Aaron's silence was jagged. "I know," he muttered finally. "No need to remind me."
I had left them there, their words ringing in my ears like broken glass. I didn't intervene. I didn't want to. Instead, I turned all that energy into the work.
I hired a new stage manager or at least, I tried. While searching, I took on the job myself. It was exhausting but satisfying, almost like a punishment I chose. By the end of each day, I collapsed into bed with the weight of it all pressing against me, but at least it was my weight. My choice.
On the eve of the performance, when I stepped into January's house, I expected the usual quiet. What I found instead was noise, unexpected and alive. Usually, her place was as composed as she was—quiet, elegant, the kind of polished calm that made you sit up straighter without realizing. Tonight, though, the air smelled like garlic and butter, and laughter ricocheted down the marble hall.
I followed the sound into her kitchen and froze.
May was on a chair in her socks, teetering dangerously as she stretched toward the top shelf, muttering like she was on a mountaineering expedition. Marchy stood at the stove, wielding a wooden spoon with mock seriousness, as if she'd been promoted to executive chef at some five-star Parisian restaurant. And January, perfectly composed in cream silk pants and not a hair out of place, was setting the long glass dining table with delicate porcelain plates and sparkling crystal stemware, like the chaos behind her was part of some avant-garde performance piece.
"Surprise!" they all shouted when they saw me.
I blinked. "What... is going on?"
"A girls' night," January said smoothly, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her smile was small but triumphant. "Tomorrow's your performance. You've been carrying nerves like lead weights, and I don't intend to let you go on stage with that look on your face."
"With food," Marchy chimed in, dramatically waving her spoon. "Heaps of it."
"And with dessert," May announced, hopping off the chair with the spice jar clutched like treasure. "It may or may not survive the oven. Place your bets now."
I dropped my bag by the door, laughing. "Oh my God!" and rushed to hug them all.
The table was a riot of contradictions: steaming pasta in a designer serving bowl, garlic bread slightly charred on the edges but perched neatly on January's silver tray, and a salad that looked like it had been thrown together in three minutes flatbefore being dramatically centered under the chandelier. It was imperfect, loud, and messy—against the backdrop of January's refined, gleaming kitchen, it was almost comical.
But it was perfect. Exactly what I didn't know I needed.
"Where's December? I've been trying to call her, but it just goes straight to voicemail," I asked, glancing around the room like she might suddenly pop out from behind a chair.
May glanced at me, her smile faltering. "She left for a while."
I frowned but let it go.
"Anyway, tell us about the performance!" Marchy demanded, nudging me. "Are we getting front-row seats or what?"
"Front row? Please," January scoffed, flipping her hair. "We deserve backstage passes."
We all dissolved into laughter again, the kind that tightened my ribs.
That's when Aaron's name lit up my phone. I let it ring, pretending not to notice, but my friends did. Their eyes were already on me, and I braced for the questions I knew were coming.
"So," May said, her voice dripping with implication. "How do you feel about him?"
I froze for a beat, then sighed. "I don't want to talk about it, really. He's been trying, I know. I know he feels guilty, I know he's sorry. I just don't think that'll ever be enough."
"Yeah, well, he's always been crazy in love with you," May said, tilting her head like she was delivering a fact instead of an opinion. "So going back to his high school sweetheart was a shock to all of us, but you know—nostalgia makes people do the dumbest things. I once almost called my ex because I missed the way he made pancakes."
"You mean the guy who burned your curtains?" Marchy snorted.
"Still the best pancakes I've ever had!" May shot back.
They cracked up, and I couldn't help but roll my eyes, though the corner of my mouth twitched.
"If you give him a chance," Marchy said once she'd caught her breath, "you know it won't be as before. You're both different now."
I said, shaking my head, "I want to focus on my performance right now. I pushed him and everything related to him, way, way to the back of my mind."
"Okay, but more importantly; are the costumes actually danceable this time, or are you all going to suffocate in sequins again?"
