Page 93 of Forty, Flirty & F*cked

"But you learned." She taps my chin, making me meet her eyes. "Because someone believed in you. Someone caught you when you stumbled. Someone showed you that control is not the same as strength."

"This is different."

"Is it?" She raises one perfect eyebrow. "Or are you still that scared little girl, watching her maman slip away, believing that if she is perfect enough, strong enough, no one else will leave?"

Tears blur my vision. I shared that detail—about my mother Alzheimer’s—in confidence. "That's not fair, Celine.”

"Life is not fair, chérie." Madame's voice softens. "But that does not mean we stop dancing."

Dancing. Like the way Mom used to spin me around our kitchen, back when she still remembered my name. Back when she could still follow the steps of a simple two-step without getting confused, without that lost look creeping into her eyes.

"I used to dance with her," I whisper, not meaning to say italoud. "Near the end, when she'd get agitated. It was the only thing that still made sense to her sometimes."

"And now?" Madame asks gently.

"Now I count steps. Track movements. Fix things for everyone because..." My voice breaks. "Because someone has to. Someone has to remember. Someone has to stay strong. Someone has to?—"

"Stay?" She touches my cheek. "Or perhaps... someone needs to learn that staying does not always mean leaving first?"

My phone buzzes again:

CONNOR: I know you're running

CONNOR: I just wish you'd tell me what you're running from

CONNOR: Because I'm right here

CONNOR: Ready to catch you

"Go home, ma chérie." Madame squeezes my hand. "Before you forget the most important lesson of dance."

"What's that?"

"That sometimes..." She smiles sadly. "Sometimes the bravest thing is not letting go, but holding on."

I leave the studio, Seattle's rain mixing with my tears as I walk home. Because she's right.

I've spent my whole life being strong for everyone else. Being the support system, the fixer, the one who never needs help.

But maybe that's the biggest lie of all.

The annulment papers sit on my kitchen counter exactly where Kat left them, stark white against dark marble, waiting for signatures that will make this all go away.

That will make him go away.

I stare at the phone screen—at Connor’s words—until they start to blur, until my chest aches with everything I've been trying not to feel.

I look at the annulment papers again, at the neat linewaiting for my signature, at the chance to make everything simple again.

Safe again.

Empty again.

And suddenly, I know exactly what I have to do.

Even if it breaks both our hearts in the process.

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