Page 72 of Fifth Avenue Fling

Technically, I’m doing as he told me.

***

Sam heads back outside to sit in the car while I’m led into the viewing gallery of the ballet studio.

I’m nervous as hell. Is this a stupid idea? What if Teagan doesn’t want me here? I didn’t tell her I was coming.

I expect a school gym like the one where I used to play netball but find myself in a large intimidating studio with mirrors on all the walls and bright lights reflecting off them. The viewing gallery above the stage is packed.

It takes me a moment to register which dancer Teagan is. They all look alike with their blue leotards and soft satin shoes as they point and flex on their tiptoes, warming up. With the mirrors around the studio walls, it looks like there are twice as many of them.

At least the food coloring has faded to a dull red.

Some chatter, looking relaxed. Others stand in statuesque poses, deep in concentration.

Teagan looks nervous. She’s alone as she stretches, arching her body and reaching her arms to the ceiling. She doesn’t even look up at the viewing gallery.

From the crowd in the viewing gallery, it seems everyone’s parents are here except for Teagan’s. There are even some kids.

I squeeze into the only vacant seat left in the second row behind all the parents chatting.

This seems like a bigger deal than Sam thought. Does Killian realize?

“Places, ladies!” the teacher barks. All the girls fall into line.

Just as the music begins, Teagan looks up and sees me. Her eyes widen in surprise, then her mouth forms a confused frown. Oh no, she doesn’t look pleased.

I wave down nervously.

Then slowly, she nods and smiles. Her lips quirk up into a crooked smile, her face torn between two emotions.

It’s a start.

She takes a deep breath and steps forward as the music changes. From my limited knowledge, I think it’s fromSwan Lake, although I’ve never seen a ballet before.

Their feet fly across the floor in a continuous flurry of twirls and leaps. I feel absurdly proud.

And sad. Killian should be here to watch his daughter.

“Teagan Quinn!” the teacher says sharply. “Please try to keep up. Less ego, more focus.”

Less ego? That was unnecessary. She didn’t need to call her out so abrasively. Would she treat her the same if Killian were here?

Teagan’s face burns with shame as she stumbles, falling slightly out of sync with the other dancers.

She tries to regain her composure, but the bitchy teacher barks another passive-aggressive command, and she struggles to find her footing.

Some of the other girls get reprimanded, but it’s in a much softer tone. With Teagan, there’s an undercurrent of something stronger.

What is this woman’s problem? She’s watching Teagan, ready to pounce on any mistake.

The teacher snaps at her again, and I resist the urge to yell for her to stop. This is really uncomfortable to watch. It’s like she doesn’twantTeagan to do well.

Flustered, Teagan nods and tries to follow her instruction, but the bitch isn’t helping her; she’s putting her on edge.

I glance up at some of the other parents, wondering if I’m being paranoid. They’re smiling, in their own bubble, captivated solely by their kid’s performances.

But the more I watch Teagan’s face, the more I know I’m not imagining this.

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