been of anything in my life.”

  The distant blare of a train whistle shook her from her reverie.

  Those days were long gone, and she’d be better off if she put those memories behind her.

  Chapter Nine

  Heading back to the station at the end of his shift, Zach pulled up behind a white van he recognized as Carly’s. Likely Olivia leaving the studio for home.

  It had been two days since he’d pressed her up against the wall and kissed her. And two nights with little sleep. He couldn’t get the taste or the feel of her out of his mind.

  Coming home that night had only made matters worse. Even though he’d renovated the Hastings house, he couldn’t erase the memories of a sixteen-year-old Olivia laid out naked on the pile of blankets and sleeping bags, her pale skin aglow in the light of camp lanterns he’d set around the room.

  Looking back, they’d been so young, but no matter what anyone said, they’d loved each other. Deep, heartfelt, long-lasting love. And the other night, when he’d kissed her, and she’d kissed him back, that love came rushing back in all its soul-wrenching intensity.

  The van suddenly swerved into the oncoming lane before crossing to the shoulder, bringing him back to the present. Then another swerve.

  “Ah, hell.” He sure hoped Olivia, or whoever was driving, wasn’t texting. Zach flipped on his lights and siren.

  The van pulled off the road onto the narrow shoulder. Parking behind the van, Zach slipped his police ball cap on his head. But as he got out of his car, the driver’s side door in the van flew open, and Olivia jumped out and ran into the street, arms waving frantically.

  “What the fuck?” The vandalism came to mind, and he wondered if someone had done something to the car. Going on alert, he ran over to her.

  Before he could ask, she yelled, “There’s a bee in the car!”

  “Bee? Shit. Where’s your EpiPen? Did you get stung?”

  When they were thirteen, before she knew she was allergic, she and Zach were in his backyard working in a small vegetable garden he’d planted for his dad when she’d first gotten stung. It happened so fast—the swollen tongue, the difficulty breathing, and then the vomiting. He’d called 911, and the ambulance had taken her to the ER. Scared him to death. Since that day, she’d carried an EpiPen with her just in case.

  “I’m not stung. I’m not.” Her breath came in frantic pants.

  “Are you sure?” He took her by the arms and held her, so he could look into her eyes.

  “I’m sure.” She brushed hair out of her face as she steadied her breathing.

  He tugged her out of the road and over to the shoulder. “Okay, good.” His own heart raced to the point that talking was difficult, and he gave in to the compulsion to pull her into his arms and hold her. She went willingly.

  Damn, she felt good. No. Not good. She felt . . . amazing. His body remem
bered every plane and curve of hers.

  Wrapping his arms around her, he held her close as their heartbeats slowed. Her arms encircled his waist, and her breath was warm against his chest, conjuring visions of nights spent in the dilapidated house.

  He closed his eyes, wishing he never had to let her go. A car honked as it drove past, and Olivia released him. “I’m good. Thanks. I just need to make sure the bee is gone.”

  Reluctantly letting her go, he stepped back. “You stay here. I’ll check.”

  Although how he’d determine whether something as small as a bee had escaped, he had no idea. Just listen for buzzing he guessed.

  He checked the most obvious places—where the dash and front windshield met, the other windows. Finally, he climbed into the driver’s seat and set his hand on the console and . . . Fuuuck. “Found it!”

  Lifting his hand, he glared down at the stinger embedded in his palm. Better him than Olivia, but . . . shit. That mother hurt.

  Olivia had it on good authority that she would find Zach at The Firehouse Taproom that evening, so when she entered the pub, she hoped to find him sitting at the bar. Instead, she spotted Kristen sitting there, tapping a fingernail against the glass. Her body language spoke volumes. If they had been friends, Olivia would’ve walked over and lent her an ear. But as things stood, she pivoted on her heel with a surreptitious glance back . . .

  “If you’re looking for Zach, he and Tyler just left for the brewery—something about a new cinnamon apple ale,” Kristen threw over her shoulder without turning around. “But they’ll be back.”

  Crap. Busted. How’d she . . . ? The mirror behind the bar. With a mental forehead slap, Olivia made a self-conscious about-face and approached Kristen. Kristen picked up her glass and took a sip of her beer, and suddenly Olivia craved a beer herself. She rarely drank her calories, but with a resigned sigh, she sat on the barstool next to Kristen. When the bartender came over to her, she said, “I’ll have what she’s having.”

  “One Engine Company Lager coming up.”

  “You know drinking alone will give you a reputation,” Olivia said.

  Kristen snorted. “Like I don’t already have one.” Lifting a brow, she continued. “Besides, I’m not drinking alone.”

  Neil set the amber liquid in front of Olivia, and Kristen held out her glass for a silent toast. Olivia lifted hers and tapped it to Kristen’s.

  She studied Kristen a moment. She lacked the sass she’d so often wore like a mantle. “What’s going on?”

  “What makes you think something’s going on?” Kristen said, a defensive note to her voice.

  “I’ve seen that expression in the mirror a lot lately.”

  “What expression would that be?”

  “Melancholy.”

  Kristen nodded.

  “The business?” Olivia prodded.

  “No. It’s going gangbusters.” Kristen hesitated, heaved a sigh, then continued, “It’s the third anniversary of my mother’s death.”

  The almost constant weight of grief that Olivia carried around with her engulfed her with the reminder.

  “She was such a pill, but damn I miss her.” She took a gulp of her beer.

  Olivia could relate. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry for bringing it up. You just lost Carly. You don’t need to share my grief. You’ve got plenty of your own.”

  “It’s okay.” Olivia lifted her glass to the light. “We can drown our sorrows in Tyler’s excellent brew. Tyler Kincaide, brewmeister. Who knew?”

  Kristen snorted then turned her body to face her, a look of surprise on her face. “I never saw you as a beer-drinking kinda girl.”

  “It’s true I don’t drink it often—too many calories—but once in a while isn’t going to kill me. And when it’s this good, who’s counting calories?”

  Neil set a bowl of spiced mixed nuts and popcorn in front of them. “Ladies.”

  Kristen dug in, tossing a handful of popcorn into her mouth with one hand and sliding the bowl closer to Olivia with the other.

  “No, thanks. I have to draw the line somewhere. Do you want to talk about her? Your mom, I mean.”

  “No. But thanks for asking.” Kristen munched on the popcorn, wiped her hand on a napkin, then took another sip of beer. She tilted her head as she gazed at Olivia. “You know, I never really liked you in high school.”

  “No! Really?” Olivia shot Kristen a look of feigned disbelief.

  Kristen shook her head and laughed. “Guess it showed.”

  “Yeah. Especially when you wrote ‘Olivia is a skinny bitch’ on the locker room wall.”

  Kristen had the good graces to wince. “Damn. I was harsh back then.”

  Olivia snorted. “Back then?”

  Kristen lifted an indolent shoulder. “Okay, guess I haven’t changed much.” She turned her beer glass in a circle on the bar. “I hated you because you had something I thought I wanted. And you took it for granted.”

  A sharp stab of jealousy shot through Olivia. “Zach.” Of course she’d always known Kristen wanted him. She figured in all the years she’d been gone that Zach and Kristen would have gotten together. The scene in the grocery store had confirmed it.

  She nodded in agreement. “Zach.” Silent a beat, a soft smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “He was nice to me. He didn’t treat me like white trash.”

  Now it was Olivia’s turn to wince. Had she treated Kristen like white trash? “That’s Zach.” Not sure if she wanted an answer to her next question, she asked anyway. “So, what’s stopping you now?”

  “You mean besides the fact that he’s already given his heart away?”

  Olivia’s stomach lurched. To whom?

  “Don’t look so surprised. Of course, it’s you. It’s always been you.”

  “Me?” Olivia shook her head. “No. I left. He let me. End of love story.”

  Kristen turned on the barstool to face Olivia. “Are you still that blind?”

  Affronted, Olivia’s temper flared. “No. And I never was. I loved Zach.” Still did, apparently. “My plans included him, but he wouldn’t come with me.”

  “He couldn’t leave his father, you know that. And he wouldn’t let you sacrifice your career for him.”

  On a heavy sigh, Olivia lifted her beer. “No. He couldn’t. And wouldn’t.” But, dammit, she wished Zach had fought for her just a little. “And did you offer to console him by sleeping with him?”

  Kristen barked out a laugh. “No.”

  Olivia couldn’t say why the pit dissipated at her response, but she placed a hand over her stomach, grateful.

  “Not then anyway. I slept with Zach about . . . five years ago now.” Her statement came out as nonchalant as if she mentioned running into someone on the sidewalk.

  The pit was back and had apparently grown thorns. So, she hadn’t imagined the affection she’d witnessed between them. Unable to speak past the irrational tears in her throat, she stared at their reflection in the mirror behind the bar, unseeing.

  Heartsick, Olivia thought to leave, but Kristen’s hand on her arm stopped her. “But it didn’t work. We just didn’t . . . click. Couldn’t get past the friend zone.”

  Olivia jerked her head around to face Kristen in disbelief and relief.

  “Now we’re just good friends.” Lifting the glass to her lips, Kristen drained the beer in a single gulp and set the empty glass back on the bar. “Without benefits.” A sad smile flashed across her face then disappeared. “He helped clean out my mom’s trailer after she died, stood by me at the funeral, and chipped in when I was setting up the café.” Another pause. “I love him.” She turned and locked eyes with Olivia’s. “But only as a friend. And as a friend, I’ll defend him to the end, just like he’s done for me.”

  Olivia considered Kristen’s statement a moment. “And by that you mean from me.”

  Kristen shrugged. “From anyone.” She nodded in Olivia’s direction. “Including you.”

  “So you still h
ate me, then.”

  “Hate is such a strong word. But yes, if you break his heart again, I’ll hate you.”

  His? What about her heart?

  “Soooo, tell me, what’s it like dating a rock star?”

  “Well, thanks for the whiplash.” Olivia reached up and feigned rubbing her neck. “That’s an abrupt change of subject.”

  Kristen chuckled. “Sorry. I’ve been wondering that since you got home.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Olivia muttered, wiping condensation off her glass with her finger.

  Kristen made a sound in her throat—part cough, part snort.

  Olivia rolled her eyes. Not this again. “If I’d dated, read, slept with everyone I stood next too at a fundraiser, VIP reception, or social engagement, I’d deserve the title slut.”

  Kristen lifted a brow in challenge at the implication. “And those photos?”

  “Lies.” Olivia backtracked, “Well, the photos were real, but the stories were lies.”

  “The Prince?”

  “Amir?”

  “Why, was there another one?” Kristen asked, her eyes alight.

  Olivia scoffed. “No.”

  “That actor.” Kristen snapped her fingers trying to recall the name. “Kendrick Luther?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Okay, but Blade, right?”

  Olivia gave Kristen a look that said, What have you been smoking? “Not in this lifetime.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t believe everything you read.” Olivia lifted the glass and drained it, ready to end this conversation.

  “Well, if it isn’t the two prettiest women in Northridge.” Olivia turned with a start to see Tyler Kincaide enter from the back and all but felt Kristen stiffen and the temperature in the bar drop a few degrees.

  “Hi, Tyler,” Olivia said, climbing off the barstool to give him a hug.

  Tyler kissed her cheek. “Been wondering if I’d see you in here.” He cut a glance at Kristen, who kept her back to him.

  “Great place, by the way.” Olivia lifted her hand to indicate the pub. “And great beer.”