She wasn't one for lingering hugs—hers were more like quick promotional handshakes at a networking event. We brushed shoulders for about two seconds before she was already reclaiming her personal space. Her eyes did a quick once-over, sharp and assessing, like she was evaluating a pitch deck. "So... your Moonboy."
"My what?"
"That guy who's basically running a 24/7 campaign to win your attention," she said, straight-faced. "Subtle branding, strategic appearances, consistent messaging. I work in advertising, Junebug—trust me, I know a well-planned campaign when I see one. If you were a product, he'd be your number-one advertiser."
I laughed, shaking my head. "You're impossible."
"Speaking of impossible, guess who's been calling me," she said, narrowing her eyes in mock disgust. "your old flame, The Aaron Loser. Mr. Can't-Make-Up-His-Mind, Captain Grass-Is-Greener, human boomerang, Prince of Poor Decisions, Romeo of Regret, emotional depth of a kiddie pool, your personal cautionary tale in human form... the Aaron Tragedy Special, now with extra bad judgment.."
"Jan—"
"He's desperate. Practically panting through the phone and apparently determined to win you back." She rolled her eyes. "Men like that should come with warning labels."
I laughed harder than I wanted to, leaning against her kitchen counter. "You're terrible."
"Terribly accurate," she corrected, sipping her coffee.
After dropping my bags in the guest room, I told her, "I've got to stop by the studio. Check in with Leo, Alice, everyone. See how things are running."
She waved me off. "Go. Do your artistic goddess thing."
The studio was warm and alive, the low thump of bass from the next room blending with the scent of rosin, fabric softener, and fresh coffee. Leo met me at the door with his usual grin, sweeping me into a hug that smelled faintly of cologne and sweat.
"Finally," Leo said, leaning dramatically against the barre like he'd been waiting weeks for this moment. "The queen has returned to her kingdom."
Alice popped her head out from behind the front desk, a clipboard in hand instead of her usual water bottle. "And just in time. We've survived, but barely. You should've seen us juggling last week's rehearsal schedule."
We caught up quickly, Leo filling me in on a couple of the students' progress, Alice detailing which parents had been late on costume payments and which lighting rentals were still up in the air. Then, inevitably, the conversation shifted.
"So," Leo began, tapping the barre like it was a drumroll, "about this big performance... I'm thinking we open with just you and me. A duet—something sharp but fluid—before we pull the students in for the final sections."
"I like it," I said, already picturing the stage. "It gives us room to set the tone before the energy shifts."
"And we can stagger the student entrances," Alice suggested, flipping a page on her clipboard. "Keep the audience's attention building instead of dumping everyone on stage at once."
Leo nodded. "We'll need at least three rehearsals with just us before we even think about bringing them in."
"And costume designs early," Alice added. "If we wait too long, shipping will be a nightmare."
We moved into problem-solving mode instantly, plotting the arc of the piece, debating music edits, and figuring out which of the more advanced students could handle featured moments without panicking. The air felt alive again, humming with the kind of energy that only comes when an idea starts to turn into a plan.
After some time, I stepped outside into the late afternoon glow, still warm, and there he was.
Aaron.
Leaning against a lamppost like some kind of movie cliché—only he looked better than I remembered. More built. Tanned. Like life had forced him into the gym and out of his old habits. His hair was shorter, his jaw sharper. His eyes lit up the second they found me.
"Hey," he said, pushing off the post, stepping forward like he was about to pull me into a hug.
I froze. My body stiffened, instinct pulling me back.
His smile faltered, hope flickering in his face.
"I... missed you so much," he said quietly, almost pleading.
I said nothing, and that silence must have pushed him to keep talking.
"I've been... fixing things," he said, his voice steadier now, but there was a roughness to it, like every word was scraped out from somewhere deep. "Not just for you—for me. I had to look in the mirror and face the fact that I wasn't the man you deserved. I thought I was, but I wasn't. I was selfish. Blind. I let my ego drive everything, and it cost me... you."
