Page 123 of One Spicy Summer

She steps closer. “Then tell me.”

Silence pulses between us. “I didn’t just walk away back then.” I finally say, voice hollow. “I disappeared because my love for you would have cost us more than not being together. And your brother, he told me something. Something I didn’t understand until now.”

Presley blinks, tension rising. “What?”

“He said I wasn’t the only one keeping secrets. He told me if I ever came back, I’d learn the truth.”

Presley’s breath catches. Her mind is probably reeling through years of unanswered questions. Then I pull a worn envelope from my jacket, weathered and sealed with Rafe’s handwriting.

I watch her open it with shaking hands. Inside is a letter. And a photo.

A birth certificate.

Her brother… isn’t her brother.

Her parents aren’t her mother and father.

The truth unravels in a tangled knot of memory and clarity.

“Not only did I stay away because my father threatened your very existence, but also because I thought loving you was a betrayal.” I whisper. “But it was never wrong. Not like that.”

Tears slip down her cheeks, not from sadness, but release. “We lost years.”

I step forward and wipe her tears. “We have now. If you still want it.”

She doesn’t hesitate. “Always.”

I pull her into my arms as thunder rolls behind us, but inside, something cracks open and lets in light. Because sometimes, love isn’t a straight line. Sometimes, it’s a storm that tears through everything just to clear the sky.

“I’ll always want you, Ry Ry.” She admits.

“And I promise to be everything you want and so much more, Hellion. We will get through all of this.”

The studio was empty except for the low hum of the stereo still spinning in the corner. Golden afternoon light poured through the windows, catching on the floating dust, painting everything in a soft haze. Presley stood in the middle of the worn wooden floor, heart pounding harder than any beat she had ever danced to.

Across from her, Madame Dupanchane, the woman who had taught her every step, every reach, every leap, clutched something in her trembling hands. A photo. Old and faded. Presley saw her own eyes staring back at her from a younger woman's face.

“I didn’t want you to find out like this,” Madame Dupanchane whispered, voice catching in her throat. Presley’s hands shook as she was offered the photo. “But you deserve the truth.”

Presley stared at the picture, confusion knotting in her chest. Her mind refused to put the pieces together, refused to believe what her heart already knew.

“You’re... you’re saying…” She couldn’t even finish the sentence. Her mouth went dry.

Madame Dupanchane’s eyes filled with tears, not sharp or angry, but soft, full of years of regret, of prayers whispered into pillows late at night. “I’m your mother, Presley.”

The world tilted.

“So it’s true?” She gasped, stepping back, one hand clutching her chest as if to hold her heart together. “No, that's not... I have a mother. She…” Her voice cracked, all the lies she had been fed suddenly breaking apart under the weight of the truth.

“I gave you up,” Madame Dupanchane said, tears slipping freely down her cheeks now. “Not because I didn’t love you. God, Presley, I loved you so much it broke me. But your father left me. I was young, stupid, scared. I thought you’d have a better life without me.”

Presley shook her head, not because she didn’t believe her, but because shedid. Because deep down, some broken part of her had always known there was something missing, some connection she couldn’t explain.

“And all this time…” She whispered. “You were right there. Teaching me. Watching me. Loving me... and I didn’t even know.”

“I never stopped loving you,” Madame Dupanchane said fiercely, stepping closer but not daring to touch her. “Every plié. Every pirouette. I was trying to tell you without ruining your life. I’m so sorry, baby. I'm so sorry.”

She dropped the photo. It fluttered to the floor like a falling leaf.

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