Page 169 of After All This Time

I’m going to be sick.

TOBIAS

You’ve got this. I promise you, baby. This is everything you’ve been working for.

AMELIA

You’re sitting where you always sit, right?

TOBIAS

I’m right here. If you need me, find my face.

Nineteen months ago, New York called, just as I'd always known they would. How could they not? Amelia was the kind of dancer who made people forget to breathe, and it was only a matter of time before someone came knocking. She'd just wrapped up her second tour with the Royal Chicago Ballet, and her name was starting to gain weight in the industry.

That someone happened to be from the New York Ballet—the dream.

They scouted her during a performance in Philadelphia, where her solo earned her a standing ovation that seemed to last forever.

I remember the way her hands trembled when she told me about the audition offer. Doubt threaded through her words like she couldn't see what was so obvious to the rest of us—that she was inevitable and that stages like New York were built for her.

She didn't just earn her spot in the New York Ballet—she claimed it like a queen claiming her throne. Like it had been waiting for her all along, and watching her step into her element, seeing her name on playbills, hearing people whisper about her—it's everything I always knew would happen for her.

New York didn't just call. They fucking begged.

The only hard part about leaving Chicago was saying goodbye to Jen and Harry, who are still lost in their own little world, completely wrapped up in each other, and to Logan and Harper, but we see them all as often as we can.

Logan and Harper got married last month, and it was beautiful—small, intimate, and perfect. It gave us a reason to head back to Chicago and spend time with the people who have been by our sides through everything.

Zane and Tessa moved to Dallas a while back, trading city chaos for suburban bliss, and as much as I miss them, weekly FaceTimes with Blondie, the professor, and their little terror, Kimmy, make the distance bearable.

That kid is a whirlwind of energy, all blonde curls and mischief, but the second she looks at me with those wide amber eyes and calls me "Uncle Tobes," I'm done for. Wrapped around her tiny, sticky little finger, and she's not even out of diapers yet.

When they visit in a few weeks, I'll finally get to scoop up their little princess again, and I know she'll have me melting into the most broody asshole ever. Something I blame Amelia for—her warmth, her huge heart, and the way she makes me want things I never thought I would.

Tonight is Christmas Eve, and my girl is stepping into the role of Clara inThe Nutcracker—Amelia's first lead role in the City of Dreams, a role that makes or breaks careers, the one little girls dream about while clutching their first pair of ballet shoes. And tonight, my girl's taking center stage.

She's been part of the show since the season started, part of the ensemble cast that moves like one fluid entity. I've watched her blend into the background, making it look effortless, even though I know better. I've seen the bruises, kissed the blisters, and held her through the doubt.

When Francesca's family emergency left them without a Clara, the director didn't hesitate. One phone call, and suddenly, Amelia wasn't in the background anymore.

The last few weeks have been brutal. Beautiful, but brutal. She's pushed herself past breaking, then kept going. I've found her in the studio at midnight, hair falling out of her bun, sweat-soaked and shaking, running the same sequence again and again until even the mirrors looked tired. She's chased perfection like a woman possessed, and tonight, she's not just chasing it—she’s living it.

The theater is buzzing, the kind of hum that happens when magic is about to unfold. I'm sitting in the audience, surrounded by people who have no idea they're about to watch a girl from Pennsylvania set their precious stage on fire.

The lights suddenly dim. The audience falls silent, and my heart pounds so hard I swear the people next to me must hear it.

Show them, baby. Show them what you're made of.

My beautiful brunette is poised in absolute stillness, her silhouette carved from shadows and light like she's something otherworldly.

The moment stretches as if time itself doesn’t dare interrupt her. Then, with the faintest tilt of her head, her body starts to move, and it’s magic, the kind of beauty that makes you ache just to witness it.

I’ve watched her dance a thousand times before in studios, in rehearsals, and on stages, but never like this. This is different. This is Amelia stripped bare, pouring every ounce of herself onto that stage and commanding the world to see her.

And fuck, do they see her.

The audience is mesmerized, their collective breath held as she transforms the story into something alive, something that cuts straight to the soul. But me? I can’t focus on any of that. I’m too busy being destroyed by the woman I love.

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