Page 161 of After All This Time

The tattoo machinefires up, and I close my eyes when the first scratch of the needle hits my skin. I let the pain ground me, allowing it to seep into my skin along with the ink.

Because this one's for her.

Chapter 60

Amelia

I've performed so many nights now, you'd think I'd have a handle on my nerves, but opening night always comes with the same tight knot in my stomach. There's just something about stepping onto a stage in a new city that makes my stomach flutter. But no amount of butterflies compares to the pressure of knowing that in two nights, Mom and David will be sitting in the audience. My mom isn't coming to watch me dance but to drape herself in my success like a designer gown, stealing every sliver of spotlight she can. While David's just a puppet, dragged along like some sad, silent accessory, existing solely for appearances.

I miss my mom.

I don't miss the now—I miss the then.

It's been so long since the woman who raised me in a cramped two-bedroom apartment seemed real that I sometimes wonder if I hallucinated my entire childhood. Back then, life wasn't perfect, but it was ours. My mom treasured bedtime stories,sitting cross-legged on the couch, eating dinner on our laps, the TV flickering with some cheesy movie.

However,thatwoman is dead and buried under designer clothes. Slowly, over years of cocktail parties, lavish dinners, and country club memberships, she's been replaced by someone else—a money-fueled, image-obsessed fucking monster who wouldn't dream of something so mundane now. That mom, the one who once tucked me in at night and kissed my forehead, doesn't exist anymore.

There's no resurrection story here. No magical moment where she'll wake up and remember who she used to be. That version of her is gone, cremated in the flames of her own ambition, and all the wishing in the world won't bring her back.

But here's the thing about loss—sometimes it leads you straight into salvation. If she hadn't morphed into this Stepford nightmare, if David hadn't dragged us into his world of wealth and pretension, I never would have found Tobias.

The past is gone. The future is mine. And maybe it hurts to let go, but I'd trade the ghosts of what was for the chance at what could be with Tobias every single time.

The music starts, and my muscles are already screaming. Thirteen hours of rehearsal will do that to you, but nobody out there in those plush velvet seats wants to see the ugly truth behind the beauty. They don't want to know about the bleeding toes or the ibuprofen we pop like candy.

We hover in the wings like hungry ghosts, waiting for our cue. My part's nothing special. A few seconds of choreographed movement on stage right, mirroring Marcus on my left, our bodies filling the space like human wallpaper. But it honestly feels like I'm flying every single time.

Some nights, when my hips are burning and my feet feel like they're dancing on broken glass, I wonder if this is whataddiction feels like. Because even with the small role, I can't imagine doing anything else.

Two hours later, I'm peeling off my costume. I've yanked my hair out of its performance-perfect bun and scrubbed away the stage makeup that made me look less human and more like a porcelain doll. The mirror shows the truth—dark circles under my eyes, a bruise blooming on my hip from a bad landing, and the permanent calluses on my feet that no amount of pedicures will ever fix.

Throwingmy bag over my shoulder, Idrag myself onto the waiting bus. Harper collapses beside me, and neither of us speaks; there's no need to. We're living the same dream, chasing the same high, and destroying our bodies for those precious moments under the lights.

It's not the glamorous life people imagine when they think of ballet. There's no sugar plum fairy bullshit here—just blood, sweat, and the kind of dedication that borders onmadness. But when those stage lights hit, I remember why I've spent most of my life working my ass off for it.

The drive to the hotel doesn't take long, but it also feels like forever. Honestly, I can't wait to collapse into bed. Nobody warns you how mentally exhausting life on the road can be—constantly moving, never staying anywhere longer than a week, living out of a suitcase that somehow gets heavier even though you're sure you're losing things along the way.

Physically, I'm fine. My body's used to the grind. But my brain? It's tired. As much as I love the tour, I miss my bed.

After dropping Harper off at her and Logan's room down the hall, I shuffle to mine, ready to pass out for a solid eight hours. But when I reach into my bag, my key is nowhere to be found.

"What the…" I mutter under my breath, dropping my bag to the ground. I dig through it again, pulling out random items like a frantic raccoon—still nothing.

With a groan that comes from deep in my soul, I grab my bag and drag myself back down the hall to Harper and Logan's room. When I knock, they both open the door, smiling at me like a pair of creepy-assclowns.

"Can I come in and use the phone?" I ask, already exhausted by the effort of standing."I need someone to come unlock my door."

"Where's your key?" Logan asks, still grinning at me.

My eyes narrow, suspicion bubbling up as I take in the matching smirks plastered on their faces. "What are you doing right now?"

"Us? Nothing," Logan says, feigning innocence, but the sparkle in his eyes says he's full of shit.

"Where did you last have your key?" Harper chimes in, all too casual.

"It was in my bag, where it always is." I huff, crossing my arms. "You two are being weirdly annoying right now with those faces."

Harper's practically vibrating with contained excitement. "Maybe you should check your room."

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