Page 22 of Bottle Shock
My stomach drops. “A dance studio?”
Irene nods, lips pressed into a wobbly smile. “Apparently, no one is willing to step up and take over once I’m gone, and the council says participation has been dwindling for years. Fewer volunteers, smaller audiences. The space already getsused for dance recitals and rehearsals, so they think making it official is the logical next step.”She sighs, and there’s a sadness in it that stings behind my eyes.“I’m just happy they aren’t going to tear down the building. There’s a lot of memories within these walls.”
She gestures toward the darkened stage, the ghost light burning softly at center. “Forty years—gone in the blink of an eye.”
I try to smile so I don’t cry, but my chest tightens. “You can’t leave. This place is?—”
“I know,” she interrupts softly. “It’s magic. It’s where I found my passion.” She takes my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze. “And where yours blossomed.” Her gaze softens, her usual theatrics fading for a beat. “But magic only matters if someone new keeps it alive.”
I frown. “But you said it’s being turned into a dance studio.”
She motions the thought away, the bracelets stacked on her wrists chiming in protest. “That’s only if no one steps forward. The city council is practical, not heartless. If they can find a new managing director—someone who knows what this place means—they’d happily keep the arrangement as it is. The dance company operating under the management of the theater, both parties sharing the space. It’s been working smoothly for years. There’s no reason it couldn’t continue.”
Her gaze slides to me, and I know what’s coming before she even says it.
“You’d be marvelous, you know,” she says, tilting her head, eyes glimmering. “You’re patient, seasoned—a true professional. You have thatsomethingthat can’t be taught or learned. You simply are, for lack of a better word, a shining star. Someone with your talent and love for the craft could breathe new life into this place. The theater could use that again.”
I blink, caught somewhere between flattered and panicked. “Me?”
“Yes, you,” she says, as if I’m being intentionally dense. “Who better than someone who grew up on this stage?”
“Irene…” I let out a small laugh that sounds shakier than I intend. “I’m only in town for a little while. A few months, maybe. Then I’m heading back to Chicago.”
She hums, unconvinced. “Chicago will still be there, darling. It’s been there since the fire of 1871—it can survive a bit longer without you.”
“I’m serious,” I say, smiling despite myself. “I came home to wait out the storm I left behind, not to start over. Once an opportunity arises, I’m out of here.”
Irene leans back, her bangles clinking again as she studies me with that knowing look she’s perfected. “Funny thing about opportunities,” she says. “Sometimes, they come from the most unexpected places, like the universe’s way of pointing you toward where you’re supposed to be.”
She rises, smoothing her floral scarf and turning toward the stage. The ghost light flickers, throwing her shadow long and thin across the worn floorboards.
“Think about it,” she says over her shoulder. “I can’t think anyone who would love this place with their soul like you would.”
As I’m walking to my car, replaying the conversation with Irene, a woman rounds the corner, carrying a tote bag and a stack of rolled-up posters. Her hair is pulled tight into a bun, her outfit all black—a wrap skirt over fitted shorts and a matching tank.
She reminds me of how my dance instructors always dressed.
It takes me a second to place her. It’s the bun. The hair is throwing me off.
And then it hits me—Kathleen. Thesame Kathleen I spotted at Novel the other morning, the one who was clearly talking shit about me. Her hair had been down then, glossy and curled around her shoulders, which is probably why I didn’t recognize her right away.
She catches my eye as she passes, and instead of a polite smile or even basic acknowledgment, her mouth flattens into a frown. Her eyes narrow—not quite a glare, but close enough.
No “hey.” No pleasantries. Nothing.
I stare after her, thrown by the brush-off.
Then, as I unlock my car, it clicks.
Kathleen is the dance instructor.
The one Irene mentioned.
Of course she is.
Walking into Malley’s Pharmacy is like stepping back in time. It looks almost exactly as it did when I was a kid—from the wood-paneled walls to the faded signs still advertising one-dollar ice cream bars, even though the price has since climbed to $3.99. The same glass candy jars sit behind the counter, the same squeaky ceiling fan spins lazily overhead, and the air carries just a hint of paper, antiseptic, and the powdered sugar from the bakery next door.
I run my fingers along the edge of a shelf stacked with greeting cards that haven’t been updated since 2008. There’s comfort in how little this place has changed. Compared to Chicago, which is always in a state of change, it’s nice to know Red Mountain moves at a slower pace.
