For once, thoughts of Ransom didn’t distract me. He wasn’t there, off at therapy making Keira leave the lake house after three days secluded alone in her studio ignoring her life. But Mack needed her. Koa did and Ransom’s therapy was the distraction that pulled Keira back into the world.
I ignored the other parents as they looked away from the studio window, trying to catch a glimpse of Keira, likely wondering why she hadn’t bothered with make up or even cared enough to change out of her yoga pants before she brought Mack in for practice. I’d reached out to her, squeezing Keira’s hand, but left it at that, realizing that the small show of support I gave had helped at least a little. The threatening tears had stopped when I glanced back at her face. Then I listened when the words finally came to her, letting her curse Kona because it made her feel better. She didn’t ask for my advice and I didn’t offer it. Maybe I should have, but hell, what did I know about love? Who on God’s green earth would listen to me about how to maintain a healthy relationship?
The memory of Ethan's voice came to me: “You can’t be with me and still love Ransom. Not the way you do.”
It was then, right there with Keira sitting next to me, with Mack in my studio committing each step to memory that I finally accepted that Ethan was right. I couldn’t be with him and love another man. If I decided that taking Ethan’s solid, comfortable life, where all my needs would be met, not merely the physical ones—if that life would be better than a life of spontaneous combustion and chaotic, intense intimacy, then I’d have to willingly place Ransom in my past once and for all. But that acceptance also clarified something I didn’t want to face: I also couldn’t accept the love that Ethan gave me, and still love Ransom and his family the way I did.
If I wanted a life with Ethan—one that held no demands or kept no expectations yet promised equal footing, rather than one that had me always playing second fiddle—then I’d have to leave them all behind. I couldn’t be so close to Ransom and hold myself apart from him. We didn’t work that way.
Could I do that?
Probably not.
Did I want to?
God, no.
It was struggling with that dilemma that had me seeking out the isolation of my studio hours later, alone with the heat crowding the air and looping tracks on the sound system pushing me into a solitary dance. It was the only way to work out what I needed instead of obsessing over what I wanted. Every time I thought I had accepted the obviously smart decision—a life of security and consistency, of personal fulfillment—something else would pull me back into questioning my head and my heart.
There was a lull in the music. One track ended and the crackle of white noise left a chill over my skin. I’d landed in position on that last downbeat. The vibration from the music still faded around me as I lowered my arms, as the sweat on my back slid down my spine.
And then, a different awareness slipped into my bones. My body was not cold. There were no tremors from the drop in temperature. There was only that warm, buzzing sensation that came to me anytime Ransom was near.
Another dance was about to begin, one that hadn’t seemed to end. Not since he came back home. Not even since the night of the recital when I promised someone else I’d love them forever. Ransom had not let me go, had not stopped wanting to dance that dance with me.
I didn’t need to look up, or glance across that mirrored wall to know he was there. My body knew him, my heart did. I didn’t retreat, though I knew I probably should have. This would end in heartache, all of it. I was pretty sure that my mind was made up. There couldn’t be a future. Not the one he wanted. Not one where what I needed was an afterthought.
But maybe, just one more time, I could say goodbye.
A final goodbye.
A real one. Before it was too late and I would be beyond goodbyes.
I did nothing but lift my gaze to his silhouette when the music started up again. The same song that we’d danced to a million times before. Old by now, but constant. I’d danced to Wicked Games for Ransom years ago, when he didn’t know it was me. When I wore a mask that kept me well hidden. Now there were no masks. There was nothing but his solid body coming right at me and the Weeknd’s sultry, filthy promises pouring from the speakers.
Ransom stalked his prey, stripping off his hoodie, his beanie, letting them fall on the floor until he stood behind me. Until his arm came around my waist, pulling me against him, moving with the music, demanding that I do the same.
Like before, I let the music pour into my cells. I let him lead—Ransom’s soft, gentle fingers on my bicep, in the bend of my elbow, directing my arm up. He always led me. Had he ever stopped?