THE DEVIL WEARS TARTAN

KATIA ROSE

Copyright © 2022 by Katia Rose

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

The following is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (or lingering between those two states), or actual events is purely coincidental.

This book has been licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Please respect the author’s work.

CONTENT ADVISORY

For readers who wish to inform themselves, content advisories for all of Katia Rose’s books can be found at www.katiarose.com/content-advisory.

CONTENTS

1. Moira

2. Kenzie

3. Moira

4. Kenzie

5. Moira

6. Kenzie

7. Moira

8. Kenzie

9. Moira

10. Moira

11. Kenzie

12. Kenzie

13. Moira

14. Kenzie

15. Kenzie

16. Moira

17. Moira

18. Kenzie

19. Moira

20. Moira

21. Kenzie

22. Kenzie

23. Kenzie

24. Moira

25. Kenzie

26. Moira

Save An Indie

Up Next

I. Stop and Stare

1. Iz

2. Marina

3. Marina

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Club Katia

Also by Katia Rose

CHAPTER 1

MOIRA

I haven’t even finished my first cup of coffee, and I’m already chasing after a seven-year-old in a kilt with a hairbrush and an arsenal’s worth of bobby pins clutched in my hands.

“Deanna, come back!” I shout as I tear up the hallway, our footsteps squeaking on the polished floor and echoing off the lockers that line the walls.

The Scottish Dance Organization of Ottawa—SDOO, for those of us cool enough to use acronyms—has been hosting competitions at the same high school auditorium for longer than I’ve been alive, but I’ve barely stepped foot outside the few rooms we use for events. I’ve never been up to the second floor before today, and Deanna has been running for so long I’m not even sure what floor we’re on anymore.

“Deanna, come on,” I call in between panting breaths, scanning the hallway for any hint of how to get back to the lobby. “We just have to finish your hair, and then we’re done.”

“NO!” she screams back at me. “I am done with the bun!”

I have to give her credit; that would make an excellent t-shirt slogan for an ex-competitor-turned-dance-teacher like me. The thought is enough of a distraction to make me stumble over my own feet at full speed, sending the travel mug I’m clutching dangerously close to spraying the hallway with lukewarm, cheap coffee from the food and drink table in the lobby. My hands are starting to ache from balancing my grip on the mug, hairbrush, and fistful of pins.

We’re not even supposed to be up here at all; if I make a mess, I’m going to singlehandedly ensure SDOO loses their competition venue forevermore.

I go for a pleading tone this time. “Deanna, sweetie, just slow down, okay?”

The oversized blue Crocs she has on to protect her ghillies are going to send her sprawling on her face if she runs any faster. I don’t want a bloody nose adding to any potential coffee mess.

I also don’t want any children getting injured today.

“You can’t make me!” she shrieks.

Her thin, dirty blonde hair is bouncing against her back, the ponytail holder I managed to get on her slowly slipping down its length. Her black velvet vest is hanging crooked over one shoulder of the poofy white blouse underneath, and the thick wool socks that match her blue and white kilt are starting to bunch up around her ankles. It will be a miracle if I get her and all my other students ready for their first event today.

Thankfully, I’ve become a bit of a highland dance miracle worker after spending literally my entire life in this strange world of kilts, bagpipes, and tartan-patterned everything.

I turn a corner and find Deanna steps away from a set of double doors at the end of the hall.

“Deanna, please, let’s just talk about this, okay?” I wheeze as she hesitates with one hand on the door’s push bar. “You can tell me what’s going on. We’ll sit down right here, and we’ll talk about it.”

Her eyes lock on mine, and I see the defiance there morphing into something much more vulnerable. It’s just like I thought: she’s not acting up to be a brat. She’s acting up because she’s scared.

A lot of teachers go for the tough love approach, especially with kids this young, and I don’t always blame them. Sometimes there are days when you’ve just got to tap into your inner drill sergeant, get the kids in their kilts, get them on the stage, and leave it at that.

That’s not what makes kids grow, though. That’s not what teaches them. That’s not what makes them jump higher, dance harder, and love what they do so much that heading to the studio is the highlight of their week.

That’s what they get in moments like this, when someone takes the time to really see them and tell them they’re still enough.

“Okay, you little cheetah,” I joke as I put on the brakes and come to stand a few feet away from her, “what do you say we take a break from all this running?”

She chews on her bottom lip as she looks me up and down. “Miss Moira...”

“Yes, Deanna?” I prompt.

She takes a deep, shuddering breath. Then, before I can process what’s happening, she slams her hands against the push bar and whirls around to bolt through the doorway.

“Can’t catch me!” she screeches as she peels away.

“In the name of all that is holy,” I say with a groan, lunging for the door before it can slam shut.

I step forward and pause, blinking at the bright sun streaming through the school’s glass front doors as it replaces the fluorescent tube lighting in the windowless hallway. I could have sworn we were on the second floor, but I’m standing in the familiar main lobby now.

The vendor tables are filling up with merchants arranging dance and costume supplies. The refreshments station is bumping, crowded with parents filling up coffee cups from a couple of huge dispensers while their kids grab oranges and granola bars from the snack trays. One of my teenage students is working the cash box today, and she waves from behind the table when spots me looking.

I lift my hand, but I’ve already glanced away to scan the room for Deanna. Most of the dancers milling around are still in sweatpants and t-shirts, but there are just enough with kilts on to make Deanna disappear like a tartan chameleon. The lobby is filled with the din of voices, squeaking shoes, and crinkling garment bags as people make their way to the dressing room and warm-up gym. The September morning sun paints the whole room in a soft glow.

Normally, I’d take a moment to soak up the thrill and anticipation of the season’s first competition, but instead my eyes zero in on the flash of blue and white wool I catch disappearing behind one of the giant potted ferns lined up along the back wall.

“Deanna,” I call when I get close enough for her to hear me, “you don’t have to—”

I swallow the end of my sentence and replace it with a groan when Deanna shoots out from behind the fern and starts weaving her way through the crowd at breakneck speed.

I take off after her yet again, but I neglect to remember that I, a twenty-year-old woman with what I like to describe as a luscious physique, do not have the ability to squeeze through the same spaces as a seven-year-old with twigs for legs. Deanna bolts around a volunteer parent carrying an armload of folding chairs, but I realize a second too late that my own swerve is going to send me crashing into a group of chatting moms Deanna narrowly slinks past.

I come skidding to a stop, but the mom with the chairs switches paths at the last second when she swivels her head to stare after Deanna. I bang my shin against a hard metal leg, hobble a few steps as pain clouds my vision, twist to avoid the chatting moms, and end up losing my balance.

I land flat on my ass, the impact ricocheting up through my tail bone as the hairbrush and bobby pins scatter across the floor. The coffee mug I’ve managed to protect this whole time flies out of my hands to soar in a perfect arc that dislodges the lid and gives everyone within radius—including me—a baptism by caffeine and cream.

The room is filled with shrieking and gasps. I’m so busy answering the half dozen voices asking me if I’m okay and trying to assess if I’ve somehow broken my butt that I don’t notice the new additions to the crowd until they’ve all filed through the front doors to assemble like a highly trained army unit in matching tracksuits.

The sheer force of their presence alone takes the focus off me and my coffee spill victims as the crowd cranes their necks to look at every dancer’s worst nightmare: the students, staff, and parents of the Rebecca Stewart Highland Dance Academy—or Stewies, as I like to call them anywhere but to their faces.

The group that’s walked in is only a fraction of them, probably less than a dozen in total, but their reputation fills the lobby like a rock star walking on stage to command a crowd of thousands. The kids already have their hair gelled back and pinned up in brutally pristine buns, and the moms are unanimously clutching Starbucks cups and monogrammed garment bags.

If highland dance was an Olympic sport, the Rebecca Stewart Academy would be the Canadian training ground. They’ve sent more dancers to the world championships than any other school in the country, and they never miss a chance to let everyone know it.

“What is going on here?”

Catherine Stewart, daughter of Rebecca Stewart herself and the current reigning iron fist of management at the academy, steps forward with her own Starbucks cup in hand. The ends of her dark, silver-streaked bob brush her cheeks like the tips of two pointed blades. It’s the first time I’ve seen her since I’ve been back in Ottawa. She has a few extra lines creasing her face, but she still looks just as ready to jump into a world-class sword dance battle to the death.

My mom beat you.

It’s the thought I’d mutter to myself every time I saw her stalking around at competitions when I was a kid. Miss Catherine, as we all grew up calling her, definitely leaned on the tough love side of teaching, but I’d seen the pictures and the medals from the eighties. I knew my mom took home almost every trophy she and Catherine went head to head for, and I used that to make it hurt less the first time I overheard Catherine tell another teacher that ‘the Murray kids all turned out a little tubby.’

“Just a little slip, Catherine,” the mom with the chairs I had the misfortune of colliding with responds. “Everyone’s okay. You are okay, right, Moira?”

She turns to me with concern in her face, and I nod after deciding my tailbone will live to see another day. The room slips back into motion, the Stewies continuing on their way as the girl working the snack table comes over with a roll of paper towels she distributes to everyone who got sprayed with my coffee.

I get a dirty look from one of the moms who happens to be wearing white, but everyone else is sympathetic. I ignore the offers of help as I clutch some balled up paper towel in one hand and push myself to my feet with the other.

I’ve gotten much more confident about my weight over the years, but I do not want to be the ‘tubby’ girl who needs help getting up off the floor. My cheeks have already started to heat from all the attention.

“Looks like I need to work on my turns,” I joke, trying to laugh it all off as I dab at my shirt. “They were always my downfall on stage. Maybe Deanna—oh crap, Deanna!”

I whip my head from side to side, scanning the lobby for any sight of her, but there’s nothing, not even some telltale blue tartan behind the ferns.

“Did anyone see which way she went? The little blonde girl in a black vest and blue kilt?”

The parents all start looking around as frantically as me. A few of them call Deanna’s name.

“Crap, crap, crap,” I mutter as I dart over to peer down the closest hallway. “If she ran outside...”

She’s only seven, and she’s clearly terrified. I wouldn’t put it past her to run into the street.

Amidst all the upheaval, the sound of a hallway door opening nearby catches my attention. I turn to watch, my heart hammering in my chest and my mind swirling with horrific possibilities, as Deanna inches back into the room safe and sound, clutching the hand of the woman behind her.

“Deanna, you’re—”

My gaze shifts up from Deanna’s sheepish expression to get a good look at her rescuer, and my whole body goes rigid with shock.

I don’t even blink as her dark eyes find mine.

The Deanna debacle was a good distraction, but besides that, I’ve spent all morning—and most of last night—wondering when I’d run into Kenzie Andrianakis today.

The last time I saw her, I was eighteen and getting loaded onto a stretcher in Scotland after busting my ankle at the biggest highland dance competition in the world.

We locked eyes just like this. I thought she’d be smug. I thought she’d do that infuriating little chin tilt and lift of her eyebrows she’d always acknowledge her wins with.

She didn’t, though. She stared at me with a pale face and wide eyes. Her mouth dropped open like she wanted to say something, and I almost yelled for the medics to stop what they were doing just so I could hear what it was.

I’d never looked forward to anything Kenzie Andrianakis had to say, but in that moment, it was the only thing I wanted.

Then she did the chin-tilt-eyebrow-lift thing, and I let the searing pain in my ankle be my excuse for publicly flipping her off.

The thump of impact from Deanna throwing her arms around my waist is the only thing that drags my attention away from Kenzie. The din of the lobby fills my ears again, and I flash a thumbs-up sign to signal everyone in the lobby can go back to their lives as I tune into Deanna’s mumbled apologies.

“I didn’t mean to make you fall,” she says as she squeezes me. “I’m sorry, Miss Moira. I’m sorry. Are you mad at me?”

“No, Deanna,” I answer, fighting the pull to look at Kenzie again. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see she’s still standing in the doorway. “I’m not mad. I’m glad you’re okay, but maybe we can stop with the running thing now?”

She nods against my leg.

“Cool beans. Can I trust you to meet me in the dressing room? I promise we can talk before I do your hair.”

She nods again and then detaches herself from me before skipping off to the dressing room, her Crocs squeaking against the floor.

The ability of seven-year-olds to ricochet from one emotional extreme to the next will never cease to amaze me.

“So you’re back.”

I brace for my own emotional extreme as Kenzie takes a few steps closer. She’s wearing a full Stewie tracksuit, the navy blue fabric clinging to her body, which is still almost as willowy as it was when we were kids. Her dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail so tight it makes the angles of her face look even more severe: pristine arched brows, high cheekbones, and almond eyes so deep brown they’re almost black. The only thing soft about her is the spray of freckles over her nose, and you have to be pretty close to see those.

About as close as I am now.

For a moment, my breath catches. I realize my throat has gone dry, and I fight the sudden urge to move even closer.

“Yeah, I am,” I answer after forcing myself to swallow. “Been waiting around for me? I heard you’ve never left the scene.”

I try not to cringe at myself for calling it the scene, like this is some sort of ex-drug-lord showdown.

She takes another step towards me, and I feel my pulse flare. “I heard you left the country and became a college dropout.”

My face heats, and I know the top of my chest is going to start turning red any second now. She’s always had an uncanny ability to say exactly what I don’t want to hear.

“Well, you heard wrong,” I say through a clenched jaw. “I’m at Ottawa U now.”

“What I heard was that you couldn’t make it in...was it Australia?”

“South Africa,” I blurt before I can stop myself.

It’s really none of her business.

“Yeah, that was it. I heard you ended up back home after only a few months, and that that’s the reason your mom gave you this teaching job.”

I give up on witty comebacks and ball my hands into fists as I let my knee-jerk response slip out. “You know what, Kenzie? I do not need your shit. Everyone knows you have as big a stick up your ass as Catherine Stewart does and that that’s the only reason you got your teaching job.”

She folds her arms over her chest and tilts her head to the side. “Is that so?”

The cool disinterest in her tone makes me fume even harder, but I do my best to keep my voice even.

“Yes, it is so. Just stay out of my way today, Kenzie. Like I said, I don’t need this.”

I turn around and start marching off after Deanna, bracing for a final remark, but all she does is let out a short huff of laughter.

Somehow, that one sound takes all the satisfaction out of getting the last word.

I keep my fists clenched the whole way to the dressing room. I can hear my pulse thundering in my ears, and my jaw is starting to ache from being clenched so tight.

I knew Kenzie would be exactly the same. I just didn’t think I’d react exactly the same way, and I definitely didn’t think it would take all of two minutes to happen.

We’re adults. We’re twenty freaking years old. We’re here as teachers, for god’s sake, but instead of taking care of my students, all I want to do is march out there and scream in Kenzie’s face like I’m in the third grade again.

Call it force of habit. I’ve felt the perpetual urge to scream at her since we really were in the third grade and she told me my invitation to hang out during lunch at her first ever competition sounded ‘like a sabotage attempt.’

I push the memory away as I reach the classroom door with a sign that says ‘SDOO Dressing Room’ taped to the front and a few sheets of construction paper covering the window. A parent volunteer is stationed at a desk outside.

“I was starting to think you and Deanna decided to play hooky,” she jokes as I pull the door open enough to slip inside.

I do my best to return her smile and then turn to face the chaos in front of me. Most of the desks have been hauled out of the classroom, with a few left in place as hair stations. Some screens for changing spaces are set up along one of the back walls.

We use the school’s gym as a warm-up space where everyone stores their stuff, but that hasn’t stopped the change room from turning into its usual mess of hair product bottles, makeup bags, discarded clothes hangers, and emergency sewing kits. Dancers and teachers are bustling through the room, laughing and singing along to the pop playlist someone has playing on their phone.

I wave to the other teachers from my dance school. We all did our hair up in highland buns even though we’re not competing. We even tied tartan-patterned bows around them to look extra festive. Our matching t-shirts might not be as fancy as the Stewie tracksuits, but they’re comfy and cute, and they have our last names printed on the backs with a few rhinestone accents.

It’s a bit redundant to have ‘Murray’ written under ‘Murray School of Highland Dance,’ but that’s life when your whole family’s existence revolves around Scottish folk dance.

Deanna is waiting for me at one of the hair stations, swinging her feet and smiling serenely, like anyone would be crazy to suggest this little blonde angel just led me on a marathon-length recovery mission around the whole building.

“Change of heart, huh?” I ask, plastering on a grin to keep the resentment at bay when I realize I left the lobby without my coffee mug and Deanna’s hairbrush. I grab a comb I’ll have to clean after this and spread my free hand out in a dramatic swoop. “May I approach, Your Majesty?”

Deanna giggles and nods.

“You’re all smiley now,” I say as I start working out the tangles that have gathered in her hair. “Do you still want to tell me what’s up?”

She keeps kicking her feet, the heels of her Crocs drumming against the bottom rung of her chair. “I was scared, but Miss Kenzie said everyone gets scared when they go from Primary to Beginner. Did you know she didn’t even do her first competition until she was in grade three? That’s like, so old.”

I stifle a laugh as I reach for a hair elastic. It’s really not old at all, but Deanna is one of those kids who, like me, started competing at the tender age of six.

“Miss Kenzie is actually nice,” Deanna continues. She’s started swaying to the music, and I put my hand on her head to keep it still. “I used to think she was scary, but she said you wouldn’t be mad at me for making you fall, and she was right! Last year my mom said maybe we should switch schools so Miss Kenzie could be my teacher, but then you came back, and my mom says you beat Miss Kenzie more times than she beat you, so we should probably stay. Is that true? Did you beat her?”

She’s started speaking so fast it’s hard to keep up, but I catch enough to make my stomach twist with apprehension.

My rivalry with Kenzie isn’t exactly a secret in the highland dance community, but I didn’t think it would be enough to affect people’s decisions about where to send their kids, not when Kenzie and I have both been out of the competition circuit for a couple years now.

Deanna’s mom is wrong, anyway. By the time we made it all the way to Scotland for the culminating championship of our careers, Kenzie and I had the same number of trophies under our belt. We’d just graduated high school, and that final competition was supposed to end almost a decade of rivalry and determine which of us really was the best before I left to go backpack the world with my best friend.

Then I broke my ankle in a freaking mole hole and left the question unanswered forevermore.

“Well, we both beat each other a few times,” I answer as I start twisting Deanna’s ponytail into a bun, “but you know, that’s not really the point. The point is getting on stage to do your best while having fun. Winning is just a bonus.”

Deanna twists in her seat, her hair sliding out of my hands as she looks up to give me the sassiest eyebrow raise I’ve ever seen on a seven-year-old.

“Okay, it’s a pretty big bonus,” I admit with a chuckle, “but I mean it, kiddo. I don’t care what anyone else says. When you go up there today, I just want you to think about having fun—and pointing your toes, of course.”

She giggles and settles herself so I can finally finish the bun. I secure it in place with a combination of bobby pins, gel, and hairspray, just like I’ve manufactured hundreds of buns before. Deanna runs off to join her friends in the warm-up gym as soon as I’m done, and I take a minute to sit down in her chair and survey the room.

It’s still pandemonium in here, the chemical smell of hairspray filling my nose as I watch one of my fellow teachers perform emergency surgery on a tear in a girl’s blouse while another one chases after a stray button as it bounces across the floor.

It’s the kind of scene I’ve been watching unfold my entire life. The chaos of a dressing room is as comforting and familiar as curling up in my favourite chair at my parents’ house.

Instead of the reassurance I’m looking for, I only find more dread as I scan the room.

It’s been over two years since we’ve come face to face, but Kenzie’s still managed to find my weakest point in a matter of seconds. She still managed to hone in on what hurts most: the truth.

The truth is that I think I might only be back here because I couldn’t make it anywhere else.

CHAPTER 2

KENZIE

I can feel Catherine’s eyes shooting daggers into my back as I speed-walk out of the warm-up gym, but I don’t turn around. I’m supposed to be making sure our last group of dancers competing before the lunch break are all lined up and ready to get escorted to the stage, but my mom’s name showed up on my phone.

She shouldn’t be calling me. She should be walking into her appointment right now.

“What is it?” I ask as soon as I’ve brought the phone to my ear in the hallway. “Are you all right?”

There are some parents and dancers hanging around out here, so I head farther into the school, ducking into a water fountain alcove when I spot a gap in the lockers lining the walls.

“I just don’t think I can do it, Zee-zee. I thought I could do it on my own, but I can’t.”

I try not to sigh. I hoped she could do it, but part of me knew it was too good to be true.

“It’s not far from the competition,” she adds before I have a chance to answer. “You could come over, and we could go in together. I just hate walking into that place. I just need someone to go through the doors with me, and then you could leave.”

I think about it. I seriously think about it. The bus would take too long. I don’t really have the money to spare, but I could order an Uber.

I could also have Catherine subsequently murder me. Lunch break isn’t really a break when you’re a teacher; it’s a chance to placate all the paranoid, Dance Moms-esque parents who think the judges are out to get their child, all while ensuring the students eat enough and get through their outfit change in time for the next set of dances.

“I don’t know, Mom,” I say as I fidget with the dark blue sleeve of my tracksuit. “I don’t think I can get away. I have to—”

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry I asked. I can just go home. I can try again some other day.”

Blood rushes in my ears as I grip the phone extra tight. It took months to get her to agree to make an appointment and another month before we could actually get her a spot with the psychiatrist. She can’t walk away today. She just can’t.

The depression can’t get worse again.

I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting to keep my own panic at bay while I handle hers.

“Are you in the parking lot?” I ask.

I hear her take a few sharp, short breaths. “Yes. The car barely made it, but I’m here. I don’t think they really fixed it at that garage.”

I wince. The rusty old Subaru should have been headed for the junkyard years ago, but we can’t afford anything new.

We also can’t afford any more repairs.

I take a few breaths of my own, doing my best to keep them slow and even. “Okay, here’s what we’ll do. I’ll stay on the phone with you while you go inside. I know it’s not the best solution, but it’s all we’ve got for today. Just remember this is a good thing, okay? New meds are going to help.”

“I know, I know. You’re right.” I hear some shuffling like she’s moving around in her seat. “Okay, I’m getting out of the car now.”

The distant drone of bagpipes from the auditorium echoes down the hall. I’ve definitely missed getting my dancers ready by now, and Catherine is going to lecture me about having to handle it herself. I keep my eyes closed and focus on my mom’s breathing in my ear as she crosses the parking lot.

“Oh god, it’s just so embarrassing,” she mutters. “Anyone could see me going in here. I’m sorry I called. I shouldn’t have called. It’s just so...so...”

“Mom, it’s okay.”

I tighten my grip on the phone as my eyes start stinging no matter how fast I blink. I swipe at the corners with my sleeve, focusing on the chipped white bowl of the water fountain beside me as everything starts to get blurry.

“Okay, I’m opening the door.” There are more shuffling noises, and then I hear her calling out to a receptionist. “Yes, hi! Hello! One moment.”

My throat has gone all thick, and I have to swallow before I speak. “All good now?”

“Yes. It’s...oh, I hate it here.” I can picture her shudder as she says it. “Thank you, baby. You’re an angel. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

“Yeah,” I murmur as I give my cheeks another few rough swipes. “See you soon.”

She hangs up first, and I lower my phone in time to see the photo for her contact profile still displayed on the screen: Christmas morning four years ago, the two of us laughing with big red bows from our presents perched on our heads.

Chris took that picture. He says he’ll come for Christmas dinner every year, but he hasn’t managed to show up for the past three.

I shut the screen off and shove the phone in my pocket. I bend over the fountain and take a few long sips of cool, metallic-tasting water before splashing my face. Then I use my damp hands to smooth my hair down before tightening my ponytail.

By the time I make it back to the warm-up gym, I’m under control.

Right on cue, Catherine struts over from the group of teenage girls in kilts she’s talking to and jerks her hand in a sharp motion that tells me to follow her over to an unclaimed stretch of the gymnasium wall.

When we’re out of earshot from any students, she leans in and hisses, “What was that?”

“Sorry,” I mutter. I don’t drop my eyes from her glare. “I had to take a phone call.”

Her lip twitches. “A phone call, Kenzie? Really? You know it’s your job to make sure your girls are ready for the chaperone. One of them almost missed her event.”

“I know. It won’t happen again. It’s just...” Now I do glance down at the floor. “It was my mom. She had a...a thing she needed help with.”

“Oh.”

When I look back up, Catherine has her lips pressed together. The echoes of squeaking shoes and chatting students getting ready for lunch fill the silence between us. After a moment, she steps closer and reaches up to fix a lock of hair that’s slipping out of my ponytail.

She might not be one for soothing words, but her little adjustments have always comforted me. Whatever else she is, Catherine is there for me. She always has been.

“You know what I’m going to say, right?” she asks, her voice as close as it gets to soft.

I nod and parrot her catchphrase. “Rise above.”

“Correct.” She straightens her already ramrod straight shoulders and lifts her chin. “Rise above. Always. No matter what surrounds you. No matter what tries to tug you back. I know how high you can go, Kenzie. I know you can get past all this.”

I ignore the sting in my chest when I hear her call my mother ‘all this.’ Catherine might not have a trace of subtlety in her body, but she knows how to get what she wants.

She knows how to get where she wants. She’s risen above way worse than me, and she’s the whole reason I’m here today. She’s the whole reason I’m anything more than what I started off as: the girl who showed up to her first highland class late with no shoes and a note from her mom saying there was a ‘problem with the credit card company’ that was keeping the final payment from going through.

“Be there next time,” Catherine adds with a final grimace. “We can’t afford to be anything less than perfect, not with Moira Murray back in town.”

She heads back to the group of girls she was talking to, and I walk over to where my water bottle is resting against the wall a few metres away. I unscrew the lid and down a few sips, resisting the urge to splash my face again like I did at the fountain.

Catherine’s always told me that when you achieve something, you need to hold onto it as tight as you can because there will always be someone ready to come and take it from you.

When it comes to everything I’ve ever achieved with highland dance, that person has been Moira Murray.

Perfect Moira Murray, with the dimpled smile and the easy laugh that makes everyone around her turn and laugh too. Even when I was the one taking home the trophies, the whole crowd had their eyes on her. She’s one of them. She was born into this, and it didn’t matter how hard I pushed myself. It didn’t matter how high I jumped or how fast my feet moved. You can’t dance yourself into belonging the way she has since she first tied on a pair of ghillies at five years old.

But I tried.

I tried for years, and by the time we finished high school, the dance world knew my name as well as hers. I just wanted them to say mine louder. I don’t know exactly when Moira and I started making every competition a personal feud between the two of us, but that summer in Scotland was supposed to end things. It was supposed to prove I tried more, worked more, wanted more—no matter where I started from.

Except she didn’t even get to come on stage, and now she’s back out of nowhere, working as a dance teacher just like me, and once again, it doesn’t matter how far I’ve come. They’re all looking at her again. She’s enough to have the kids whispering her name and the parents whispering about switching schools.

“Kenzie!”

I snap to attention where I’ve been staring blankly at a high school basketball banner on the wall and nod at Catherine. She’s giving me a pointed look from across the room as she motions at the doors.

Right. Lunchtime.

Now that the final event of the morning is wrapping up, most of the dancers have already changed into sweatpants and headed out to meet their parents and friends. I leave my fellow Rebecca Stewart Academy teachers to supervise the stragglers and march out to the lobby, braced for whatever cohort of concerned parents will be waiting for me.

There are always some angry ones, ready to complain that the piper played too fast or to tell me they know their kid danced better than the winner; the judge was just ‘looking somewhere else during all the good parts.’

Sometimes I think we need our own Dance Moms spinoff reality show. Highland Dance Moms would be a hit.

I’ve only just stepped into the lobby filled with kids standing around eating out of lunch boxes or lined up at the snack table when the first mom with a complaint cranes her neck around like an owl on high alert and heads straight for me.

“Hi, Laurie-Anne!” I say with a wave, coming to a stop next to one of the lobby’s big potted ferns.

“Miss Kenzie.” She flashes me a smile that slides off her face a second later. The ends of her blonde hair brush the shoulders of the Rebecca Stewart Academy t-shirt she’s wearing under a Lululemon zip-up. “Big day, huh? The first competition of the school year is so important.”

I nod as she forces another smile that comes out looking more like she’s baring her teeth. “Yep, it’s a big day for us all. The kids are all doing fantastic. I’m so proud.”

I really am. While pretty much every kid who goes to RSA attends training camps and competes all summer, there’s still a ‘fresh start’ feeling to the September competition, and from what I’ve managed to watch from the back of the auditorium, our dancers are killing it.

“You did see my Madeline’s sword dance, right?” Laurie-Anne asks.

“I did, yes. Her quick time was much more precise than it was at the start of the summer.”

Laurie-Anne purses her lips. “Yes, it was, and it would have been even better if that girl next to her hadn’t kicked her own swords and sent them flying straight at Madeline’s feet. That is unacceptable. She should be disqualified for interfering with another dancer, and I want to talk to someone about it.”

I press my lips together for a second and take a cleansing breath through my nose to keep from laughing. Every highland dancer lives in fear of kicking the two swords laid in a cross on the ground for the famous sword dance—not because the dull blades are actually dangerous, but because the entire point of the dance is to nimbly leap over and around them. Kicking your swords can be enough to land you in last place.

The sword kick Laurie-Anne is talking about barely budged the blades and definitely did not send them ‘flying straight at Madeline’s feet.’ I wouldn’t have even noticed it happen if the girl who kicked them didn’t freeze up for a couple counts afterward.

“Madeline is a beautiful dancer,” I say once I’ve got myself under control. “She handled it like a pro. I’d bet money that by the end of the year, she’ll qualify for the Premier division. She works hard.”

Laurie-Anne’s expression softens for a moment, the crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes deepening as her mouth lifts in a real smile for the first time. “She does. That’s why I want to make sure nothing gets in the way of that.”

“I know. Trust me, I want nothing more than to see her make Premier too. If I thought there was anything to worry about, I’d tell you.”

For a moment, I think she’s going to push for more. Her eyebrows furrow, and she taps her foot against the tiled floor a few times before nodding.

“All right, I’ll trust you. Oh and if you can, make sure Madeline’s not next to that same girl this afternoon.”

Again, I have to hold back a laugh. “I’ll see what I can do.”

I watch her head back over to her daughter before leading her outside, probably to get lunch at the nearby Pita Pit that’s a popular choice during competitions. I used to sit in this lobby with a ham sandwich packaged in cling wrap and watch the other girls toss Pita Pit wrappers in the trash can on the way back from lunch with their moms.

Catherine always sends me out to handle the parent complaints because I ‘have more patience for it’ than she does, but really, it’s not about patience at all. It’s about looking past the irritation and crazy demands to see moms like Laurie-Anne for what they really are: concerned and caring parents who want the best for their kids, even if their concern gets a little misplaced.

If you can speak to that part of them, they’re not really difficult at all. Of course, that’s much easier to do when you can look at their anger and wish for a mom who’d had to work less or been well enough to show up for competitions at all.

I pull my phone out of my pocket in the spare moment that follows Laurie-Anne’s departure, and my stomach twists with regret when I see there are a few texts from my mom.

It’s not her fault.

I repeat it to myself as I read through the texts narrating the ten minutes she spent in the psychiatrist’s waiting room.

It’s not her fault. It’s not her fault.

She wants to get better. She’s finally working to get better, and that should be enough for me. I can handle everything else for us.

No matter what it takes. No matter what I have to give up.

“Kenzie!”

I look up and shove my phone back in my pocket as another mom approaches with her daughter clinging to her hand.

I smooth my hair down and smile. “It’s our Seann Triubhas champion! Great job today, Amy. Those shakes were very precise.”

The girl blushes and scuffs her feet on the floor as the two of them come to a stop in front of me.

“Yes, they were!” Her mom beams at her before looking back up at me, and my shoulders relax when I realize this is going to be one of the easier conversations. “Do you have any idea what the special announcement today is, Miss Kenzie?”

I blink. “Special announcement?”

The mom chuckles. “The one they said they’ll be making after lunch? I take it you’re in the dark too.”

“Oh. Yeah. I must have missed that.”

Catherine and the other teachers haven’t mentioned anything, so whatever it is must be news to all of RSA.

It’s most likely a fundraising raffle. They love their raffles around here.

“Well, we just wanted to say thank you for all your hard work getting Amy ready for today,” the mom continues. “You know, when I heard the rumor Moira Murray was teaching this year, I almost checked to see if we could get into one of her classes, but I’m glad we stayed. You Stewarts run a tight ship, but know your stuff—well, not that you’re really a Stewart, but you know what I mean.”

She chuckles and says thank you again before taking off. I can barely force my mouth open to say goodbye. Every word she said buzzes around my brain like a horde of wasps with vicious stings.

All Moira has to do is exist and people flock to her. She’s got the Murray name to reel them in and that ridiculously cute smile to seal the deal.

She must practice activating her dimples in the mirror every day; no one is that sweet without trying.

The rest of the lunch hour passes by in a blur. I rush to get all my students through their costume change for the next set of dances, which require a more ‘girly’ outfit called an Aboyne that consists of a plethora of poofy skirts. Costume-wise, highland dance is very wrapped up in gender roles.

I barely have time to shove a granola bar in my mouth as I rush through pinning numbers to tartan skirts and straightening sashes draped over the backs of velvet, lace-up vests.

“Announcement time!” I shout over all the echoing voices in the warm-up gym after I’ve pinned the last girl’s number in place. “RSA students, get in line in front of me, please!”

Most of my older kids have already made their way to the auditorium so we can all hear whatever the announcement is, but I make the youngest kids follow me like a little Scottish parade as I steer them through the hallway.

Brody, one of the few boys here today, is directly behind me, and I walk backwards for a few steps so I can help him adjust the oversized tam that keeps falling into his eyes.

Another highland quirk: the boys do not switch outfits, and they also get to wear little pom-pom adorned hats called tams.

Most people just take all the traditions and regulations at face value, but I would always question my teachers about them when I was growing up. I knew from my first class that I wanted to make this weird world of tartan and knee-highs my own, and that meant learning everything there was to know about it.

If I knew everything, no one could tell me I didn’t belong. No one could take it away from me.

I lead my parade to a free row of seats in the auditorium. I’ve just settled myself at the end when a couple of the Scottish Dance Organization’s leaders take the stage. There’s some applause and banter, along with a demand for a drum roll that gets my row of kids way too excited about slapping their thighs.

“We are pleased to announce,” one of the grey-haired women onstage says into her microphone, struggling to be heard above the noise, “that due to an extremely generous anonymous donation for this purpose, the Scottish Dance Organization of Ottawa will be offering its first ever university scholarship this year!”

There’s another round of clapping from the audience, but instead of joining in, I sit up straighter in my seat, my ears straining to catch every word.

“This scholarship,” the second woman continues after taking the mic, “will be awarded to any dancer currently enrolled in post-secondary education or who will be starting post-secondary education next fall. It will be awarded at our April competition, and the applicants will be judged on a combination of competition results from this season, volunteer work within our organization, and a general sense of character and community spirit. Dancers from any competitive level are welcome to apply. The only requirement is that they must be competing this year.”

I sink back in my seat. Between my hours at the studio, my part-time job on campus, and the time I spend studying to keep a GPA high enough to secure the scholarships I already do have, there’s no way I’d have time to come out of retirement and compete.

It’s probably only a few hundred dollars anyway—not nearly enough to make my family’s money problems go away.

Not nearly enough to fend off the one solution that’s been following me around like a shadow stalking my every step: dropping out of school.

“Anyone interested can see Maureen in the lobby for more details,” the announcer adds. “What we’re truly excited and beyond grateful to tell you is that this scholarship is for a grand total of nine thousand dollars!”

A chorus of gasps and whoops fills the room, but once again, I stay silent as all my muscles tense and a burst of adrenaline makes my heart beat loud and fast in my ears.

Nine thousand dollars.

My mind starts racing with calculations. Nine thousand dollars would cover everything I need. I wouldn’t have to drop out and spend next year working. I wouldn’t even have to miss a semester. Hell, with a nine thousand dollar scholarship to my name, I could even spare enough of my own money to get the car fixed for good this time.

I’d stay on track. I’d stay in control.

For nine thousand dollars, I’d make time to come out of retirement and get back on that stage.

CHAPTER 3

MOIRA

“Oh my god, you’re an angel.”

I take the paper cup out of my best friend Lydia’s hands and pop the lid up so I can inhale the spicy scent of chai tea. It’s one of my favourite autumnal blends, with a hint of sweet apple and brown sugar. When Lydia said she was waiting in the lobby with a cup, I couldn’t resist sneaking out of the warm-up gym to meet her.

“I know I’m early,” she says as I blow on the steaming liquid, “but if I waited any longer to tell you I was here, I would have ended up drinking both of these.”

She lives right next to our favourite tea shop in Sandy Hill, and we can’t hang out without getting a cup. The competition is wrapping up now, and the tea is supposed to be our fuel for a walk and a catch-up chat after.

“They’ll be doing the medals soon anyway,” I tell her. “You should come watch my kids win stuff!”

“Are any of them wearing the sailor costumes?” she asks with a snort. “Those things are hilarious.”

I shake my head and push the lid back down after deciding the tea is still too hot to drink. “No hornpipe today.”

The hornpipe is a special character dance that only runs at some competitions. It requires a very distinct outfit: namely, a little sailor hat with a matching collared shirt and trousers. Lydia always dies of laughter when she sees it.

She snorts again. “You know it kills me that there’s a dance called hornpipe.”

I give in and laugh along with her. Lydia often serves as a reality check to remind me just how weird highland dance can be, but honestly, the weirdness makes me love it more.

Even in the empty lobby, Lydia sticks out from the highland dance crowd. She’s wearing a denim jacket decorated with a few colourful buttons that have political slogans and funny catchphrases printed on them. Her camo-patterned skinny jeans are cuffed above her black Converse high-tops, and her short, wavy brown hair is done up in a little ponytail to show off her undercut.

I’ve thought about cutting my waist-length hair a few times, but even my mom, who’s always supported me and my siblings doing whatever we want with our appearances, would probably freak out if I went with something too short to do a bun anymore.

Highland dance ideals are not exactly progressive when it comes to hairstyles.

“Should I get a new button?” Lydia jokes, pointing to a nearby vendor’s table, where a few tartan buttons featuring different Scottish family crests are displayed. “Which of those most screams ‘Actually, I am Jewish’ to you?”

I laugh and shake my head. “I don’t know why they sell those. Hardly anyone here actually has a Scottish last name. Anyone can do highland.”

“Yer tellin’ me I don’t got to be a wee bonnie lass to dance to the pipes?” she says in a voice I can only barely distinguish as a terrible attempt at a Scottish accent. She reaches over to tug on the end of my tartan hair bow for emphasis.

“You goon,” I say as I swat her hand away. “Come on, we’re going to miss the awards.”

I start leading the way to the auditorium, but I pause when we pass the SDOO information table, where a bored-looking parent volunteer is engrossed in her phone. There are a few poster boards about memberships and some information pamphlets, but what catches my eye is the small easel that’s been added to the display since this morning. The light blue paper resting against it spells out the details of the scholarship.

“What’s up?” Lydia asks when she looks back after realizing I’m not beside her.

Her voice makes the volunteer look up. She smiles at me. “Oh, hi, Moira, dear. Isn’t it wonderful news? I’ve always thought we should set up a scholarship, but the membership fees barely keep us afloat as it is.”

“It is wonderful,” I answer. “Someone was very generous.”

That’s all anyone can talk about: the mysterious source of the nine thousand dollars. Given how long ‘secrets’ usually last around here, the donor would have had to be truly and completely anonymous to avoid their identity becoming a rumor in less than a week.

I’m just glad there’s something more interesting for everyone to talk about than my abrupt return from South Africa.

“And someone’s going to be a very lucky student,” the volunteer adds. “Not many dancers keep competing into college. With you and Kenzie off the stage this year, I can only think of...well, not many at all.”

She hands me the blue information paper, and I see a few extra copies stacked behind it.

“Keep that and read it over,” she tells me. “Maybe it will get you dancing again. That’s what I told Kenzie when she took one. You dance such a beautiful Lilt, Moira. I’d love to see you on stage again.”

I almost miss the compliment. I’m too busy focusing on what she said about Kenzie.

“Um, thank you,” I stutter. “Thanks. Did, uh, Kenzie say if she’s applying?”

“Just that she was thinking about it,” she answers. “I hope you will too.”

I nod and glance down at the page again before saying goodbye and catching up to Lydia.

“What’s that about?” she asks, snatching the paper out of my hand before I can answer. “Oooh, a scholarship! Damn, nine grand?”

“Yeah, it’s a lot,” I say, my voice distant. I’m still fixated on the notion of Kenzie applying. “They just announced it today.”

“Oh my god.” Lydia stops walking when we reach the closed auditorium doors, the paper shaking in her grip as she reaches up to cover her mouth with her other hand.

“What?” I demand as she continues trying to stifle her laughter.

“It says...it says...” she chokes out between giggles, “it says, ‘Applicants will be expected to volunteer regularly at events such as our community dance-outs and...and...T-T-Tartan...T-Tartan...Teas.’”

She bursts into a loud guffaw that has me reaching over to shush her.

“S-sorry,” she whispers as she continues to tremble with laughter, “but Moira, what the hell is a Tartan Tea?”

I sigh and roll my eyes, but I’m starting to laugh too. “It’s this fundraising thing they do every few months. People buy tickets, and—”

I stop mid-sentence when the sound of footsteps behind me catches my attention. I glance over my shoulder and freeze.

Kenzie goes still too, coming to a halt a few feet away from us. Her eyes flick back and forth between me and Lydia before I follow her gaze to where it lands on the blue paper in Lydia’s hands.

I look back at her, and I swear I see her lip twitch.

“You’re blocking the door.” Her voice is low and laced with ice.

“Oh, sorry,” Lydia answers. She moves back a few feet, but it takes me a couple seconds to do the same.

I’ve never seen someone look as sharp as Kenzie does now. She’s like a human razor blade, her already angular face carved out by a contempt that takes her from haughty good looks to straight-up super villain territory.

My whole body feels like it’s heating up as she stares me down. The air between us is charged— magnetic, even. I can’t tell if the current is pulling us together or repelling us apart. For a moment, I can’t even tell which one of those I want more. Something about her eyes keeps me from blinking, like there’s a taut cord stretched between us that might snap in two if I do.

“I’d throw that out if I were you,” she says as she moves closer. She jerks her chin down to indicate the paper in Lydia’s hands, but her eyes don’t leave mine. “It’s for university students only, and I hear you have a habit of dropping out.”

I swallow and let the sting settle in my chest before answering. “I hear you have a habit of reusing the same insults. Is that really all you have on me, Kenzie?”

She tilts her head. “Do I need anything else, Moira?”

“If you want to stop me from going after this scholarship, then yeah, you do.”

I hear Lydia clear her throat behind me, but I don’t turn around. I still haven’t blinked. Neither has Kenzie.

“Who says I want to stop you?”

I let out a short, terse laugh. Blood is rushing in my ears, and even though I didn’t care about it at all five minutes ago, winning this scholarship now feels like it would be the most satisfying thing in the world.

“Clearly you do, or you wouldn’t have told me to throw the paper out.”

“You know what, Moira?” She moves even closer, close enough for me to see the dusting of freckles across her nose. “I do want you to apply for this scholarship. I would love for the chance to show everyone I don’t need a broken ankle to beat you.”

She’s so close now I can see she’s breathing hard, her nostrils flaring and her chest heaving just like mine. She’s a couple inches taller than me, and I lift my chin to level my face with hers.

“You can’t beat me, Kenzie. We both know it.”

My words hang in the air, filling the inch of space between our lips. Her eyes have gone so dark they’re almost black.

“Watch me,” she hisses.

And then she’s gone, whirling around to yank the auditorium door open and disappear inside. The handle clicks back into place behind her, and I blink at the space where her lips were just seconds before.

“Holy. Shit.” Lydia’s voice makes me jump. She grabs my arm, and I turn to find her staring at me with wide eyes and a huge, elated grin on her face. “Okay, you have got to bang her.”

“Lydia!” I shush her and glance at the vendor tables, but no one is paying attention.

“I’m serious,” Lydia continues, unhindered by the threat of anyone listening. “You know, the last time I saw her, we were, what, sixteen, right? She was gorgeous then, but now...I mean, damn. Plus, you two have some serious sexual tension. I thought you were gonna start going at it right here on the floor in front of me.”

“Lydia!” I wrap my hand around her elbow and drag her far enough down the nearest hallway to be out of earshot from anyone else. I’ll be missing the start of the awards at this rate, but I can’t go in there without sorting this out. “I do not want to bang Kenzie,” I insist, waving my hands around in the air to indicate how insane the idea is. “She’s, like, my mortal enemy, remember? You know this. It’s kind of been one of the constant themes of my life. She’s mean.”

Lydia nods, that electrified smile still stretching her cheeks. “Yep. And hot. So hot.”

I groan and sag against the locker behind me. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“Oh, I am. I totally am.” She joins me against the wall and pats my shoulder. “She sucks, but I think you two have some...energy between you that you really need to do something about. I mean, you told her you’re going to apply for a scholarship I’m pretty sure you don’t have a genuine interest in just to piss her off. Wouldn’t it be less work to bang and be done with it?”

“We are not going to bang, Lydia!”

“I mean...” She stares across the hallway and twists a finger around her stubby little ponytail. “It could be just what you need after the whole Savannah thing.”

I flinch, all my muscles tightening at the sound of her name.

Lydia chews on her lip and watches me from the corner of her eye. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

“No, it’s okay.” I sigh and focus on loosening my fists. Even my toes have scrunched up in my shoes, all of me contracting and cringing away from the memories. “It’s been months. I should be...I should be over it.”

Lydia convinced me to come along and fulfill her lifelong dream of backpacking the world for a year after high school. We traipsed our way through Europe, Australia, and finally, South Africa, where I met my ex-girlfriend, Savannah. In a typical lesbian U-Haul move, I ended up relocating my whole life to be with the first girl I’d ever seriously dated and joining her volunteer project in Johannesburg.

In similar U-Haul move fashion, it did not end well.

Lydia shuffles in close enough to lean her shoulder against mine. “That’s not what I meant, Moira. What she did to you was super shitty. Of course it still hurts.”

“It’s not even what she did that hurts the most,” I mutter as I stare at the tips of my shoes. “It’s what she said.”

I’ve been back in Ottawa since June, and I still hear Savannah’s voice on a loop in my head when I lay in bed at night.

I can still see her facing me in our tiny apartment in Johannesburg, standing on the other side of our bed with the mattress between us, like she couldn’t even bear to be close to me.

Technically, it was her bed. Technically, almost everything in the apartment was, and she didn’t fail to remind me of that when she dumped me after I caught her cheating.

Apparently the cheating was my fault. Apparently I didn’t have enough goals or enough of a personality to keep her interested. Apparently I wasn’t enough.

“Lydia, she called me—”

“It doesn’t matter what she called you,” she interrupts. “None of it was true.”

I open my mouth, ready to protest again, but Lydia purses her lips, tilts her chin down, and wags a finger at me. The full combination of gestures is one she likes to call her ‘disapproving Jewish mom glare.’

It’s very effective.

“Okay, okay,” I grumble, my shoulders slumping as I turn to lead us back to the auditorium door.

“Here.” Lydia grabs my shoulder just as I’m about to reach for the handle and shoves the blue paper in my hands. “Take this, and take my unsolicited opinion along with it. If you’re not gonna bang Kenzie, you should at least beat her at this.”

CHAPTER 4

KENZIE

I hum along to the Cold War Kids song playing through my headphones. I can just make out the muffled shouts of the Frisbee players a few metres away as they dive and leap for the disc on the wide lawn of the park.

The sun is beating down on the back of my neck, making me reconsider my thick knit sweater and my choice to grab a picnic table without any shade. I know it’ll only be a couple months before we’re all huddled up inside like hibernating squirrels, so instead of moving, I tilt my face to the clear blue sky and breathe deep.

I can smell grass clippings and a trace of the vanilla perfume I dabbed under my ears before I left campus.

This part of Major’s Hill Park conceals most of the busy city streets surrounding the lawns and gardens. To my left, I can see a sliver of the parliament buildings sitting on an outcropping high above the Ottawa river. After a day of rushing around to packed lectures and then slogging through a shift in the noisy, food-encrusted campus dining hall, this park always feels like a piece of heaven.

I focus back on the textbook in front of me and continue with the assigned reading. My sociology classes have levelled up now that I’m in third year, and I know they’re just a taste of the workload awaiting me when I can finally start my Master’s of Social Work.

I’ve had it all mapped out since before I even finished high school. I have dates and requirements for every step of the path to getting my first real job in the field as fast as possible. All I have to do is make sure each and every one of them happens in perfect order.

All I have to do is stay in control.

That seems to be getting more difficult by the hour. Two days ago, I found out they’re slashing most of my dining hall shifts due to an overstaffing issue. My mom also wasn’t exaggerating when she said the car barely made it to her appointment last week; it’s now in for yet another round of repairs we can’t afford. There’s no availability for me to take on extra hours at the dance studio, and I doubt there’s any other part time job in existence that would fit into all the current demands of my schedule.

Nine thousand dollars has started sounding more and more like a magic spell with every day that’s passed since the highland competition.

Nine thousand dollars would allow me to take the summer courses I need to sign up for. I’d graduate on time. I’d go to grad school on time. I’d finally start living my life instead of scraping and clawing through it like there’s a bottomless black pit looming just under my feet at any given second.

Regret tightens my stomach as soon as the thought enters my mind; when I think about being at home with my mom, sometimes a deep, dark pit is the first image I conjure up, and I hate myself for it.

It’s not her fault.

She’s trying. She did go to her appointment. She even picked up her prescription without me needing to remind her. She wants to get better.

I try not to think about all the other times she’s seemed to round a corner and ended up back where she started. Guilt makes me push my textbook away and reach for my phone to see if she’s texted me.

My lock screen is a generic blue ombre design, but the background changes to a selfie of me and Chris after I put my pass code in. I must have been about fourteen at the time, based on the excessive, crooked black eyeliner I’m wearing. He’s got his arm around my shoulders, and we’re both laughing so hard our faces are a little blurry.

I should change the photo to something else, but instead I hold onto the spark of happiness I feel each time I see it, right before the hurt hits.

Everything was so much simpler then, before Chris’s dad left my mom—just like my dad left my mom years before that.

There are no messages from her, but my calendar has supplied me with an alert about the SDOO scholarship meeting tonight. All the prospective applicants are supposed to meet with one of the association members to ask questions and formally sign up as participants.

A few days ago, I wasn’t even sure I’d do it. The time commitment that would go into spending the whole school year chasing a scholarship I might not win is a huge gamble, but losing half my hours at the dining hall has shifted the equation.

So has Moira Murray.

My hand tightens around my phone as I think back to our little face-off outside the auditorium. I shouldn’t have spoken to her at all, but as soon as I saw the scholarship paper, that sensation of a giant chasm splitting the floor underneath me hit so hard I went straight into the fight side of my fight-or-flight response.

She was a threat, and she was going after something I needed just because she could. It didn’t matter if that was a totally unreasonable and overdramatic way to think about it. When it comes to Moira, reason has always found a way to bolt and leave me running on pure instinct.

I hate it. I keep myself in check around everyone else. I hold it all in. Even Chris would always be prodding me with his elbows or flicking me in the head while he told me to just open up. Sometimes I did with him, but it was always a choice. I chose to trust him with my feelings because he felt safer than anyone I’d ever known.

When it comes to Moira, I’m usually hissing my feelings in her face before I even realize I’m doing it. If someone had shown up in that moment outside the auditorium and asked us to bet everything in our bank accounts on beating each other for the scholarship, there’s a big part of me that would have jumped to do it without a second thought.

I need my second thoughts. I don’t have room in my life for mistakes.

I listen to the thump of blood pounding in my ears as I shut my music off and scan through the bus schedule on my phone. I have about fifteen minutes before I need to head for the Westboro cafe where the meeting is being held, but I start packing up my books after shutting off the screen. There’s no way I can process any new information now, and I can review some lecture notes on the bus ride to make up for the wasted time.

I get on one of the red and white OC Transpo buses down on Rideau Street. All the seats are packed, so I give up on my studying plan and slip my headphones back on before clutching one of the support poles and swaying along with the bus’s movements.

The same Cold War Kids song comes on. I’ve had the whole album on repeat for days, but ‘First’ is my favourite track. I listen to the singer speak about burning a candle at both ends as the thump and snap of the drums plod on like a steady march just on the cusp of breaking out into wild and gorgeous disorder.

The bus stays crowded all the way down to Westboro station. The evening has cooled off a little once I step outside, and I’m grateful for my thick sweater as I head up to the main street on foot. The shops here all have a very ‘trendy mom’ vibe to them; the cafe we’re meeting at looks like it was built specifically for frequenting pre and post-hot yoga. I step into the white and mint green interior and scan the bistro tables and benches for any sign of people I recognize.

“Kenzie! We’re over here!”

I turn at the sound of my name and see a large white table near the front window occupied by a few highland dance people. Candice, the association member in charge of running the scholarship program, is waving at me.

“I’m so glad to see you, Kenzie,” she says as I approach, the lines around her eyes deepening when she smiles. “We were just talking about how great it would be to have some of our older dancers back on stage.”

Based on the reaction from the two girls and their moms sitting down with Candice, the enthusiasm belongs to her and her alone. I doubt the seventeen year-olds are all that excited to compete against a full-fledged instructor, and the grimaces on the moms’ faces make their shared attitudes clear.

“Do you want to order anything, Kenzie?”

Candice nods at the counter behind me, and I turn to glance at the letter board signs hanging down from the ceiling. The prices reflect how trendy the place is.

“I’m good with water,” I say after turning back and spotting the pitcher and glasses in front of them.

I take a seat on one of the wooden stools lining the table and grab a glass for myself. Candice continues a conversation about the association’s current leadership with one of the moms as we wait for the meeting’s start time to arrive.

I nod along like I’m listening, but my eyes keep drifting to the window behind Candice. The street is bathed in the orange light of the setting sun, and I watch the glow reflect on pedestrians’ faces as I scan them all for a glimpse of Moira.

My chest feels tight, and my stomach does a back flip each time I see a woman with long brown hair. I don’t know what I’m more nervous about: Moira showing up, or Moira not showing up.

Life would be a lot easier if she didn’t, of course, but I realize what the sinking feeling in my stomach is as soon as Candice claps her hands together and says we should start.

I’m disappointed. I have every reason to be thrilled. As far as the dance skills portion of the scholarship goes, I’m basically a shoo-in at this point, but instead of the warm rush of satisfaction, I feel like I’ve had one of the foamy, steaming lattes I can’t afford snatched right out of my hands.

It’s the same way I felt when Moira broke her ankle in Scotland two years ago. It made my life easier, but it also meant I couldn’t win.

“You girls are both heading to university next year, right?”

I tune back into the conversation as the two teenagers at the table nod to answer Candice. She looks at me next.

“And you’re in your second year now, Kenzie?”

I grip the cool glass holding my water. Drops of condensation have beaded on the sides. “I just started my third.”

One of the moms makes a sound somewhere between a scoff and a grunt. Candice glances at her and opens and closes her mouth a few times like she’s not quite sure how to address the cave woman response.

“I just don’t see how that’s fair,” the woman finally says. I notice her daughter cringing in embarrassment beside her. “You have adults competing for the same scholarship as children.”

Technically her child will be a legal adult by the time anyone uses the scholarship money, but I do sort of see her point.

“Well, Linda, the point of this particular scholarship is to encourage older dancers to continue participating in our community. We see a huge drop off in numbers once students reach high school, and beyond high school, there are hardly any competitors. We want to keep highland alive for all ages. That’s why we’re requiring all scholarship participants to at least be old enough to head to university next fall. Holly could always participate next year if you don’t think this year is a good fit.”

She says it with a smile, but I can tell Candice is a steely veteran when it comes to handling less than happy dance moms.

“So this scholarship will be available next year?” the mom asks.

“Well...” Candice takes a sip of her latte. “We’re not sure if we’ll secure another donation of this size, but regardless, we’d like to prioritize offering some kind of scholarship every year from now on.”

The second teenager’s mom leans a little closer and drops her voice like there might be spies in kilts lurking behind the cafe counter.

“Do you know who made the donation, Candice?”

A painted expression takes over Candice’s face. She clears her throat before she speaks again, her voice strained like it’s a hit to her dignity to even admit what she says next. “I haven’t been deemed necessary to receive that information.”

It takes everything I have to hold back a snort and avoid showering the table in a spit-take.

The politics of the Scottish Dance Organization of Ottawa are genuinely hilarious if you have the right sense of humor.

I’m still fighting to snuff out a laugh when the squeak of the cafe’s door swinging open distracts Candice from her mortified admission. Her grimace turns into a grin as she lifts her hand in a wave.

I don’t need to look to see who it is. The way my muscles tense as my heart rate kicks up makes it clear: Moira Murray has entered the ring.

“Moira, sweetie! What a surprise! I am so happy to see you.”

The instant turnaround in Candice’s attitude just turns my own mood even darker. My jaw is clamped tight, and my skin feels too small for my body.

All Moira has to do is walk into a room and everyone melts for her. She’s always had that effect on everyone from competition judges to five-year-olds in need of a hug.

That’s never been me. I know I turn heads, and I know I’m a good coach, but I don’t make people soften the way she does. I don’t make them cling to me and clamour for my attention like they’re grasping at the sun itself.

I don’t make them stick around.

“Sorry I’m late, Candice. I didn’t realize they’d changed the old bus route that comes here.”

Moira shuffles into my peripheral vision, and I see her turn to scan the boards above the counter.

“Oh boy,” she says, like some sort of adorable—and annoying—cartoon. “That’s a lot of options. I should probably skip the drink and avoid delaying us even further. Sorry again, everyone.”

Candice waves off her apology. “Don’t be silly. Get yourself something good. They do a great mocha here.”

After some urging from everyone else, Moira chuckles her way into agreeing and heads for the counter. I do a quick assessment of the table and realize that unless she dramatically moves her chair to sit at the end, the only remaining spot for Moira is right beside me.

My already stiff spine somehow turns into even more of a steel rod in my back.

The part of me that curled up in disappointment when she didn’t show has now lifted its head and started pawing its hooves like a jacked-up race horse at the gate.

It’s the part of me that always gets out of control when she’s around.

Rein it in. Don’t let her get to you.

That order goes unheeded about ninety seconds later when she shows up at my side with a mug in her hands and utters a fake breezy, “Hi, Kenzie. I see you’re still interested in the scholarship.”

I consider excusing myself to go dump my glass of icy water over my own head. I could really use some way to neutralize the heat gathering under my skin.

She might make everyone else melt, but she makes me burn like a forest fire—unfettered and undiscerning, ready to ignite anything that gets in its way.

“Obviously,” I say through a clenched jaw.

I see the rest of the table shift in discomfort at the force of my tone, and I make myself let out the closest thing to a friendly laugh I can manage.

“So we’re back to being competitors, huh?” I ask, going for playfully menacing instead of outright fuming this time.

It puts Candice and co at ease enough to titter with laughter while Moira takes her seat.

I can smell the milky sweetness of her drink from here. The scent is tinged with something fruity, and as Candice starts talking again, I realize I’m smelling the trace of shampoo in Moira’s slightly damp hair. She must have had a shower before this.

From the corner of my eye, I see she’s pinned back the pieces of long, sun-streaked chestnut hair framing her face. The rest is hanging loose over the shoulders of her green army jacket. Her hair is thicker than mine, the strands drying with a slight wave to them.

I realize this might be the first time I’ve seen her somewhere other than a competition or performance. It’s definitely one of the few times I’ve seen her in something other than warm-up clothes or a dance costume.

She’s pretty.

The thought surface in my head as I steal another glance at the way her hair curls around her ears, and I don’t know what causes me to jolt a little in my seat: the shock of thinking it, or the shock of realizing how true it is.

“I have some copies of the official requirements here,” Candice says, pulling me back to the matter at hand as she leafs through the folder she’s opened on the table. “There we go. You can each take one.”

She passes around the copies of the two-page document, and I take my focus off Moira to scan the headings and bullet point lists. Most of the sections repeat what we’ve already been told about the scholarship, but the second page is filled with a list of the material we need to submit to be eligible.

The dance competition section looks easy. We only need to participate at the SDOO ones, meaning I won’t have to leave the city. I take a deep breath of relief when I read that. There’s no way I could have afforded competitions in Toronto or Montreal.

The next section is a list of suggested events for volunteering within the highland community. There’s no minimum requirement, but we’re recommended to do as many as possible. The suggestions include the association’s Tartan Tea fundraisers, some local Scottish cultural events, and showcases for the city’s highland dance schools.

The third section is what throws me off the most. It’s called ‘Personal Character,’ and all three items are compulsory. We need to submit an essay about what highland dance means to us, an overview of how the money will benefit our studies, and something called a ‘peer interview.’

“Wow,” Moira says under her breath beside me, “this is a lot.”

“Yeah,” I whisper back before I can stop myself. “I’m looking for the part where it says we have to offer them our firstborn child.”

Everyone else is too busy chatting to hear me, but Moira lets out a soft laugh.

I glance over from my paper and find her watching me.

I blink.

She blinks.

We both look at our papers again.

Do not let her get to you.

I am not falling under the Moira Murray spell like everyone else. I don’t need her to smile her dimpled grin at me or laugh at my jokes. I don’t want her to smile at me.

I either want her out of this competition, or I want the satisfaction of beating her every step of the way. Cutesy bonding moments are not going to help me get there.

“I’ll go into a little more detail, but are there any questions before I continue?” Candice asks, glancing around the table.

I clear my throat. “What does the peer interview consist of?”

“Glad you asked, Kenzie. I was just about to get into that. That part will be so fun. It’s sort of a group project.”

Anyone who associates group projects with fun has a very different definition of fun than I do. Something about the way Candice’s eyes light up as she taps her finger on her folder tells me I’m really not going to like what she says next.

“You’re going to partner up and interview each other! We thought it would be much more fun to have you do it that way than on your own. You will film your interviews, and we’ll play the videos at the next competition to let everyone get to know the applicants a little better. The scholarship judges will use them to get to know you too.”

“Do we pick our partners?” Moira’s voice sounds almost as tense as I feel. Her usual chipper tone is straining to stay even, but if Candice notices, she doesn’t react.

“Well, since you and Kenzie are such old pros, I thought it would be lovely to have you chat with each other, and we can let these younger girls partner up too. So far, it’s just the four of you who seem seriously interested.”

At least I know Moira’s not any happier about this than me; I see her hand curl into a fist on top of the table, and I can feel the tension rolling off her in waves.

Like we’re psychically connected through mutual enmity, I can tell she’s thinking the exact same thing I am: if this interview is supposed to be a display of ‘personal character,’ we’ll end up with points in the negative once the judges see exactly what our characters turn into around each other.

“Sounds good to me,” one of the moms chirps before Moira or I can say anything else.

Not that there’s anything else to say. I at least have the self-control to know blurting out ‘I don’t like Moira’ is not the socially acceptable thing to do here.

My stomach starts tying itself in knots, and I grind my jaw while Candice claps her hands like we’ve all delighted her.

“Perfect! I’m so excited to see the results. You girls are all such role models to our younger dancers, and this is going to be a great way to show them what highland can do for their lives if they stick with it. There are no required questions or formats, so feel free to be creative!”

She says the last word with all the gusto of a grade school art teacher unleashing a horde of six-year-olds on some crayons and construction paper, but I feel more like I’ve been tossed a calligraphy pen and told to draw an intricate mandala with my hands tied behind my back.

I focus on talking some sense into myself as Candice goes over the other items on the list. I know I’m being dramatic. Moira is probably only here because I urged her into it, and I need to accept the consequences. As childish as she makes me feel, we’re both adults. We both have responsibilities in this community. We have reputations to uphold and schools we represent.

I don’t know if she needs the money like I do. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t, but we both have clear reasons to take this scholarship seriously if we go for it. We both have reasons to stay in control of whatever happens when we’re around each other.

That’s what I keep telling myself as Candice draws the meeting to a close twenty minutes later and rubs her hands together like we’re about to head out on a wild and uncharted journey together.

Which, in a way, we are.

“So, ladies,” she says, taking a moment to look each of the prospective applicants in the eyes, “what do you say? Are you in?”

I tell myself to play it cool, to rein it in, but I still lean forward and jerk my chin down in a nod like I’m waiting for a starting gun.

“Yes,” I answer, just a touch too forcefully, at the exact same time Moira says the exact same thing.

The corner of my mouth lifts just a fraction of an inch, and the heat that’s been blazing like hot coals under my skin sparks and pops before bursting into leaping flames.

I’m not going to let her get to me, but damn will it feel good to beat her.

CHAPTER 5

MOIRA

Kenzie is late.

I’ve almost finished the iced coffee I went ahead and ordered when she let me know she was running behind schedule. That was twenty minutes ago, and I haven’t heard anything since.

I consider getting another drink even though the caffeine will have me up until three in the morning at this point in the evening. The Starbucks I’m waiting in is mostly empty, and if it weren’t for the coffee, I’m sure the warm glow of the bulb lights overhead and the soothing folk playlist drifting through the speakers would have me nodding off.

I have yet to adjust to life as a university student who also spends most nights working as a dance teacher. I stay up too late and wake up too early, then spend the weekends crashing and getting my sleep schedule even more out of sorts before doing it all over again.

I don’t know how other people fit a social life into their schedules too. It’s the start of October, and the only thing I’ve done besides go to school and go to the studio is have a couple quick tea dates with Lydia, during which we studied.

I’m not counting this scholarship prep session with my mortal enemy as a social event. That sounds far too sad and desperate.

Desperate.

That was a word Savannah used for me, specifically in the phrase ‘you’re so desperate for validation you make keeping people happy your entire identity.’

I know that’s not my entire identity, but hearing it from the girl I moved continents for after only a few months of dating was not a point in my favor.

Like my mum tried to patiently point out despite me refusing to hear it, I wasn’t all that into South Africa and had zero plans to give up on university and do a twelve month volunteer program in Johannesburg before I fell for a girl already doing that.

Furthermore, I wouldn’t have even been in South Africa to begin with if I hadn’t tagged along on Lydia’s gap year after she begged me to be her travel buddy, because hey, maybe I needed her validation too.

I would have been here, in Ottawa, working for my parents’ dance school like I have for half my life despite them urging me to dream big and take on the world. I would have been happily living out the same schedule week after week, being the boring person Savannah discovered I am and decided to cheat on as soon as she did.

“That is not trueeee,” I mumble to myself after slurping up the last of my coffee. The remaining ice cubes clatter around in the plastic cup.

Not true.

Not true.

Not true.

I do therapy exercises. I journal. I write affirmations on post-it notes and stick them to my mirror, but in the end, that’s what it comes down to: hearing someone else’s words about me and being strong enough to believe they aren’t true.

It’s been months, and I’m still not there yet.

Beyond the satisfaction of beating Kenzie, I’ve realized the battle to beat my own thoughts has drawn me into this scholarship too. If I can win—if I can do something completely for myself, completely by myself—then maybe I won’t feel so damn boring compared to everyone else I know.

“Hey.”

The sound of footsteps approaching pulls me off the ‘woe is me’ train of thought. Kenzie appears in front of the pair of armchairs and low, round table I’ve claimed as my lurking spot.

“Hey.”

For a moment, that’s all I can say. I’m too busy processing how good she looks.

It doesn’t matter how annoyed I am about her being late, or how annoyed I am about her in general. When she pops up out of nowhere like this, my brain can’t arm itself with irritation fast enough to stop me from appreciating how goddamn gorgeous she is.

Her hair is done up in a high ponytail, putting the sharp features of her face on display. She’s wearing a grey oversized sweater under a leather jacket, and her jeans are skin-tight. She looks fierce, like even now, she’s stalking around scoping out the competition as if this Starbucks is the grounds of the local highland games.

Except she looks way more fashionable than anyone does at the highland games. I don’t know how I expected Kenzie to dress outside the dance world, but she seems to know a thing or two about putting one of those ‘I woke up like this but also I’m perfect’ outfits together.

It’s not cozy enough to be my style, but as my eyes are doing their best to prove to me, I like it a lot on her.

“So...you’re here,” I say after we’ve stared each other up and down for a few seconds too long to be normal.

I try to sound extra judgemental and consider glancing at the clock on my phone for emphasis, but it doesn’t have the same effect after she clearly just left me speechless.

“Yeah, sorry about that. I know I’m super late. I had a...thing come up.”

“A thing, huh?” I sound a little frostier now. “Glad to know the scholarship isn’t as important to you as a thing. It will make winning even easier for me.”

I try not to cringe at my lame comeback. Two years without her in my life has my verbal jousting game in sad need of a revamp.

“Yes, Moira, some things are more important to me than a scholarship because I have this thing called a life.”

I can’t stop myself from flinching. Just months ago, that jab would have rolled right off me, but now it lands square in the center of my chest.

Kenzie’s eyebrows lift at my response, but instead of going in for the kill, she drops her gaze to the floor.

“Look, I just, uh...I had something come up with...my mom.”

I don’t think I’ve ever seen Kenzie Andrianakis look vulnerable before—at least not besides that fraction of a second I probably imagined when she first saw me and my broken ankle getting loaded onto a stretcher in Scotland.

Her shoulders have curled inwards, and her chin dips lower and lower as she continues to stare at the floor, like she’s expecting to sink right through it.

If she was anyone else, I’d jump up and give her a hug.

“That sounds tough,” I say instead, keeping my voice low and soft.

She jerks her head up, and it’s like watching shutters slam closed behind her eyes. Any openness flickers out of sight, replaced by solid walls and steel bars. Her shoulders assume their usual rigid stance, that one that looks so much like Catherine Stewart’s.

“I’m getting a drink.”

She heads for the counter, and I decide against following after her to get more caffeine. All it took was two minutes in Kenzie’s presence, and I’m suddenly wide awake, every part of me on high alert.

However infuriating my interactions with Kenzie are, I have to admit they’re never boring.

She comes back with a small-sized cup a few minutes later, the pen strokes on the side indicating the drink is a chai latte. They’ve spelt her name Kensee, which is a few shades more accurate than the Moyrag scrawled on the side of my cup.

“Soooo...” I take a deep inhale of the coffee and sugar-scented air in the cafe. “Do you have your interview questions?”

She places her cup on the round table next to mine and then takes a seat on the second leather armchair.

“Yes, right here.” She pulls a folded sheet of paper out of the pocket of her leather jacket and leans over to hand it to me.

I catch a hint of vanilla wafting off her skin when I reach to take the paper. My stomach does a weird little cartwheel as I settle myself back against my chair.

When I unfold the sheet to reveal her writing, the letters take me by surprise. Her writing is so much cuter than I would have expected, all neat, tiny curls and gentle swoops. It’s the kind of handwriting you’d expect to have little hearts dotting the i’s, although she hasn’t gone that far.

“What?” she asks, her stern voice at odds with the adorableness covering the sheet of lined paper. “What’s wrong with them?”

I haven’t actually started reading yet.

“Uh, nothing.”

I shake my head and focus on the questions themselves. Our meeting today is a chance to review the questions we’ve both come up with and decide which ones we’ll use. We were planning to film the interview somewhere outside, but with her being late, it might get too dark to finish tonight.

As I scan through the first few questions, I realize there is something wrong with Kenzie’s questions.

There’s a lot wrong.

I reach the end of the page and purse my lips.

“So,” Kenzie prompts, “you good with those? Do you want to take any out?”

“It’s just, uh...” I tap my finger on the page, right over a cute and tidy little rendition of the word why. “It’s just that they’re kind of...like...unoriginal?”

That earns me a glare I can only describe as withering. I raise my hand like a white flag.

“Look, I want to win this thing, which means we both need to contribute our best to this interview, so I want to be honest. These questions are just a little...impersonal. Candice said these should be, like, fun and creative.”

Kenzie’s glare doesn’t budge. “Forgive me, but I don’t think spending a Saturday night working on a peer interview with each other is what either of us would describe as fun.”

Whether or not this is the kind of fun I’d actually choose, I don’t want her to know this is the only non-school or job-related thing I’ve done in weeks.

I really don’t want her to know I kind of am having fun. I’m never sure what’s going to come out of her mouth next. I’m never sure what’s going to come out of my mouth when I’m around her. It’s the same kind of fun as poking at a fire, waiting for the inevitable adrenaline hit when the flames flare up out of control.

“Okay, agreed, but we still have to at least fake it. We have some sweet, fresh-faced seventeen-year-olds to compete with who are going to spend their whole interviews getting all starry-eyed about their college dreams and what their grand, post high-school futures hold. We can’t seem like the crotchety old people just doing this for the cash.”

“We are the crotchety old people just doing this for the cash.”

She folds her arms over her chest and lifts her chin, waiting for my argument, but after a momentary stare-down, the tension shifts.

I chuckle.

The corners of her mouth lift.

Then we’re laughing together, both of us howling and hunching forward as the truly bizarre nature of our current situation hits us.

We are old now. We’re adults who’ve gone their own ways in the world, who’ve lived and maybe learned a few things, but here we are, back in this town, back to battling it out with each other even though we were supposed to leave the competitions behind.

I know it’s not just about the cash. It’s about that constant pull between us, like life has circled us in the same rubber band, and every step we take away from each other just builds and builds the tension as we wait to see who’ll be the first to snap right back into place.

I thought maybe that band would break for good at the highland games in Scotland, at the final competition we decided would be our ‘once and for all’ moment, but we never got to find out.

The little fireworks of frustration and fury she sets off inside me are so familiar, familiar enough to have me wondering if maybe part of me is glad we never got the chance to snuff them out, because when I’m with Kenzie, it’s way easier to believe everything my dumb ex-girlfriend said about me wasn’t true.

When I’m with Kenzie, I don’t feel boring. The way we circle each other, the way we keep our eyes trained on every move and jump at every opportunity—it all makes me feel like a slinky predator creeping around the jungle, power and purpose radiating out from every step I take.

It makes me feel interesting as fuck.

Maybe that’s why I want to win so bad: chasing this scholarship is the first thing that’s made me feel interesting in a long, long time.

As the thought crosses my mind, I realize neither of us is laughing anymore. Kenzie isn’t smiling, but her lips are still parted, and her deep brown eyes are watching me like my face is a calculation she hasn’t quite finished working out.

My shoulders have the sudden urge to lean forward and bring me closer to her chair.

Closer to her body.

Closer to her mouth.

I lunge for my cup instead, shoving the green straw between my lips and sucking up the coffee-tinged melted ice that’s collected at the bottom.

Kenzie might be gorgeous, but it’s a brutal kind of beauty. She’s a deadly viper, and as exhilarating as it feels to dance around our words like this, I can’t get too close. I can’t give her a chance to strike.

“Let’s see your questions, then,” she says.

I set the cup down and reach for my battered old messenger bag on the floor beside me. I pull out a notebook with a tie dye pattern on the front and flip to the page where I’ve written out a bullet point list of options.

I watch Kenzie’s eyes scan over them after I hand her the book.

Her questions were all either predictable or super technical:

What’s the proudest moment of your highland career?

What dance do you find the hardest to perform, and how have you overcome that?

What is your pre-competition routine?

To be fair, I have a few questions like that too, but I also went a more unorthodox route with some of them.

“How the hell am I supposed to answer that?”

Kenzie flips the book around and taps on one of the questions. I squint to read it and then laugh.

“You’re supposed to answer it creatively, and maybe with a bit of humor, if that’s something you’re capable of.”

The deadpan stare she gives me proves she is at least fluent in sarcasm.

“So how would you answer it?” she asks.

I nod at the paper. “You have to actually ask me the question. Let’s do a practice round.”

She stares me down for another second, and when all I do is adjust myself in my chair and grin at her, she gives in.

“Moira Murray,” she begins in a surprisingly convincing news reporter voice.

It’s also surprisingly sexy. I make myself focus extra hard on how annoying and uncooperative she’s being to chase the thought away.

“If the Irish washerwoman character from the jig could talk, what would she be saying during the dance?”

I see the corner of her lips twitch like she’s trying not to laugh.

It is a pretty good question.

The Irish jig—confusingly the name for a Scottish dance inspired by Irish dancing—is a crowd favourite. It requires special shoes with metal-capped wooden heels that make a satisfying clacking sound and a whole outfit of its own consisting of a red or green dress and white apron.

One of the stories told about the character the dancer is meant to embody is that she’s an irate Irish washerwoman who’s had her clothes stolen off the line by a mischievous leprechaun.

You really cannot make this shit up.

“Well, Kenzie, I think the washerwoman would say something like this.”

I clear my throat and raise my hand in a fist, shaking it the same way you’re supposed to do during the dance. I put on my best Irish-inspired scowl, the one that’s won me countless jig awards over the years.

“Aye, you wee mongrel!” I shout in a squeaky attempt at an Irish accent. “Those are me husband’s bloomers, you thieving green devil! Bring back me knickers right now, you wee scoundrel!”

I don’t realize there’s a barista wiping the table directly behind us until her snort makes me turn my head. She pretends to be extra focused on the rag in her hand when I glance her way.

I look back at Kenzie and find her lips pressed together and her cheeks ballooning out from her attempt to hold in a laugh of her own.

“Does that answer your question, dear interviewer?”

She takes a deep breath through her nose. “Why, yes. Yes, it does.”

“Now it’s your turn.”

She gives a sharp shake of her head. “No way. I think you were Irish enough for the both of us.”

“I’ll pick a different question, then.”

I lean over enough to snatch the notebook out of her hands and then scan my way down the page.

“Oh, this one’s good! Tell me, Kenzie Andrianakis...”

I put on my own reporter voice and glance up at her, but the rest of my question fades as her name rolls off my tongue.

Something about that sound on my lips makes us both go still for a second. My gaze drops to her mouth before I force myself to look back down at the page.

I really need to get out more.

Sure, Kenzie is pretty, but she’s Kenzie. Maybe if I actually associated with other humans, I wouldn’t be so caught up in imagining what it would be like to feel that mouth on mine.

She probably kisses girls every weekend. Tonight is probably a break from her usual Saturday schedule of going to bars and making out with anyone she wants to. When you look as good as she does, you must want to take advantage of it.

I’m not sure if she’s bi or a lesbian or what, but I do remember there being some talk about her seeing a girl towards the end of high school. How anyone in the highland community found that out considering what an iron wall of a person she is beats me, but thankfully it was all mostly ‘good for her’ comments. My own mom stepped in and shut things down the one time I heard a girl from our school saying some bullshit about lesbians not being allowed to change with the other competitors.

I remember the way I felt when I found out Kenzie might be queer. I was just starting to think I might like girls—which complicated having a high school boyfriend at the time. I felt this weird tug in the bottom of my stomach. It was like someone yanking part of me out with a fish hook, pulling a piece of me I wasn’t sure I was ready to see into the light.

“So, uh...” I can barely read the letters on the page anymore. I can still taste her name on my tongue. “Andrianakis. That’s, uh...where’s that name from?”

“That wasn’t on your list.”

Her tone suggests I’ve gone ahead and asked her something as personal as when the first time she kissed a girl was. I look up and see her fixing me with that emotionless, almost haughty expression she puts on when she’s about to totally shut down.

“I was just curious—”

“It’s Greek,” she interrupts.

I swallow and nod. The air between us has turned icy and brittle again.

“So...your parents have Greek backgrounds?”

And there is today’s pointless statement of the obvious.

“My...my father does.”

She shifts her gaze to the table between us and grabs her cup before twisting her head to stare out the window at the sunset streaking the street. She’s gone totally stiff, her body language indicating this part of the conversation is very much over.

I squeeze my notebook in my hands and shift my weight around in my seat until the sound of someone clearing their throat behind us saves us from what was quickly becoming a full minute of silence.

“Um, hey!” says a barista in a green apron, his voice dripping with customer service faux charm. “Just so you two know, we’re closing in ten minutes.”

I click my phone screen on to check the time.

“At seven?” I ask. “Oh, whoops, I thought this place closed at nine.”

“Not on Saturdays!” he answers, barely concealing his glee at getting out of here soon before he takes off back behind the counter.

I turn to Kenzie, who seems to have gotten at least a little less bristly in the past thirty seconds.

“So this has been...not all that successful or productive,” I say.

She nods and makes a sound somewhere between a grunt and a laugh. “Yeah, we’ve gotten nowhere.”

“Do you want to find somewhere else? I know we might not get to film tonight, but we could at least try to finalize the questions.”

She looks out at the street again for a second. “I don’t know what else would be open now besides bars and restaurants, and it doesn’t seem like we’d get much done there.”

An image of Kenzie and I huddled around a candlelit table in a dark, crowded bar pops into my head. I push it away before I can go into too much detail imagining how close we’d have to be to hear each other over all the voices and music.

She’s right; not much productivity would come out of that at all.

“There’s a little light left,” I say. “Maybe we could go to a park?”

“Major’s Hill Park?” Her eyes get a little brighter as she suggests it, and she sits up straight like she’s raring to go.

“That works,” I say as I watch her. “Are you...a fan of the place?”

Like she’s been caught with her hand in a cookie jar, she slides her poker face right back on and pretends to be busy slinging her purse strap over her shoulder.

“I study there sometimes,” she answers as she tugs on a buckle that’s already done up. “There’s lots of space. We can probably grab a picnic table or something. It would be good to get as much of this out of the way as we can tonight.”

As we toss out our cups and leave the cafe, I try hard to remind myself I feel the same way: this whole thing is an inconvenience we’d be better off getting through as fast as possible.

It doesn’t stop my skin from continuing to spark with that familiar fire as we head off down the street together.

CHAPTER 6

KENZIE

“Come on! That’s one of my favourite questions.” Moira slaps her palms down on the picnic table between us and groans.

She’s gotten more and more dramatic as we’ve progressed through our respective lists of interview questions, weeding out which ones we want to use, and as much as I hate to admit it, watching her wave her hands around and pretend to collapse onto the table in exasperation is pretty adorable.

“Nuh-uh,” I answer, mostly because I don’t want to do the question but also because part of me is really enjoying the results of pissing her off. “I call veto.”

“You can’t call veto on everything.”

“You called veto on all my questions.”

She balks at that. “I did not. I liked some of yours. We circled them.”

She taps on the creased sheet of paper with my handwriting scrawled across the lines, a few questions singled out with swooping circles of black ink.

The park is dark enough now that we need to lean in over the papers to read them. The sky is a deep purple with a single streak of pink left where the sun dipped out of sight ten minutes ago, and the park is clearing out fast. The usual Frisbee players have headed home for the night, and the picnic blankets that dotted the lawn in front of us when we arrived have all been packed up now.

We should think about calling it a night too, but neither of us mentions leaving.

“Okay, new plan,” Moira says after snatching her notebook away from me. “From now on, we have to answer any of the questions we ask each other, and then we can decide if we want to veto them or not. That way you can’t just automatically say no to everything.”

“I wouldn’t have to say no if your questions weren’t overly personal.”

She makes a show of rolling her eyes. “It’s an interview. The point is for it to be personal. It’s about you, a person.”

I’m still working on my comeback when I realize she’s pulled her phone and a few textbooks out of her bag to start constructing a makeshift camera stand.

“What are you doing?” I demand.

“Setting up my camera,” she answers in the same cheery tone you’d use to explain basic dance concepts to a five-year-old.

“Yes, but why?”

“Because we need to remember what our answers to the questions are if we decide to use them in the real interview.”

“I don’t want my practice round filmed,” I argue, loud enough that she stops working on her book tower. “Besides, it’s dark. You’ll barely catch anything on the camera.”

“It’s called night mode, baby!”

She settles her phone on a little ledge she’s created with two books and clicks on the camera button. A few black blobs and grey dots appear on the screen.

“Uh, okay, maybe you were right about that,” she says after raising her hand in a wave which doesn’t make it any clearer that her blob on the screen is a human. “Let’s go sit on that table under the streetlight instead.”

There’s no point attempting to stop her; she swings her bag over her shoulder and jogs off with her pile of books in hand before I can even try.

I let out a dramatic groan of my own, but as I sit there watching her rebuild her little interview setup on the other table, I realize this is my first night out in a long, long time.

The fact that I’m calling this a night out doesn’t say much in my favor, but it’s true. If I’m not studying, wiping cafeteria tables, or teaching kids to highland dance, I’m busy making phone calls or running errands to keep the house under control.

That’s what I was busy doing when I was supposed to be getting on the bus to meet Moira on time tonight. My mom forgot to pick up a prescription, and maybe it would have been fine to wait until tomorrow like she kept telling me, but I didn’t want to risk throwing off her routine.

So I went to the pharmacy because she wasn’t up to leaving the house tonight.

It’s not her fault.

I let my old refrain guide me as I reach for my phone and make sure no texts from her have come through. I usually don’t go more than half an hour without looking, but this is the first time I’ve thought about checking my texts since I walked into Starbucks and saw Moira sitting there in her jeans and army jacket, looking like the perfect distraction.

“Resistance is futile, Kenzie!” she shouts in my direction as she continues to mess around with her camera.

I double-check that there are no texts and then follow her to the other table. She’s right; resistance is futile. We need to get this interview right, and as much as it makes my skin crawl to admit it, she knows what she’s doing in this arena way more than I do.

She’s the highland dance world’s little ray of sunshine, after all. She just needs to waltz in and beam at everyone to have them thinking about switching dance schools for her.

That thought sobers me up enough to focus back on what’s important here: the scholarship.

The scholarship I need to win.

If it takes putting up with advice from Moira Murray, I’ll do it, but no way am I answering all those questions of hers.

The air has started cooling off, and I rub my hands along the smooth leather of my jacket’s sleeves as I make my way over to Moira’s table. It’s one of the nicest things I own, and it’s still in near-perfect condition almost two years after I bought it thanks to how obsessively I take care of my clothes.

Even before she gave me a job at the Rebecca Stewart Academy, Catherine taught me a lot about how important clothes can be. Clothes are like a shield; they help you choose what people see—and what they don’t see.

“You’re having way too much fun with this,” I announce after setting my purse down on one of the picnic table’s benches.

Moira looks up from reviewing her question sheet for what has to be the millionth time tonight. “Like I said, it’s supposed to be fun. Fun is the energy we want to present, even if we’re faking it.”

“Oh, we’re definitely faking it.”

The words come out way more laced with suggestion than I meant them to. She keeps her eyes fixed on her notebook, and I almost decide she didn’t notice, but then she looks up and tilts her head to the side.

“Are we?”

I freeze and blink at her before forcing myself to swallow. Something like satisfaction slips into her gaze.

I don’t know exactly what happened to her over the past two years, but even if Moira and I are playing the same old game, the rules have clearly changed.

We’ve got new weapons now, and despite the cutesy facade she puts on for most of the world, Moira Murray knows how to use them. Those dimples are dangerous in the right light.

I glance at the camera. “Is that on?”

“Not yet. I haven’t picked my first question.” She hums to herself as she taps the edge of the notebook against the weathered wooden top of the table. “Aaaaand now I’m ready. Shift down here to the end so you’re in the shot.”

She waves for me to come closer to where she’s sitting at the very end of her bench. I take a spot directly opposite her. The lamppost above us casts our faces in a yellow glow that makes the rest of the park look even darker than early evening, like this pool of light we’re sitting in has risen away from the earth to cut us off from the rest of the world.

She leans over to stretch her arm out and press the record button. When she straightens back up, she clears her throat.

“Tell us, Kenzie...” she begins, sweeping her arm out like she’s greeting an imaginary studio audience. I almost laugh. “Who’s been the biggest role model for you as a dancer?”

Now I do bark a laugh. “Wasn’t that one of my questions?”

She shrugs. “I told you some of them were good.”

“They were all good, even if they weren’t fun enough for you.”

She smacks her notebook down in front of me. “Answer the question, Kenzie!”

I make a show out of shoving the notebook back over to her side of the table.

“Fine. My biggest role model is Catherine Stewart.”

Moira snorts.

I cross my arms. “If you’re going to laugh at my answers, I’m not going to give them to you.”

“Oh come on. Your biggest role model is not actually Catherine Stewart. That’s the biggest suck-up answer I’ve ever heard. Like, really, your boss?”

“It’s true,” I say, my arms still locked over my chest. “She is.”

“But she’s so...”

“She’s stern, yeah,” I answer, “and she doesn’t mess around. She knows what she wants, and she makes it happen. I don’t think many people realize just how hard Catherine works for what she has. The school didn’t just fall into her lap. I mean sure, she inherited it, but the place was halfway to losing its reputation when she took over. She’s only so strict because that’s what it takes. She’s fierce, and she’s protective. If she knows a dancer has potential, she will not let anyone or anything get in their way.”

I don’t realize how much I’ve said until I pause and realize I’m out of breath. My heart is pounding, and I can feel my cheeks getting hot. I barely stop myself in time to keep from blurting out all the things Catherine has given me.

She picked me up for competitions my mom couldn’t drive me to. She gave us extensions on the due dates for my academy fees. She made sure I always had everything I needed to dance to my full potential, but what really mattered is the way she looked at eight-year-old me and saw something, something nobody else seemed to have time to notice.

She looked at me and saw someone who grew up just like her, like a tiny speck teetering on the edge of some huge abyss. She gave me something to hold onto. She taught me to be strong.

“Wow,” Moira says when I don’t go on. Her eyes are wide and searching as they travel over my face. “Okay, so, you’re saying there’s like a...hidden soft side to Miss Catherine, under all that...incessant meanness?”

“Some people don’t have the luxury of being soft.”

Moira presses her lips together. “That doesn’t mean they have to be cruel.”

“She isn’t cruel. She’s just—”

“She called me tubby.”

The end of my sentence crawls back down my throat. Moira stares down at the table, and I can see a flush start to creep up her neck.

“I heard her comment on my weight, like, multiple times,” she murmurs. “It was all years ago, but still, I don’t see that she’s changed much since.”

I open and close my mouth a few times, searching for words that don’t come.

As much as I don’t want to believe Catherine would go that far, part of me can hear exactly how she must have sounded when she said it.

“So yeah, that’s the kind of thing your role model does, just so you know.”

I swallow and try again. “Moira, she shouldn’t have said that. I...”

My eyes drift to the camera screen, where the little red circle is still blinking to show we’re recording this.

“Can we shut that off?” I ask, jerking my chin towards the camera after I’ve looked back at Moira. “It’s distracting, and I want to—”

“Make sure there’s no evidence when you call her out in private and then keep supporting her in public?”

“What?” I pull back from the table and shake my head in shock.

This all just went from zero to a hundred in a couple sentences.

“I’m just...I’m just sick of watching people like her make other people feel small. I’m sick of feeling small, and I don’t really want to hear an excuse for why she does what she does because it’s not okay, even if you think it is.”

“Moira, I don’t...I don’t think...I—”

I start choking on my own words, looking back and forth between her and the blinking camera.

I can’t say this on film; it’s going to reveal way too much about me, but I can’t not say it either, not when she’s sitting there looking more pained than I’ve ever wanted to see her.

It takes seeing it to realize I’ve never wanted to see her hurt at all. Pissed off, sure. Defeated, yes—but not wounded, not like this.

I lunge for the camera and shut the recording off. She makes a sound that’s dangerously close to a sob and starts to get up from the table, but I lay my hand on top of hers, and she freezes.

Her fingers have gone cold from the night air.

“My mom is sick,” I blurt.

She squints at me.

“She’s just...she’s sick,” I continue, the words all coming out in a rush as my heart pounds so loud and fast in my ears I almost can’t hear myself. “She struggles...with a lot. She always has, and I’ve always...It’s just been the two of us for most of my life. Sometimes I feel like...like I’m the one mothering her.”

Even now, when I’m so out of control I can’t stop myself from speaking, the word depression won’t make its way past my lips.

My mom never wants to hear that word, never wants it attached to her, like she thinks it will hurt her less instead of hurting us both more when she ignores it.

“Oh, Kenzie.” Moira lowers herself back onto her seat and props her cheek against her free hand, her eyes locked on mine. Her other hand is still resting underneath my fingers.

“I know that sounds fucking ungrateful to say, but it’s how I feel sometimes.”

I’ve already said way, way too much, but I can’t stop now that I’ve started.

“Catherine was the first adult in my life to just...be there, you know? She wasn’t always the easiest person to please, but she took care of me. She made sure I got what I needed. I know she’s...I’m not trying to excuse her, and it’s terrible that she ever called you names, especially when you were an actual child, but...it’s like no matter how bad she gets, I can’t forget the good.”

A moment of silence falls, filled by the rattle of a breeze moving through the leaves in the trees dotting the park, which have started to shift from green to yellow and orange over the past couple weeks.

Blood is still rushing in my ears, and I clamp my jaw to hold back everything else that wants to burst out of me like a leaky pipe threatening to unleash a flood.

“Kenzie...” Moira’s voice is as soft as the breeze. “I...I had no idea.”

I can’t look at her face anymore, so instead I drop my eyes to the table, to where my hand is sheltering hers. Her fingers twitch under mine, and that small jolt of movement is all it takes to break the spell that’s fallen over me.

I pull my hand away and press both my arms to my sides, interlacing my fingers in my lap and squeezing my palms together so tight my muscles ache. Regret singes my skin, panic clawing at my lungs.

I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have lost control.

“Of course you didn’t. I don’t tell people about that.” My voice comes out thick, and I take a moment to gather myself, to stare at my whitening knuckles and do what Catherine always tells me to do.

Rise above.

I lift my head to look at Moira, tilting my chin up a little farther than necessary and narrowing my eyes. This time when I speak, I force some ice into my tone.

“So if I hear about this from anyone else, I’ll know it was you.”

Her forehead creases for a moment before an indignant scoff bursts out of her as her mouth drops open in disbelief.

“Seriously? You think I’m going to—”

“I think we’re going to have a serious problem if you do, and you should know that.”

She presses her lips together, sliding them around against each other like she’s working out what to say. Her eyes are flashing danger signs, and for a moment, I want her to let it all out, whatever she’s feeling, whatever names she wants to call me, whatever she wants to scream into the darkness of the park.

I want to scream too. I want to empty myself into the sounds, clear out all the conflict warring inside me every time I look at her, and then, when we’re done, when there’s just silence, I want to feel her hand in mine again.

For the few minutes her skin sat warm and welcoming against my own, there was no black hole underneath me. There were no cracks in the ground just waiting for me to mess up and swallow me whole.

There was just us, wrapped in the glow of a streetlamp like we’d stepped inside our very own star.

I only want it for a moment, though. As I watch all her warmth get snatched away, pulled back into her and away from me as she gets up from the table, I know I’ve done the right thing.

I went too far. I gave her a glimpse of who I am when I’m not Kenzie the champion dancer, and I can’t let that happen again. The only reason I get to be Kenzie the champion dancer is by making sure every single part of me the highland world sees is perfection.

“You know what? It’s late,” Moira says, the words clipped and hard. She walks to the end of the table and starts shoving books into her bag. “I’m just gonna go home.”

I watch her get all her things together, but I don’t move to do the same. When she’s done, she takes a few steps back from the table and props her hand on her hip.

“Are you just gonna sit there?”

I shrug. The air feels freezing all of a sudden, and I fight to keep from shaking in front of her.

She makes a harsh sound in the back of her throat and shifts her bag’s strap higher up her shoulder. “Whatever. I’m leaving. Just...”

She hovers, shifting her weight from foot to foot, but she doesn’t finish her sentence until I look up and meet her eyes.

They glint in the yellow light streaming down from above us.

“Just get home safe,” she finishes.

My hands twitch, like they want to form the words I won’t say with my mouth, but I keep them steady in my lap as I dip my chin down in a nod. “You too.”

I watch as she turns and makes her way up the path to the edge of the park. I don’t stop staring until she rounds a corner and disappears.

CHAPTER 7

MOIRA

“Great job today, girls!”

I take a swig from my water bottle as I watch my intermediate students plop down on the floor to untie their ghillies, laughing with each other and looking up at me to grin at the praise.

“That Flora is looking beautiful,” I add. “It’ll be a new dance for some of you in exams this year, so we’ll keep working on that a lot until spring.”

A few of the speedier ones start traipsing out of the studio to head for the change rooms. We had class in my favourite room in the whole Murray School, known humbly by the name of Studio B.

The building is a bit of an odd one, but I love every one of its quirks—including the creaky floors squeaking and groaning under my class as they shift around to get their shoes off. The school takes up most of an aged brick building in Old Ottawa South, with four studios tucked in wherever they would fit among the weird angles of our two floor unit. The building was slowly divided up into three rental areas, and the Murray School got the leftovers after a dentist’s office and bicycle repair shop moved in first.

Studio B is narrow enough to make some of the dances I teach tricky, but my favourite feature makes up for the inconvenience: the rounded bay of windows at the end of the room, with old-fashioned sashes and gorgeous semi-circles of ruby red stained glass capping the window panels.

When the sun hits them just right, the whole studio fills with glowing, rosy light that makes you feel like you’re dancing in a fairy tale.

Back when the school was still getting off the ground, my mum would spend pretty much the entire weekend at the front desk downstairs, going over admin tasks she balanced alongside a part-time job during the week. That meant me, my older sister, and younger brother would be here for the whole weekend too.

We’d practice our dancing, watch movies on a clunky portable DVD player that seemed like the height of innovation at the time, and pretend to do our homework, but no matter what we were up to when the sun started going down, we’d all race up the stairs to Studio B.

My mum would abandon her work and jog up behind us. All the Saturday classes would be long done by then, the four of us the only ones left in the school. We’d sit on the floor and face the windows, me and Logan squirming around in impatience while my sister Anna sat poised and aloof in a display of her ‘superior maturity.’

When the light hit the glass, we’d all gasp—every single time. We’d jump to our feet and twirl around in the magical patches of brilliant red light, watching them bounce off the mirrored studio walls. We’d leave behind the rigid rules of highland and move our bodies in whatever wild shapes they wanted to take on.

My parents always told us we could grow up to be anything, but in the moments, I was already everything I wanted to be.

Once, my dad walked in on us like that. In those early days, he’d work some extra hours on the weekend too, since it took a few years for the studio to turn a profit, but the five of us would always reunite at home for dinner. On special nights, like the one when he found us all dancing, he’d grab pizza or Chinese food and bring it for us to eat picnic-style at the school.

I’ll never forget the way he stared at us that evening. He looked close to tears—my big, barrel-chested dad, with his bushy red beard and tree trunk arms that to this day look as ready to win a caber toss as they did in the highland games of his youth. He looked so full, like there was nothing in the whole world that could add more to that moment than it already contained.

The sky outside the windows is almost dark now, the stained glass giving only a faint glimmer each time the traffic lights down on the street change colour. I take another big sip of my water, my throat dry from shouting instructions over bagpipe music for the past hour.

“Oh, and don’t forget!” I say after I’ve swallowed, addressing the remaining girls in the room. “It’s SDOO’s first Tartan Tea of the season tomorrow. I know some of you are dancing at it, but I’d love to see the rest of you there in the audience, and your parents too! There will be snacks!”

I shake my water bottle like it’s a maraca to illustrate how exciting snacks are, and a few of my students laugh.

I’m going to be much less excited about the snacks when I have to show up to the event at seven tomorrow morning to help make them.

I’ve been informed I’m on kitchen duty for my volunteer shift tomorrow, but I don’t know if the other scholarship applicants will have the same role. Despite needing to have our interview ready to go in a couple weeks, Kenzie and I haven’t communicated at all since I left her sulking on a park bench after she accused me of being likely to gossip away her secrets.

My blood starts to boil just thinking about it, and I feel heat creeping up my neck. I head over to tidy up the music station to distract myself, but it’s no use. In the empty studio, there’s way too much space and silence for my brain to fill with reruns of that night with Kenzie.

We still use CD players here, and I pop the disc drawer open with a little too much force. I take better care to be gentle as I place the disc in its case, pulling in long, deep breaths through my nose.

Almost three weeks have passed since that whole fiasco in the park. I shouldn’t still be reacting this way. I shouldn’t let her get to me. I’ve spent the better part of my life dealing with Kenzie’s shit. I should be able to brush it off and save all my fury for the next competition, just like I’d do when we were teenagers.

Instead, I kept replaying that video clip of us in the park over and over again until, in a moment of extreme self-control, I deleted it for the sake of my sanity.

I then spent the better part of a half hour looking for ways to retrieve the file, but it was gone, and with it went my only definitive proof I didn’t imagine all the stuff that happened before Kenzie started being her usual haughty, smug, accusatory self.

She held my hand, or at least I think she did. The memory of her fingers clutching mine with the strained intensity of someone who’d been waiting to touch me all night is so at odds with the reality of all that is Kenzie that I’m starting to think I must have made the moment up.

Tomorrow will likely solidify that belief, especially if we’re stuck slicing up finger sandwiches and plating trays of lemon bars in the same cramped kitchen. I can practically feel her glaring at me already, and maybe that’s just what I need: a whole day of Kenzie glowering her way through our every interaction to remind me how much I need to let whatever happened in the park that night go.

Still, after I’ve finished getting the music station in order, my eyes drift back up to the stained glass semi-circles topping the windows, and I can’t help comparing the memory of my mother’s laughter and my father’s pride with the way Kenzie talked about her own home. She completely shut down when I asked about her last name, and she completely broke down when she mentioned her mom.

If I’d grown up like that, with a mom I started caring for before I’d even learned to care for myself and a dad I couldn’t even mention without my whole body tensing up in revolt, who would I have become? Where would I have found comfort? How would I even know what it’s like to feel truly safe?

Maybe I would have turned out exactly like Kenzie.

Then again, maybe not, and regardless of alternate realities and hypothetical situations, I know what’s real now. I know how I feel, and I know we’re all responsible for our own choices.

Whatever Kenzie’s gone through does not give her the right to take it out on anyone else, including me, and including my chance at a scholarship that’s going to show the whole world Moira Murray can hold her own and do something interesting for once.

I face the wall of mirrors in front of me, puffing my chest out a little as I take in the sight of my reflection in black cropped leggings and a navy bodysuit with ghillies still tied around my feet. I hold the power pose for a couple seconds before I chuckle.

“Okay, maybe not the whole world,” I mutter, since it’s not like winning a scholarship from the Canadian capital’s highland dance organization is going to land me on the cover of Time magazine, but still.

It’s something, and after the way my life blew up in South Africa, I could really use something to hold up and show myself I at least sort of know what I’m doing.

I head for the door, reaching up to switch the lights off before I step out of the studio. I take the creaky stairs down to the first floor and duck into the tiny staff room, which consists of a bench and a white IKEA unit of cubbies.

I pull my bag out of its spot and find a text from Lydia waiting on my phone, asking if I’m still on for tonight. I reply to let her know I’m heading over to her place before swapping my coaching outfit for jeans, a hoodie, and my army jacket layered on top.

My mum pulls open the door to Studio A just as I’m walking past to reach the shoe racks in the school’s entryway, where everyone’s outdoor shoes are piled in a haphazard arrangement.

“Hey, sweetie!” she calls as the students in the adult class she just finished teaching start filing out of the room.

She’s wearing a similar coaching outfit to mine, her thick, grey-streaked brown hair pulled back into a low ponytail with a white headband framing her face. Her cheeks are glowing with that post-class bliss I know so well.

“Hey, mum!” I call back as I bend to pull my floral-patterned Doc Marten’s on. “I’m going to Lydia’s for a bit tonight.”

She takes a few steps down the hall so we don’t have to shout at each other.

“Oh, lovely! I hope you two have fun. It’s not another study date, is it? You should watch a movie, or do something else relaxing. Oooh, maybe some of those face masks people are so into these days!”

“It’s always a good time for a face mask,” Brianna, the middle-aged receptionist at the desk across from me, chimes in with a grin. “I buy them off Amazon.”

I try not to think too hard about the fact that I’m being given tips to improve my social life by my own mother and a lady who says ‘I buy them off Amazon’ with the satisfaction of someone who’s discovered a revolutionary life hack.

My life must really be in dire need of an upgrade if even my own mom is insinuating I’m boring.

Too boring to be interesting on my own.

I give my boot an extra hard tug, stamping the sole on the ground to remind myself that’s not what my mother is saying.

That’s what Savannah said. That’s what she told me when she tried to justify cheating on me because I apparently ‘couldn’t form my own life goals’ and just ‘absorbed’ hers.

I’m still thinking about that little showdown in Johannesburg as I wave goodbye to my mum and Brianna before heading out to wait at the bus stop. The familiar sight of a red and white OC Transpo bus pulls up a couple minutes later, and as I settle into a seat and watch the streets I’ve known my whole life go by, I can’t help wondering if maybe I am a little boring.

I never got excited about brochures for universities in faraway cities or countries the way other kids did in high school. I never felt that typical teenage ‘I need to get the hell out of here and find myself’ angst. I never dreamed of strapping on a giant backpack and getting on a plane to Europe.

That was all Lydia could talk about our whole graduating year, and that was why I went along with her—because I saw how bad she wanted it, how just the thought set her on fire, and because I lied and told myself I felt some of that fire too, when really, the truth of what I wanted sat heavy in my stomach the whole time.

The truth is that I want to spend my whole life in those ruby red moments inside the Murray School of Highland Dance. I want to give those moments to as many kids as I can. I want to spend every single day showing people how beautiful, exciting, and important highland dance can be.

When I’m in those rooms and walking those halls, they feel huge, so full of potential, but when I leave, I realize how damn small it sounds to say my only ambition is to keep working at my family’s barely profitable dance school like I have since I was a teenager. Even the Bachelor of Education I’m working on is just a way to learn more about being a teacher and maybe have a fallback if the Murray School doesn’t work out.

It’s not really the life of a modern, empowered, adventurous woman—the kind of woman I see on TV and social media. I don’t think it’s what my parents had in mind when they spent my whole childhood telling me and my siblings to dream as big as we could. It’s definitely not what Savannah was looking for in a girlfriend.

Maybe that’s why I can’t stop thinking about her, even as the memories of my time in South Africa fade like the autumn leaves in the trees the bus is zooming past. Sometimes I can’t even see her face all that clearly anymore, but I hear her voice like it’s right in my ear, as loud as every Instagram ad telling me to ‘level up and think bigger.’

It feels like cheating to just be happy with what I have, like I’m not playing the game right, like I’m missing a vital piece.

The sight of Lydia’s neighbourhood doesn’t help me get off my train of thought. Sandy Hill is a student mecca, full of low rise apartments and dilapidated little houses split into way more units than should be legal. String lights, flags, and tapestries functioning as curtains fill most of the windows. The front yards are all full of makeshift yard sale finds like wicker couches, scuffed up rocking chairs, and even a few stuffed animals in University of Ottawa merch perched like strange guardian spirits on banisters and balconies.

It’s the kind of neighborhood you’re supposed to get your first cramped, crappy apartment in to experience the joys and pitfalls of beginning adult life.

I’ve never wanted to live somewhere like this. I have fun visiting Lydia, but I’m always grateful to get back on the bus home.

I get out at a stop a block away from Lydia’s place and start trudging up the sidewalk. Loud, bass-heavy music thumps through the walls of one of the houses I pass, multi-coloured lights flashing in the upper windows. The house beside it has gotten an early start on Halloween; little plastic skeletons dangle from the spindly crab apple tree in the overgrown patch of front lawn, reminding me how far I’ve made it through my first semester of school. By this time next month, I’ll already be prepping for exams.

And I’ll have faced Kenzie onstage at SDOO’s November competition.

A shout from above distracts me. I look up to see Lydia waving from her house’s upper balcony, which, in my opinion, is sloped enough to warrant some kind of building inspection.

“Hey, best friend!” she calls.

I lift my hand in a wave, and she tells me she’ll be right down before disappearing inside the house.

She lives with more roommates than I can keep track of, and the tiny entryway is filled to bursting with coats and shoes when she pulls the front door open to let me inside. She has the front section of her hair pulled up into a little Pebbles Flintstone ponytail on the very top of her head, and she’s wearing an oversized t-shirt with the university’s environmental club logo on it.

“Enter, friend!” she commands, waving me through and stepping back enough for me to bend and take my shoes off.

She pulls me into a hug before I can get my jacket off, and I sag a little in her arms. I don’t know what I’d do if she hadn’t come back to Ottawa. Sometimes all it takes is a hug from Lydia to turn an entire crappy week around. As she unfurls her arms and starts leading the way up the stairs, I wonder how long she’d need to hug me to erase the past six months.

“Dude, I have news for you,” she says over her shoulder. “Big news.”

The excitement in her voice as she bounces her eyebrows up and down melts most of the doom and gloom off me, and I reach up to give her butt a slap.

“That kind of news?”

“Maaaybe,” she drawls as we reach the top of the stairs.

We pass a roommate I may or may not have met before and exchange waves as we make our way down the hall lined with bedrooms.

“Get in here so I can tell you away from prying ears!” Lydia urges, motioning like she’s directing a plane on a runway as she swings her door open at the end of the hall.

She’s fully immersed in the university student string light craze, with multi-coloured orbs hung in swaths along her ceiling and outlining her window frame. The walls are covered with Polaroid photos, colourful typography spelling out political slogans, and shelves housing souvenirs from our year of travelling the world together.

Lydia dives onto her bed as soon as I shut the door behind me and pats the purple comforter. I flop down beside her and nudge her leg with mine. “Okay, spill!”

She takes a deep breath. “So, you know how I was at that climate change panel last weekend?”

I nod. “Uh-huh.”

“And you know how Daniella’s friend who I think is really hot was supposed to be there?”

I think Daniella lives in this house, but between all the roommates and all the roommates’ partners and friends, it’s hard to keep track.

I nod anyway. “Uh-huh.”

“Well, they were there, and we all went to a bar after, and then everybody left except this person I’m super into, and then we went to a different bar just the two of us, and thennn...”

“And then?” I prompt, giving her leg another nudge when her dramatic pause stretches on for way too long.

“And then I totally made out with them!”

I whoop and thump my hands against the mattress in celebration. “Yes, Lydia! You are a goddess!”

“Indeed I am,” she says, tightening her goofy little ponytail as it starts slipping out of place.

“You gonna see them again?”

She nods. “We’ve been texting, like, non-stop. They’re Jewish too! I feel like I know so many queer Jewish people online, but then in real life, I’m like, where are you at, guys? So we’ve been talking about that a lot...among other things.”

She does a little shimmy on the comforter, and I pump my fist in the air.

“I’m so happy for you,” I say. “You’ve been talking about them since school started. What’s their name again?”

“Ty,” she answers in a dreamy tone I can’t help mocking.

“Ty!” I drawl. “Oh, Tyyyyy!”

Lydia whacks my shin with her foot. “My roommates are going to hear you, and they don’t know yet!”

“They’ll know soon enough, when you’re moaning TYYYYY in here every night.”

I say the ‘Ty’ part extra loud, and Lydia rolls over to shush me as I suck in a deep breath and prepare to do it again.

“Enough, you ridiculous fool!” she says as she clamps a hand over my mouth. “You’re in quite the mood tonight.” She peels her hand back an inch, and when I don’t start screaming again, she lets me go and flops onto her back.

“It’s just nice to be here with you,” I answer. “I’ve been feeling...weird, and this helps.”

“Weird how?”

“Weird like...” I stare up at the string lights, bringing my eyes in and out of focus to turn them into hazy starbursts as I work out what to say. “Weird like it’s the Tartan Tea tomorrow, and I haven’t talked to Kenzie since that night, and I don’t know what the hell is going on there, or in my life in general.”

Lydia reaches to pat me on the shoulder. “I’m going to try really hard to be a good friend here and focus on the important parts instead of laughing at the phrase ‘Tartan Tea’ again like I really, really want to.”

I snort. Even hearing that from her makes me feel a tiny bit better. Like I told her, it’s nice to just lay here and laugh. Bed chats with Lydia are an antidote to most poisons in this world.

“I appreciate your consideration.”

“What part feels the weirdest?” she asks.

“Hmmm.” I keep staring at the little lights, thinking back to how vulnerable Kenzie looked under the lamppost in the park, right before she grabbed my hand. “I guess I just...I don’t know what to expect anymore. I thought I was just competing for a scholarship and maybe getting one last chance to go head to head on a dumb old rivalry, but...it feels more complicated than that.”

She nods, and we spend the next couple moments in silence together, just breathing and being.

“I know it’s complicated,” she tells me, “but you know what? I also know you’re going to figure it out. You can do anything, Moira Murray.”

She rests her head on my shoulder, and I prop my chin next to her ponytail, wishing I shared her confidence.

CHAPTER 8

KENZIE

It shouldn’t be this hard to cut up a pan of brownies. I set the knife in my hands down on the counter and grab the metal spatula next to it, using the edges to try gouging the brownies out of their prison for the third time this morning.

When I’ve finished sliding the spatula all the way around the pan like a jigsaw, I flip the tray upside down and bang on the bottom. The brownies don’t budge.

I bang even harder.

I can feel the eyes of everyone in the kitchen shift to watch me, but I don’t turn around. I’ve only been at the Tartan Tea for an hour, and I can already tell I’ve lost my ‘playing it cool’ card.

I might have been able to hold onto it a little longer if Chris hadn’t bailed on coming over to watch a movie for the third time this month last night. He didn’t even text to cancel. I got a weird, slurred voicemail apology this morning in answer to all my messages asking if he was okay.

I never know if he’s okay. I don’t think he’s really been okay since his dad split up with my mom.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” I hiss at the brownies.

When I spot one of the younger scholarship applicants staring at me in petrified terror out of the corner of my eye, I take a deep breath and then turn to face her, forcing a smile onto my face.

“These just do not want to come out of here,” I say, tapping on the pan. The chuckle I follow it up with only sounds slightly strangled.

“Uh-huhhhh,” she answers with a nervous laugh of her own.

Her name is Holly, and along with another seventeen-year-old named Nicole, she makes up the sum total of people besides me and Moira competing for the scholarship. The Tartan Tea organizers have all four of us on kitchen duty, along with a veteran SDOO volunteer named Margerie, who’d probably be better off without us crowding her space.

It’s a fair-sized kitchen, but it feels minuscule when it’s got both me and Moira in it.

We’ve barely spoken since we both showed up at the stroke of seven this morning. We nodded instead of saying hello. She’s asked me to pass her a spoon, and I had to double-check with her about what time a quiche went in the oven, but other than that, we’ve stayed silent.

I steal a glance at her over my shoulder, and my stomach twists.

She knows too much.

It’s all I can think, all I’ve been able to think for the past few weeks since that night at the park.

I never should have told her any of that. Now that she knows all those things about me, she has power. She has control I should have kept for myself, and I can’t take it back.

“All right, ladies, we’re about ready to go!” Margerie comes back in the room and claps her hands together, the charm bracelet wrapped around her wrist jingling. “I need two of you to help me finish setting up the coffee station. Who wants to come wi—”

Before she can finish her sentence, Holly and Nicole drop what they’re doing and bolt to line up in front of her like kindergarteners ready for a field trip.

“We will!” Holly chimes, casting a nervous glance at me over her shoulder.

I might be even worse company this morning than I thought.

“Well, that works!” Margerie’s forehead creases for a moment before she shrugs off the tense atmosphere of the room and leads the girls out into the rented church hall where the Tartan Teas always happen.

That leaves me and Moira alone in the kitchen.

I focus back on the brownies to keep myself from looking at her again, but that doesn’t stop my ears from straining to catch every sound of her movements. She’s arranging finger sandwiches on a platter, and between the intervals of scraping as I drag my spatula around the rim of the brownie pan yet again, I can hear her clucking to herself and spinning the tray around to make an adjustment.

Neither of us speaks. Outside the kitchen, the hall is filled with the voices of other volunteers and dancers getting ready for their performances on the small raised stage. Some reedy squeaks let me know the bagpiper is getting warmed up.

A few of my students will be dancing today. I should head out and say hello, but even if these damn brownies weren’t holding me hostage, I know I wouldn’t be able to make it out of the kitchen.

Now that it’s only me and Moira, my feet feel glued to the floor, my body weighed down by everything we said—and didn’t say—that night in the park.

My heart hammers against my rib cage, and my muscles are tensed like I’m bracing for an attack.

I can’t take back what I said, but I also can’t take back what I saw—and what it made me feel. When she told me what Catherine did, when I saw her face pinch with pain at the memory, it was like stepping into an alternate reality where I’d do anything I possibly could to keep Moira Murray from ever getting hurt.

It’s the same thing I felt when I saw her laying flat on a stretcher in Scotland two years ago, her cheeks pale and her lips pressed tight together in a grimace. For a moment—before I heard one of the medics say she’d be fine—it felt like the girl who’d been snatching things out of my hands for years was finally making a grab for my heart, and I wasn’t even going to try to stop her.

I give the spatula a final thrust before flipping the pan over and banging on the bottom.

The brownies slide out in one solid piece and land with a thunk on the platter below them. The entire bottom of the batch seems to have stuck to the pan and left the chocolaty rectangle a bit haggard, but they’re out.

“Fucking finally,” I mutter.

I hear Moira shift on the other side of the kitchen, and my spine goes ramrod straight before I twist my neck to glance at her over my shoulder.

She’s looking at me over her shoulder too. Our eyes lock for half a second before I hear her pull a sharp inhale through her nose and go back to plating sandwiches like her life depends on it.

I should turn back around, but I don’t.

Instead, my eyes drop to the curves of her hips under the red and white spaghetti strap tartan dress she’s wearing. It’s tighter than anything I’ve seen her wear before, but with a black long sleeve t-shirt and tights underneath, it’s not going to shock any Tartan Tea attendees.

It shocked me when I saw her take her coat off this morning and reveal her curves are even more incredible than the highland dance costumes I usually see her in would lead one to believe. Highland apparel is not exactly designed for sex appeal, but in this dress, she’s a complete bombshell, and I can’t tell if the realization has me angry, terrified, or turned on. It sort of feels like a mix of all three.

Which is ridiculous. She’s Moira. The whole reason we’re in this kitchen is to beat each other. I shouldn’t be thinking about anything but winning that scholarship.

Rise above.

Rise above.

Rise above.

I whip my head around to face the wall before grabbing my spatula and heading to dump it in the sink. There’s already a pile of dishes and tools crowding the basin. I reach for the extendable faucet to give them a quick rinse, but as soon as I turn the tap on, a blast of cold water shoots out the side of the nozzle to soak my shirt.

I shriek and jump backwards, staring down at the wet patches blooming on the white blouse I have tucked into a red tartan skater skirt.

“Oh, yeah,” I hear Moira say from behind me. “The sink leaks. You have to hold the nozzle down when you turn it on.”

I whirl around to face her. She’s standing with her hip propped on the counter a few feet away.

“How come you know that, and I don’t?” I demand while the freezing water seeps all the way through my shirt to my skin.

It’s irrational, but her knowing some vital sink information I don’t just feels like the ten thousandth piece of proof that this is a world she seamlessly fits into, whereas I need to push and push and push for perfection just to call it my own.

To belong.

“You didn’t hear Margerie tell us?” she asks, one of her eyebrows jumping up at the bite in my tone. “Maybe you were too busy destroying those brownies.”

My skin burns so hot I half-expect to see steam rising off my soaked shirt.

She did not just bring the brownies into this.

“I did not destroy them. I’m cutting them.”

She steps closer so she’s right next to the plate. “You’ve been cutting them for like fifteen minutes, and I have to say, they look a little rough.”

She glances between me and the brownies with an exaggerated sympathetic pout.

I curl my fingers around the edge of the sink and squeeze hard.

“What are you getting at here, Moira?” I seethe. “I have this issue to go deal with, so if you want something, you better tell me now.”

I gesture down at my blouse, and I see her eyes drop to follow my hand. I glance down too and realize the fabric is now clinging to my stomach and the cups of my nude bra. I look back up just in time to see her swallow before she meets my eyes.

“I want...” she starts to say before her voice cracks and she has to clear her throat.

The sound makes my thighs twitch, and for a moment, I forget where we are. I forget who we are. All I can think about is how long it’s been since I’ve kissed anyone and how much I suddenly want the next person I kiss to be her.

“I want you to stop avoiding me,” she says, snapping me out of my trance.

I keep my grip on the counter as I lean back a little. I need space. She hasn’t moved, but somehow, she feels so much closer.

“You might not want to work together,” she continues, “but if either of us wants the scholarship, we need to do that interview, and we need it to be good. You can’t just not text me and then come in here and ignore me.”

“You didn’t text me either.” It’s a petty reply, but I still shrug as I say it.

She scoffs and shakes her head. “I wasn’t an asshole in the park. You could just have been, like, a normal person this morning instead of attacking these brownies and making everyone—”

She lifts her hand to smack it down on the counter and emphasize the word ‘brownies,’ but she doesn’t take her eyes off me and ends up overshooting her mark. Her palm lands flat in the middle of the brownie rectangle, squishing the batter beyond salvation and sending a few chunks flying from the force of the smack.

I freeze.

She freezes.

A few droning notes from the bagpipes outside fill the silence.

Moira lifts her hand, brownie bits stuck to her fingers and palm, and looks between me and the platter. I’m not sure what expression my face has shifted to form, but it’s enough to have even Moira looking nervous.

“You did not just wreck my brownies,” I hiss.

“Uh...” She plucks a chunk off the counter and rolls it between her fingers, avoiding my eyes. “I mean, on the bright side, it’s not like they were looking so great anyway.”

I let out a screech that carries the frustrations of the whole day with it: the message from Chris, the worry for him sitting heavy on my chest, the silent knowledge that Moira knows way more about me than I want her to, and the even more silent knowledge that I can’t stop looking at her body—the same way she definitely enjoyed looking at my chest under my soaked shirt.

And of course, there’s the frustration of the fucking brownies.

It all comes bellowing out of me as I watch her smugly play with the smashed batter, and before I realize what I’m doing, I have the sink hose in my hands again.

I pull the trigger and send a jet of water streaming out to splash her feet. I don’t care that the leaky nozzle squirts my shirt again. The fabric is already soaked, and the shocked look on Moira’s face is worth every drop.

She lifts both her hands in disbelief, her right palm still coated in brownie crumbs.

“Oh. My. God,” she says in a choked voice, her eyes wide. “You just sprayed me.”

I shrug. “Well you wrecked my—oh my god!”

I shriek again as she grabs a fistful of brownie fragments off the platter and chucks them at me. They splat against my wet shirt before dropping to the floor, leaving me dusted in brown crumbs.

“You asked for it,” Moira says with a head toss as I blink at her.

As soon as I get over the shock, I tighten my grip on the hose.

“No, no, no,” Moira starts chanting, her eyes wide. “Kenzie, no. We can—”

I spray her again, getting the edge of her dress this time before she hops out of my aim. The faulty nozzle streaks the metal island in the middle of the kitchen with water this time, but I don’t care. All the tension is leaving my body, replaced by the same determined surge of adrenaline I feel every time I’m on a competition stage. A laugh bubbles out of me as the corners of my mouth lift.

Now Moira is the one shrieking, but her squeals are edged with laughter too. She darts close enough to snatch the whole brownie tray and then retreats to the other side of the kitchen, dodging a squirt from the hose that ends up soaking a stack of tea towels instead.

“Kenzie, we can talk about this,” she pants, even as she grabs another handful of ammo off the platter. Her gaze darts around my body, anticipating any sign of movement.

“Oh, we passed the talking point as soon as you threw my own brownies at me.”

She’s too far for me to spray her again, and I’m too far for her to hit with a projectile. We stay locked in a standstill, both of us breathing hard.

“Put the hose down, Kenzie.”

“When you put the tray down, Moira.”

I tense when I see her eyes flick to the island in front of her. In a flash of movement, she grabs an empty baking tray to hold up as a shield and darts around the island with a fistful of brownies in hand.

I stand with the nozzle ready as she charges toward me, and in the second she takes to lower her tray and check her aim, I go in for my shot.

She ends up with a face full of tap water, and I end up with a face full of smushed brownies.

We’re both left gasping and spluttering, swiping at our eyes before we look at each other.

She’s closer than I realized.

So damn close.

Her eyelashes are beaded with water, and all the breath whooshes out of me as I realize just how bad I want to lick the drops of moisture clinging to her lips.

I want to find out what she tastes like, what she feels like under my hands. I want to know just how crazy we could drive each other if we made our bodies part of the game we’ve been playing for years.

Her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip, the flash of pink on pink drawing me closer.

I want to know what she’d sound like if I bit that lip. I don’t know how I know, but I’m suddenly certain Moira Murray likes it a little rough.

Her chest is heaving, and mine is too, the cups of my bra straining against my now completely transparent shirt.

I want to feel her hands on the buttons, pulling it off me.

I want my hands in her hair, pulling hard.

Our faces are only a few inches apart now. I can almost taste her hot, rapid breaths.

“Kenzie...”

Her voice whispering my name makes my eyes drop closed as my hands clench at the thought of all the different ways I could make her say it.

Sigh it.

Scream it.

“Moira...”

There’s nothing else. There’s just her body, inches from mine, waiting for me to reach for her.

Then the kitchen door swings open, creaking on its hinges, and the rest of the world comes back into harsh and horrifying clarity.

My eyes fly open, and my head whips around to catch sight of sweet old Margerie scanning the war zone of the kitchen like she’s just walked in on the dawning of the apocalypse. She mouths a few silent words as her head swivels to take in all the brownie splatters and water spills sitting like tidal pools on the counters, giving Moira and I a few seconds to jump away from each other.

Finally, her eyes land on the two of us.

“Ladies, what on earth is going on here?”

CHAPTER 9

MOIRA

This may be the first time in the history of the Scottish Dance Organization of Ottawa that anyone has ever been kicked out of a Tartan Tea.

The thought occurs to me as Kenzie and I stand in the church foyer pulling our coats on. I can hear the pipes droning down in the basement, and it only takes me a few beats to recognize the dance as one called the Village Maid.

I should be down there supporting my kids, but as Kenzie and I had dictated to us by an aghast Margerie, we are ‘in no fit state to represent the organization.’

In some bout of quick-thinking I was definitely not prepared to do myself, Kenzie managed to pass off the destruction in the kitchen as the result of a spontaneous plumbing fiasco the two of us heroically fought to get under control, with the brownies being an unfortunate casualty of the frantic chaos that took over as we battled with the sink.

As far as we can tell, we haven’t jeopardized our shot at the scholarship—or our jobs as dance teachers—but we’ve still been asked to leave due to what an absolute mess we are.

“I am so glad my mum and dad weren’t at this tea,” I mutter as I get my jacket done up.

“Aren’t they usually at stuff like this?” Kenzie asks as she types something on her phone.

I haven’t looked her in the eye since Margerie found us. Doing that feels like admitting everywhere else I’ve looked at her today, and I’m not sure I’m ready to be that honest with myself, never mind Kenzie.

Did we almost kiss?

The question plays in my head on a loop, paired with the image of Kenzie’s dark lashes brushing her cheeks as her eyes drifted closed and her mouth leaned in towards mine.

“Yeah, they are,” I answer, “but my little brother has veered off the family path and started doing karate. They’re at this thing at his dojo today.”

Even sixteen-year-old Logan has taken my parents up on their constant encouragement to ‘dream big and do whatever you want.’

Unlike me.

I push the brooding thoughts away as Kenzie hums in answer, her eyes fixed on the screen as she continues typing. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to leave now. We’re both ready to go, but instead of saying goodbye and heading for the bus stop, I blurt the first question that pops into my head.

“Do you have siblings?”

Her fingers go still, but she keeps staring at her phone.

“Sort of,” she answers after a moment.

“Sort of?” I repeat, even though she’s already typing again and giving off a strong ‘do not ask follow-up questions’ vibe.

“Yeah, sort of.”

“What does sort of mean?”

She blows a huff of air out of her nose and looks up to stare past my shoulder like she’s searching for the nearest water source to spray me with again.

“There isn’t really an established way to refer to the kid of someone your mom used to be married to, and I always feel stupid calling him my ex-stepbrother, so yeah, I sort of have a sibling.”

“Oh.”

She goes back to typing, and even though she’s giving me every indication to drop the subject, I don’t. If we stop talking, I’ll have to leave, and if I have to leave, I’ll have to face how much I don’t want to leave. So instead, I ask, “What’s his name?”

She presses her lips together, two creases forming between her eyebrows. A couple moments pass, and I start to think that expression is the only answer I’m going to get before she mumbles a name I only just manage to catch.

“Chris.”

Her face relaxes, like his name is a soothing spell, but her eyes get almost too soft, like she’s seconds away from tears.

If I see stoic and icy Kenzie Andrianakis break down and cry after every other insane thing that’s already happened this morning, the planet might experience a complete reversal of its poles, so I don’t ask anything else about him.

“Are you looking up your bus route?” I say instead.

She glances at me. “Huh?”

I nod at her phone, my neck getting hot as I realize what a ridiculous weirdo I’m being. “On your phone. Are you, uh, looking up how to get home?”

“Oh. Uh, no.” She turns to stare out the strips of glass in the church doors. “I guess I should, though. Margerie seemed pretty serious about not letting us back in.”

I chuckle before I can stop myself, and the corners of Kenzie’s mouth lift. “Are you taking the bus home?”

“Me?” I ask, as if she could possibly be talking to anyone else.

One food fight and maybe-kiss later, and I’m acting like a teenager with a crush, not a grown-ass woman interacting with another grown-ass woman who’s been nothing but insufferable since the day of our first encounter.

“I’m gonna walk, actually,” I answer. “I live pretty close.”

“You live with your parents?”

The heat making its way up my neck starts creeping into my cheeks. When I’m there, I don’t feel bad about living at home. It feels like the right choice for me at the moment, but I know how it looks to take off as some intrepid world traveller only to crash and burn all the way back to where you started.

“Yeah,” I say, staring through the door’s window now too. “I do.”

Kenzie probably has a house full of cool roommates like Lydia does, or some stylish unit in one of those student-only high rises downtown. I can picture her in some trendy studio that’s as fashionable as the outfit she wore to meet me at Starbucks a few weeks ago.

“I do too.”

I jerk my head to look at her. “You do?”

“Yeah. Well, just with my mom. It’s...I mean, she...yeah.” She presses her lips together after she trails off.

I want to kick myself in punishment for everything I just thought. Of course it would make sense for her to live at home if her mom has some kind of illness.

As I stare at the sharp angles of her face, at the beauty I’ve always thought of as cruel, I realize I’ve spent years constructing an image of Kenzie that’s based only on the tiny sliver of her life I’ve gotten to see.

To me, she’s only ever existed as an opponent on stage or an annoying conversation to deal with after a dance event. I’ve let the people around her—namely, Catherine and the rest of the Stewie crew—become her back story, but she’s more than that. She’s more than them.

She’s fascinating.

The word drifts into my thoughts as I watch her blink, and I realize it’s the perfect one to describe how I’m feeling—and maybe how I’ve always felt.

I’m fascinated by her. She may annoy the hell out of me, but she always leaves me wanting more. I always come back to this, and so does she.

“Hey, um, I have an idea,” I say before I chicken out.

She tilts her head, inviting me to go on.

“We were both planning on being at this thing for another few hours, so I know we have the rest of the morning free, and since the other applicants are clearly going to score the, uh, brownie points for this event, if you will...”

She squeezes her lips together, her cheeks going red as she tries so hard to hold back a laugh it ends up exploding out of her as a snort.

“Oh my god, Moira,” she says, shaking her head and letting a real laugh out.

I laugh too. “I couldn’t resist. The muse struck.”

“Just continue with your idea,” she tries to command even though she’s still grinning.

“Right, right.” I clear my throat. “So, it seems our interview is going to need to be extra good, and since we have the time, and we’re both already wearing tartan, we should just do it today.”

I fight the urge to gulp as soon as I finish.

Kenzie glances down at her chest. “That would be great if my shirt wasn’t covered in brownies.”

“Ah. Right. Well...” I tug on the sleeve of my jacket, trying not to look at her chest too. “I was going to suggest we film it at my house since we’re close, so you could clean your shirt off there, or just borrow something.”

My cheeks heat even more when I realize that in a single sentence, I’ve suggested she strip out of her shirt and put on one of mine.

“That could work.”

The way she tilts her head and lifts an eyebrow makes it clear she knows exactly how flustered I am.

That does not help my burning cheeks cool down at all.

“I’m down if you are,” she says when I can’t come up with a reply.

I turn to face the doors and hide how deep of a breath I take. “Right. Good. Then follow me.”

* * *

We get through the first half of the fifteen minute walk to my house in pretty much complete silence. We’re in the heart of the Glebe’s quiet residential streets. Huge oak and maple trees rain the last of the season’s yellow leaves down on us as we trudge up the sidewalk.

Most of the houses here are the same style as my family’s: old, boxy brick three-storey buildings with vintage-looking gables and shingled roofs. When my parents took me and my siblings out for family walks as kids, we’d play endless games of ‘I Spy’ based on all the houses’ quirky details, like vines creeping around a banister or brass lion knockers on the doors.

Even though Kenzie is silent, I see her craning her neck around beside me, taking the autumnal scene in like she’s as enraptured by it as I always was as a kid.

We’re about to turn the corner onto my street when one of the black flats I’m wearing catches on a gap between two sidewalk slabs and almost sends me sprawling on my face.

“Crap,” I hiss as I fling an arm out to catch my balance. “These don’t even have heels, and I’m still tripping in them.”

Kenzie gives me a sideways glance. “Not your favourite shoes?”

I scoff. “I’m more of a Doc Martens or Converse kind of girl. My Aboyne is about as femme as I get.”

I laugh at my own joke about the skirted highland costume used for the ‘ladies’ style dances, but stop myself when I realize what I’ve just implied.

I’ve never mentioned being queer directly to Kenzie. I’ve never had a reason to.

It’s not a secret or anything; in all likelihood, she’s already heard it from someone else, but I still hold my breath as I wait to hear what she’ll say next.

“You’re not exactly butch either,” she finally answers, just as the end of our driveway comes into view up ahead.

I shake my head beside her. “I’m a solid futch.”

She bursts out laughing at that, and I turn my head to see her tip her face up to the sky, her mouth stretched wide in a genuine smile.

“So what would you say I am?”

“Hmm.” I risk tripping again as I scuff my feet through a pile of crunchy leaves that’s drifted onto the sidewalk. “You’re pretty femme, but not like, high femme.”

She nods. “That sounds about right.”

We’re really talking about this. After years of wondering, she really has all but told me she’s queer.

“So you, uh...You’re...” I stutter with all the finesse of a thirteen-year-old talking to their first crush.

“I like girls, yeah,” she finishes for me.

My throat goes dry, and I force myself to swallow. “Cool.”

Seriously? Cool? What the hell did I just say ‘cool’ for?

“And you do too,” she says, more a statement than a question.

I nod anyway. “I do, yeah.”

When my voice doesn’t come out sounding as much like a parched chipmunk as I expect it to, I risk going on.

“I’m pretty sure I’m a lesbian. I’m still sort of trying to find the right label for me, but I’m pretty sure that’s it.”

She slides her hands into the pockets of her grey pea coat. “That’s cool.”

Some of my panic subsides when I realize she too is awkward enough to use the word ‘cool’ in this conversation.

“That you’re letting yourself take time to figure it out,” she adds, staring straight up the street now. “I’m a lesbian, but there’s definitely a lot of pressure to just, like, know that right away if you want to seem...legit? Or something?”

I bob my head. “Oh, I totally get that. Sometimes I’m scared to tell girls I’m still figuring it out. I’m pretty sure I can’t see myself ending up with a man anymore, but it’s just...It’s like you said. I want to take some time with it.”

The words make their way out of me before I can contemplate them, and when I fall silent, I realize I’ve said way more than I meant to. I don’t regret it, though. As alternate reality-like as it feels to be walking up my street with Kenzie, chatting about our sapphic awakenings, it also just feels kind of nice, like putting on the perfect pair of new shoes in a store and realizing they already feel familiar on your feet, even though you’ve never worn them before.

“This one’s us,” I say, pointing to my driveway as we pass by our neighbour’s front yard.

Our own front yard has seen better days, but we’ve all been so caught up in the return to fall scheduling no one’s had time to take care of it. The shrivelled, yellow grass is mostly covered by a layer of decomposing leaves. I spot a stray rugby ball and a pair of gardening gloves all but buried out of sight and remind myself to go pick them up later.

The tire swing secured to a branch of our big oak tree by a few lengths of coarse yellow rope is swaying in the slight breeze. I lead Kenzie up the path beside it to our covered front porch.

“Welcome to the Murray household,” I say, sweeping my arm out for her to take the two steps up to the porch ahead of me.

The dark blue paint is flaking off the floorboards, and the porch itself is crammed with empty planters my mum spent all summer saying she was going to turn into window boxes but never did.

“Excuse the mess,” I say as I hunt around for my key in my pocket and then get the front door open. My hand shakes a little as I turn the handle, and I realize how tense I’ve gotten.

Kenzie is about to enter my house, the one I’ve lived in all my life. Maybe I’m being dramatic, but it feels like the threshold is a line we can’t uncross.

I’m just not sure what we’re stepping into on the other side.

I enter the house first, and I don’t turn around until I’ve dumped my purse on the cluttered, dark wood console table and hear Kenzie swing the door shut behind her. The entryway sits at the end of a short and narrow hallway, and when I turn around to tell her to take her shoes off, I find Kenzie way closer than I expected.

“Uh, so...” I trail off, blinking as her brown eyes stare into mine.

She has eyes like black tea without any milk—dark and strong, with a hint of amber to balance out all the bitterness.

They hide so much, but if you catch them in the right light, it’s almost like reading tea leaves, like learning a whole new language just to figure her out.

“So you can put your coat there,” I finish, pulling my gaze away to gesture at the row of brass hooks screwed into the panelled wall, which are already overflowing with jackets and scarves.

I leave Kenzie to figure that out for herself and head into the living room to make sure there’s nothing I feel the need to tidy before she sees it.

Truth be told, there’s a lot I’d like to tidy. Our style is kind of the opposite of the ‘pristine white minimalist decor’ you see on magazine covers. I like to think of our clutter as the cozy and comforting kind, but looking at the red L-shaped sofa covered in books and blankets, the shelving units stacked with knick knacks, and the endless framed dance photos set up on every spare surface available, I can see how it might come across as A Lot.

I figure I might have enough time to at least fluff the couch up a little, but Kenzie steps up beside me before I can move.

“Wow,” she says before I can give any kind of caveat. “It’s...”

I brace for whatever word is going to come next.

“Cozy,” she finishes.

I squint in surprise and turn my head to watch her keep surveying the room.

“And like, really Scottish,” she adds.

I chuckle. “You know, it all just kind of blends in for me at this point, but you’re right.”

The huge framed photos of Ben Nevis and the Isle of Skye might have something to do with that, as might the overdramatic ironwork Murray crest above the fireplace, which is festooned with a length of Murray clan tartan and has two swords crossed behind it.

“You can sit on the couch, and move anything you need to,” I tell her as I head for the kitchen, which is separated from the living room by an island lined with wooden stools. I drape my jacket over one of them and ask her if she’d like any tea.

“Tea would be great, actually,” she answers.

I steal glances at her as I get the water boiling and pull out some mugs. She’s sitting on the very edge of her couch cushion with her hands in her lap, like she’s scared to relax and sit all the way back. She keeps gawking at the room as if she’s never seen anything like it.

I ask how she takes her tea, expecting her to ask for it black or with only a splash of some kind of dairy substitute we don’t have, but she hesitates and then tells me she’ll take it with milk and double sugar.

The same way I take mine.

I pour the water and milk over the tea bags and then pop a few sugar cubes into each. My mum uses only cubed sugar for coffee and tea. It’s basically a Murray household law to always have sugar cubes in stock.

When I bring the mugs into the living room, I find Kenzie hunched over to peer at a dance photo propped under the lamp on one of the couch’s side tables.

“Is this you or your sister?” she asks once I’ve set the tea down and claimed an armchair.

Even on the sprawling couch, sitting down next to her feels too risky, like it will make me face how weird this day has gotten and how much weirder it could possibly get.

Weird would definitely be one way to describe accidentally leaning in to kiss Kenzie on my family’s couch.

“Come on, you really can’t tell?” I ask.

I know the photo well enough I don’t have to look. It’s eight-year-old me in a kilt and vest, caught mid-air in a leap with my legs in a perfect straddle. My first ever highland trophy is set up on the floor in front of me alongside a display of ribbons and medals.

“You two look very similar,” Kenzie protests.

She’s not wrong; my older sister Anna and I have the same hair and eyes. We’d get mistaken for each other offstage all the time, but onstage, people knew I was always at least a slightly better dancer—a saving grace for my middle child syndrome, which really flared up when Anna graduated with a half dozen scholarships and went to business school in Toronto to continue building her already established social media manager business.

She is a perfect example of the ‘dream big’ ethos my parents are so proud of, the one I don’t seem to have.

“Look at that leap!” I insist. “The control! The grace! The power!”

Kenzie chuckles. “Okay, so it is you.”

“Of course it’s me,” I say, which makes her laugh even more.

She has a beautiful laugh—when she’s not using it to accentuate a jab at me. When she laughs like this, open and honest, the sound is as rich and sweet as syrup.

“Where do you want to film this thing?” she asks as she reaches for her mug.

“We have a little sunroom upstairs. I was thinking that might work well. There’s lots of light, and less...visual stimulus.” I wave my hand around to indicate the general state of the living room.

Kenzie chuckles again and nods. “And what do we do about the questions?”

I feel a crack of tension snap through the room, and I know we’re both thinking about how our last go at this ended.

“Ah, yes. The questions.”

I blow on my tea to fill the silence.

“To be honest, I liked your idea of just going for it,” Kenzie says. “We can cut whatever doesn’t work, but we should probably just get on with it and film what we’ve come up with.”

I keep blowing on the tea as I nod, using the action to cover up how shocked I am to hear the phrase ‘I liked your idea’ leaving Kenzie’s mouth.

“But I have a condition.”

That sounds more like her.

“And what’s that?”

“We don’t interrupt each other, and we don’t ask follow-up questions.”

The need to grumble at her comes on strong as indignation sparks in my chest. “Well, sorry if you consider it interrupting when I just want to have an organic conversation that will—what, Kenzie?”

I cut myself off when I see the clearly amused lift of her eyebrows as she sets her tea down and crosses her arms over her chest.

Her bra is still somewhat visible through the slowly drying fabric of her crumb-stained shirt. I should have offered her a clean one right away, but now that she’s back to acting superior, the urge to be helpful is fading.

However, the urge to get another look at her boobs still going strong.

“This is exactly what I meant,” she answers. “We interrupt each other and derail the conversation with arguments—and yes, I’m including myself in that too. It’s like you said; we need this interview to be extra good now that we’ve lost a few volunteer hours, and it’s not going to be good if we can’t even finish it.”

I bite my tongue to hold back all the snarky replies that spring to mind.

She does have a point.

“I can do it if you can do it,” I answer after a moment of contemplation.

“Oh, I can do it,” she says, leaning a little farther forward.

Do not look at her boobs. Do not look at her boobs, Moira Murray.

From what I’ve seen through her shirt, her boobs are fucking cute, but I doubt that’s the word I’d use for them if I got to see her without a bra on.

Which I will not, because she is my enemy and an annoyingly smug person in general.

As if she can read my mind, she smirks and stands up, reaching to shimmy the waistband of her tartan skirt a little higher before smoothing the fabric down her thighs.

“Are you going to show me this sunroom?”

If I could raise my eyes to the ceiling and say a silent prayer to the spirit of Scotland without her noticing, I totally would.

“I guess we better get it over with,” I answer as I get to my feet too.

We take our tea with us and head up the creaky staircase to the second floor. The sunroom is a common feature of houses in this area: a little box of a room that juts out over the front porch, with windows lining three of its walls. We close the room off in the winter since there’s no insulation, but on a sunny October afternoon, it will still be warm enough to film in there.

My bedroom door is open a few inches, and I pause in front of it.

“So, uh, I guess you still want a shirt?”

“I mean, I’d love to sit around in the brownie crumbs you threw at me, but I don’t know if that would make the best impression on camera.”

Her snark makes it a lot easier to open my bedroom door and lead her inside, but I still have to avert my eyes and focus on digging through one of my drawers for a white t-shirt when I see her eyeing my bed.

Thankfully, today was one of the rare mornings during which I made my bed. The multicoloured quilt covering my sheets is a little childish, but it’s one of the last things my gran made before her hands got too bad to sew, so I’d never dream of giving it up.

The rest of my decor is a mesh of childhood dance memorabilia, posters with a distinct angsty teenager feel to them—or at least, as close to being an angsty teenager as I ever got—and some of my recent attempts to make the space more grown up, such as some trendy ceramic vases and a set of long white curtains to replace the purple ones I had as a kid.

“There you go,” I say, tossing the t-shirt at Kenzie as soon as I find it. I book it back over to the hallway and say I’ll meet her in the sunroom before pulling the door closed behind me.

Kenzie is changing in my room. At this very moment, she probably doesn’t have a shirt on.

I blow out a long, heavy breath and then jog back downstairs to grab my phone out of my purse. By the time Kenzie comes out wearing my t-shirt, I’ve stolen my brother’s tripod from his room and started setting the sunroom up for the interview.

I try to keep myself from staring at her, but the sight of her in something I own, even something as simple as a plain white t-shirt, draws my eyes like she’s a magnet.

“Thanks for the shirt,” she says, striding up the hallway like she’s on a runway and coming to stand beside me where I’m setting up the camera.

On my knees.

If I turned, I’d be looking up at her. She could hook a finger under my chin and tilt my face up. She could run that finger over my lips.

I scramble to my feet.

“No problem. We’re, uh, good to go. I think we could just sit there.”

I motion at the two wicker chairs I’ve arranged with my steaming mug sitting on a rickety wooden table between them. Kenzie places her mug down beside it.

“Very thematic,” she says, pointing at the tartan cushions and the little Scottish unicorn emblems on the matching mugs, which I didn’t even notice until now.

I swear I’m so surrounded by Scottish things I’ve become blind to my own submergence.

“Oh, wait,” I say as she goes to sit down.”You don’t have your question list.”

She shrugs. “I think I remember most of them.”

I get my own list out of my room and hurry back to take the spot beside her.

“Should we start?” I ask.

She shrugs again, and I feel like there has to be some sort of scientific explanation for how one person could have me drooling over her tits in one moment, laughing with her in the next, and wanting to smack her with a ghillie right after. Currently, her powers seem borderline supernatural.

“I will take that as a yes,” I quip before leaning forward to press the record button.

A beat of silence passes.

“Who’s going first?” I ask.

“I guess I will.” She clears her throat and then turns to look right at me, speaking in that uncanny imitation of a news reporter voice I somehow find very sexy. “Tell us a bit about you, Moira.”

My first instinct is to complain about how boring and unspecific that question is, but we have an agreement, and we probably should start by introducing ourselves.

“I’m Moira Murray,” I hear myself saying, even though half my brain is still busy thinking about how satisfying it would feel to smack her in the arm with a shoe and the other half is trying to turn that into some kind of weird fantasy. “Highland dancer extraordinaire.”

Kenzie’s lips twitch.

“Most people know me as part of the local Murray clan,” I continue. “My family owns and operates the Murray School of Highland Dance, so as one would assume, highland dance has been a huge part of my life. My parents like to say I learned to pas de basque before I learned to walk.”

I chuckle at the joke I’ve heard a million times and reach for my tea, nodding for Kenzie to hit me with the next question.

Talking is good. Talking distracts me from thinking thoughts I shouldn’t.

“And why are you interested in this year’s scholarship?”

“Well...” I tap the side of my mug. “The student life ain’t cheap.”

I expect her to laugh along with me, or at least nod in agreement, but she just stares.

“It’s more than that, though,” I add. “I’m twenty now, and sometimes I feel sort of...caught between who I used to be and who I’m going to be, if that makes any sense. I want to be sure of myself. I want to wake up every day and feel confident about who I am and what I want. The highland community has always been a place where I feel that confidence, and as I step into whatever the next phase of my life will be, I’d love to show up for this community in new ways and continue earning the honor of representing it.”

All that is true, as cheesy as it may sound, but I hold back on the other reasons churning inside me.

I want to be interesting.

I want something tangible to prove I’m not a completely aimless mess.

I just want to feel like enough, like my life isn’t too small to matter. Maybe it’s stupid to think I could get any of that from winning a highland dance scholarship, but I do.

Kenzie’s got her head tilted to the side, her eyes scanning my face as she sips on her tea.

“Thank you for that answer, Moira,” she says around the rim of her mug, and I almost crack up at the feigned formality.

Her eyes glimmer like she knows exactly how hilarious she’s being, and all the voices filling my head with self-doubt suddenly feel a little quieter, a little less cruel.

“For our next question, I’d love to know what you’d consider the most fun you’ve ever had doing a highland performance.”

I raise my eyebrows. That was one of the questions from my list, and I picked it specifically for the answer I already have in mind.

“Well, Kenzie, I don’t think it will be a surprise to anyone who’s been part of SDOO for a while to know my answer is, of course, the infamous Nickelback routine.”

She almost spits out her tea, her professional air slipping for a moment. “Oh my god, the Nickelback routine.”

I nod. “Yes, the Nickelback routine.”

She clears her throat and sets her mug down. “For our viewers who aren’t familiar with that incident, perhaps you’d like to provide some back story? Maybe a re-enactment?”

I pinch my nose and press my lips together to keep from snorting.

“Okay, so,” I say after taking a cleansing breath, “many years ago, I was part of a group performance at the SDOO Freeform Showcase, which, for those who don’t know, is an informal, local competition where dancers get to break out of the box a little and perform highland-inspired routines that incorporate other styles of dance and music.”

“Such as Nickelback,” Kenzie blurts.

“Yes, precisely. I was about eleven at the time, and my group was supposed to be dancing to a respectable Michael Bublé number, but when it came time for us to enter onto the stage, the sound guy put a Nickelback song on by mistake.”

“And which Nickelback song was it?” Kenzie asks, even though I’m sure anyone who was there remembers, including her.

“It was ‘Photograph,’ and after basically being raised in a dance studio, eleven-year-old Moira figured the show must go on at all costs, so she leapt out onto the stage and did an entirely improvised highland dance performance to Nickelback. I’m told it was very moving.”

“It was hilarious,” Kenzie corrects. “I think you should give our viewers a taste of what we’re talking about.”

I shake my head. “Oh, no way. It was a once in a lifetime experience.”

Kenzie is already busy searching for the song on her phone and doesn’t pay me any attention.

“Got it!” she crows after a few seconds. “Let me move the camera back.”

“Kenzie, I’m not actually doing the Nickelback dance.”

She just goes ahead with moving the tripod out into the hallway. “People loved the Nickelback dance. They still talk about it. You said yourself this interview needs to be unique and fun if we want to upstage the other applicants.”

“By fun, I did not mean me leaping around to Nickelback.”

She throws me a look over her shoulder. “Stop complaining and admit it’s a great idea.”

If I really think about it, it is a great idea, but I’m not about to tell her that.

“I’m not even warmed up,” I say instead.

“So get moving.”

I fight the urge to scream as I get up from my chair and start twisting my torso from side to side. I only do a few basic stretches, since I’m not exactly planning on giving the performance of my life here, and Kenzie keeps herself busy on her phone while I move.

I notice her glaring at the screen and shaking her head a little as she types something out, but I don’t ask what’s wrong. I’d probably only earn a glare for myself if I did.

“All right, maestro, play the music,” I announce when I’m ready.

She gets the song going on her phone, bumping the volume up as loud as it will go. I shift our chairs all the way back against the wall and then assume the typical highland starting position, with my heels pressed together and my hands resting in fists against my waist.

Chad Kroeger starts rasping about an old photo of his high school friends, and I do my best to channel my goofball eleven-year-old self.

I don’t even realize what my body’s doing until I’m halfway through a turn a few moments later and hear Kenzie laugh. I amp up the drama a little, incorporating a flowy step from the Lilt, and she whoops.

“It was cheesier than that, Moira.”

I resist the urge to flip her off and continue floating my arms in a wide circle instead.

“More drama!” she shouts.

I roll my eyes but don’t stop moving. “If you remember it so well, why don’t you come do it too?”

That gets her to be quiet.

“What, Kenzie?” I tease. “Too scared to join me? Too scared I might be better than you?”

I should have known that would get her up off the floor. She springs to her feet from where she’s been crouching beside the tripod and stomps over to stand beside me.

“This part will not be in the interview,” she says, pointing back at the camera, “but I’m not about to let you say you’re better and get away with it.”

She assumes the same starting position I did, and I stop my ridiculous routine to mirror her pose in front of her. With our fists still pressed to our sides, we bend at the waist to bow to each other.

The music builds, and then the chorus hits.

Kenzie jumps into action, busting out a complicated dance called the Tribute to JL McKenzie, with some added ballet-style flourishes thrown in. I up my game with some moves from the Flora and twist my face into an exaggerated grimace, like Chad’s growled nostalgia is piercing my very soul.

We hardly have any room to move, and we keep bumping into each other, shouting and laughing the whole time.

Just when I’m getting confident I’ve got an edge on her and will be the video’s clear winner, Kenzie dashes over to grab the nearest framed family photo off the wall and starts using it to mime out the song’s lyrics as she dances.

So of course, I have to do the same.

By the time the song winds down, we’re both panting and sweating, wrapping up our final spins with photos of my smiling family all decked out in tartan clutched dramatically to our chests.

I hold my final pose for a second after the music stops before I collapse down on my ass on the floor. Kenzie stumbles into a seat on one of the wicker chairs.

“Dramatic enough for you?” I say between gasps for air.

She lifts her hand to wiggle it in a ‘so-so’ gesture, and I let myself drop flat on my back as I groan up at the ceiling.

“You are impossible, Kenzie Andrianakis.”

“Yeah, but you like it.”

I shift to prop myself up on my elbows, prepared to say something along the lines of ‘the hell I do,’ but when I look at her sprawled in the chair as she smirks at me, the words die in my throat.

Her cheeks are pink, her forehead slick with sweat that makes the stray hairs she pushes back stick to her skin. Her typical brutally tight ponytail has loosened, and her face looks softer when it’s framed by a few wayward locks of dark brown hair.

Her chest is heaving, and her collapsed posture has her legs spread wide enough to make her tartan skirt rise halfway up her thighs. My throat goes dry as I imagine crawling over to kneel in front of her and slide the red and white fabric higher up her legs.

She might make me want to scream and pull my hair out, but right now at least, I do like it.

I like it a lot.

“Come on.” She pats the arm of the other chair. “Let’s finish this interview.”

CHAPTER 10

MOIRA

By the time we finish recording, I somehow know even less about Kenzie than I did when we started.

It’s like everything I thought I knew about her is being unravelled layer by layer, and underneath, there are even more layers I need to unwrap. I had no idea she was working towards a Master’s in social work. Her whole face lit up when she talked about it, and the determination in her voice when she outlined her impressively detailed career plan made even me want to hire her for any job she wanted right on the spot.

She was careful to close herself back up every time she got passionate. I listened for the words she didn’t say during her answers, for the meaning held in pauses and half-finished sentences before she bit her tongue and moved on. I’ve realized the thing I’ve always taken for granted in the highland dance community—namely, that this is the one place I can feel like enough—isn’t something Kenzie was handed from birth.

I don’t think of the highland dance world as being particularly exclusive, but to someone like Kenzie and whatever she’s been through to make her this way, it might feel like a community that can be ripped out of her hands at any second.

It might feel like something she has to fight for, no matter the cost or who she hurts along the way. Listening to her talk, it’s clear she’s had to fight for a lot in life, that she still does.

It doesn’t make her attitude less annoying, but it does help it make a bit more sense.

“I can do the editing,” I say as I detach my phone from the tripod, still mulling over the way her eyes got all bright when she answered my question about what taking her first highland class felt like.

She said it felt like finding an anchor, like she’d been getting pushed and pulled around for years before finally finding something to hold her steady.

It didn’t hit me until just now that she was only eight when she started dancing. She felt that way about her life at only eight-years-old.

“You can see the final cut before we submit it,” I add when she makes a sound like she’s about to protest. “I just think it’ll be faster if only one person does the first round.”

Based on how long it’s taken us to get the interview itself done, it doesn’t surprise me when she gives in and nods. “Okay, that sounds good.”

I drop the tripod off in my brother’s room and come back out to find Kenzie clutching both our mugs.

“I was going to bring these to the kitchen,” she says.

“Oh, thanks. That’s, uh, nice of you.”

Now that we no longer have a project to guide us, we’re back to the tentative awkwardness from when we first arrived at the house. It’s almost one in the afternoon now. I’m not sure if I should offer her lunch. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say or do at all. When I think about how much has happened in the past few hours, my head starts spinning.

Kenzie leads the way downstairs, all the way to the kitchen where she sets the mugs down, their ceramic bottoms rattling against the metal sink basin.

I follow after her like a lost puppy.

“Are you, uh, hungry?” I ask when she turns from the sink, hovering on the tiled floor just like I am.

“I, um...”

We’re close enough that I can see the freckles dusting her nose, the faint markings like a hidden weakness only a few people get a chance to see.

“I should probably go,” she finishes.

“Right. Yeah. Do you, um, want a ride?” I ask, the idea hitting me when I realize my parents probably left one of the cars here.

“Oh, I don’t...”

She trails off, staring at something behind me, and I glance back to see the time spelt out on the microwave clock just past my shoulder.

“Actually, you wouldn’t mind?” she asks. “Normally I’d take the bus, but it might be a while, and I was planning on being home soon.”

“It’s no problem,” I answer, maybe a little too brightly. Something in me started wilting when she said she had to go, and it’s sprung back to life at the thought of driving her. “I’ll just grab the keys. We’ll go out the front.”

We get into our coats and shoes at the front door, and I lead the way to the dark green station wagon sitting in the narrow laneway that runs up the side of the house. We each take our seats, and as soon as I turn the key in the ignition, classic rock starts blasting at deafening volume.

“Sorry!” I shriek over the wail of a guitar solo while Kenzie winces.

I lunge for the volume knob and apologize again. “My dad must have been the last one to drive this.”

“You’re telling me you don’t cruise around in your station wagon with Def Leppard blasting?”

I shake my head and put the car into reverse. “Can’t say that I do.”

I twist around to get a better view through the back window, the same way my dad taught me when I was a teenager, and brace my free hand on the edge of Kenzie’s seat to keep me in place. My fingertips brush her shoulder, and I feel her tense.

My breath catches.

Once I’ve gotten us past the edge of the driveway, I straighten in my seat, but the tension doesn’t leave the car. I can smell a faint trace of vanilla perfume wafting off her, and it makes my hands tighten around the wheel. I don’t even realize I have no idea where I’m going until I’m halfway down the street.

“So, uh, where do you live?”

Kenzie’s hands are squeezed together in her lap. “Do you know how to get to Merivale Road from here?”

I nod. “Uh-huh.”

“It’s near there. I can tell you where to turn when we’re closer.”

We continue the drive in silence for a few minutes

“So, uh, that was not the day I was expecting,” I say as I pull up to an intersection.

“Yeah,” she agrees, staring straight ahead through the windshield. “Not exactly what I had in mind.”

“It was fun, though.”

The words slip out before I can stop them, and I brace for her reply. Normally, I let her derisive comments roll right off me or use them as fuel for a comeback, but as a couple moments of silence tick by, I realize she could hurt me with what she says next—really hurt me, because I really did have fun, and it suddenly feels like I might crumple if she tells me she didn’t.

“Yeah,” she finally answers. “It was fun.”

My heart starts clanging around in my chest, and it might be the first time I regret seeing a red light turn green.

I want to keep staring at her, to watch her until I can figure out what she’s thinking. I want to know if she’s holding onto that moment in the church kitchen this morning like I am, with the same reverence and caution I’d give to a secret treasure.

Or maybe a bomb.

It’s a fine line.

I’m on autopilot for the rest of the way to Merivale, and I don’t even register we’ve arrived until she tells me to make a left at the next set of lights and then a right. A few minutes later, we pull up outside an apartment complex made up of a few brick high-rise buildings.

“It’s building one ninety-nine,” she says as I curve through the maze of parking lots.

I notice her shoulders have curled forward, and she’s squeezing her hands extra tight in her lap. I can see her knuckles going pale.

“Everything okay?”

“Yep,” she says, the word terse and brittle.

I don’t push it.

“Here we are,” I announce once I put the car in park in front of her building.

She’s already pulling her seatbelt off and reached for the door handle.

“Kenzie, wait,” I blurt.

She pauses.

I don’t go on. I didn’t mean to stop her at all, and I have no idea what to do next.

I’m not even sure what I want to do next. I just know it feels wrong for her to leave the car like this, like there’s something hanging in the air that needs to be said.

“Do you...Did you...We...” I stammer, searching for a question that doesn’t come.

She lets go of the door handle and turns to face me.

“Yes,” she murmurs, and I don’t need to check to know she understands.

She understands there’s something going on here that neither of us can understand at all.

“But I can’t,” she adds, her voice hardly more than a whisper. She’s staring down at the gear shift instead of at me. “So we should probably just forget it.”

Before I can stop her again, she jumps out of the car and takes off into her building.

CHAPTER 11

KENZIE

“Mom, did you pay this?”

My mom shifts where she’s lying under a knitted blanket on the couch. “Hmm?”

I’m already running late, but the date on the credit card statement I just found tucked under a pile of fliers by the apartment door has me heading back to the couch so I can show her the beige piece of paper.

“This one,” I say as she reaches an arm out from under the blanket to bring the paper up to her face.

We’ve gone into collections on one credit card this year. I got it paid off within a few months after asking for double shifts at the dining hall—back when that was still an option—but we can’t risk any more hits to my mom’s credit, especially when she’s had trouble making it in for all her hotel receptionist shifts lately.

“Did you pay the minimum?” I ask as her eyes dart around the page.

I found the statement open without an envelope, so she’s at least seen it before.

“This one...” She drags a finger down the list of expenses and then brushes a lock of dyed blonde hair out of her eyes. “Oh. Yes, this is the one with the charge for the car on it. Yes, I paid the minimum.”

I press my lips together to resist asking if she’s sure.

She’s still my mother. She might be sick, but she still deserves respect.

It gets even harder not to snap at her when she weaves her arm back under the blanket and curls her legs to free up the end of the couch. She nods at the empty space.

“Sit down, Zee-zee. It’s Saturday. Let’s watch TV.”

I put the statement down on the little desk under the living room window, on one of the trays holding all the other bills I do my best to make sure we keep track of.

It’s a system I’ve had in place since I was fourteen, since the divorce with Chris’s dad sent her into a spiral she’s never found her way out of.

“I can’t, Mom. I have the dance competition today, remember?”

She eyes the tight bun on the top of my head and the bit of mascara and lip gloss I’ve put on for SDOO’s November competition today.

“Competition? I thought you didn’t compete anymore.”

I grip the edge of the desk chair hard. “I do this year. For the scholarship, remember?”

“Right, right.” She snakes her arm out again and starts shifting clutter around on the coffee table a few inches away, only stopping when she finds the TV remote. “Sorry, baby. I can’t seem to remember anything these days. Do you have to go right this minute? It would be nice to watch some TV together, wouldn’t it?”

I blow out a breath. “We can do that after the competition. I’ll be back in the afternoon.”

She’s pulled up the channel selection on the TV, the sounds of the local weather station filling the room. I head for the door, thinking that’ll be the end of it, but as soon as I start pulling my shoes on, she calls my name.

“Kenzie, wait. Please don’t go.”

My heart lurches, and I swallow down a lump in my throat. I walk back to stand at the end of the couch.

“I really have to, Mom. This is important. I need that scholarship money. We need that money. It will just be a few hours. You can wait on the couch until I’m back.”

Her eyes shift around the room as she whispers, “I really don’t want to be alone.”

Her words squeeze like a fist around my heart, even as the rest of me fights against the urge to yell and tell her maybe this wouldn’t be a problem if she hadn’t given up on her new pills after a grand total of ten days. I clasp my shaking hands behind my back so she won’t see.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I’m late. I have to go.”

“Kenzie!” She sits up, her eyes getting wide with panic. “I just...I can’t...Please.”

She drops her voice to a whisper again on the last word. When her shoulders start to tremble, I almost drop onto the spot she made for me at the end of the couch, ready to text Catherine and say I won’t be coming in today.

I’d have to text Moira too. It’s our video reveal today. I missed the editing session we planned because of a day with my mom just like the one I’m facing now, so I haven’t even seen the full version of our interview yet.

Judging by Moira’s one word reply when I told her I had a ‘thing’ and couldn’t make it to her house, she thinks I’m avoiding her after what went down at her house a couple weeks ago.

If I was handling this the way I know I should, I really would be avoiding her. That stupid brownie fight at the Tartan Tea never would have happened. Neither would the dancing around to Nickelback, or the moment in her car in the parking lot.

Whatever is happening between us, it’s a distraction, and I should make it stop.

There’s only one scholarship, and it’s going to be mine.

It has to be.

“Please, Zee-zee,” my mom keeps begging. “Just fifteen minutes? I didn’t know you were leaving. Can you just stay a bit longer? I’ll be fine in fifteen minutes.”

It’s never just fifteen minutes.

I know the fear and forgetfulness aren’t her fault. This isn’t her talking; it’s her illness, but the corners of my eyes still prick with heat as the frustration builds and builds inside me.

I turn around and grab my phone out of my purse by the door.

“I’ll call Chris,” I say as I unlock the screen.

He probably won’t answer, and if he does, he’ll probably be too hungover to move.

I try to ignore the little clock in the corner of my screen letting me know how late I already am as I bring the phone up to my ear.

It rings for so long I expect his voicemail to come on when I hear a click, but instead, I hear Chris’s laugh, muffled like he’s got his hand over the phone as some shuffling sounds come through before he greets me.

“Kenzie! My favourite ex!”

My whole body is tensed with stress and anger, but the sound of his voice and the way he laughs at that dumb joke he’s made a million times before still has me grinning.

“Hey, Chris.”

“Haven’t heard from you in a while, lil’ sis.”

The grin slides right off my face as I think about telling him he’s left my last text on read for two weeks.

I don’t have time to get into that though, and just like with my mom’s illness, Chris’s issues aren’t his fault. His dad isn’t exactly a stellar person, and Chris got in with the wrong crowd after moving out way too young. He tried to put himself through trade school a few years ago, but it cost too much, and his old mess of parties and pills and god knows what else sucked him back up.

Part of me is terrified that if my plans for the future go off track for even a semester, I’ll get sucked into something bad too, something I won’t be able to pull myself out of.

“Yeah, long time no see,” I tell him. “Look, I um...”

I trail off and lean against a wall in the apartment’s tiny entryway as I realize what a long shot it was to call, to expect him to be free to do this, to expect him to even want to do this.

“Hey, hey, hey.” His voice takes on that concerned tone, the one edged with a fierce protectiveness that used to comfort me when I was a kid. “It’s okay, Kenzie. What’s up, kid? Talk to me.”

“It’s my mom,” I whisper. I clutch the phone to my cheek and cross behind the couch to get to my room.

My mom is engrossed in an episode of The Simpsons, calmer now that she knows I’m not about to take off. I pull the door of my tiny bedroom closed behind me and sit down on the edge of my twin bed.

“Did something happen?” Chris asks.

“No, it’s just...the usual.” I let out a harsh huff of laughter. “She gave up on her newest prescription already. All it did was make her even more sleepy, but I still wish she’d tried for longer. She’s still refusing any kind of talk therapy. I think she feels like if she only treats it with drugs, she won’t have to admit it’s really depression. She’s...I mean, I could handle it if that’s all there was to handle, but there’s school, and there’s the studio, and there’s...”

Moira’s face flashes across my mind, staring at me with her hair dripping from the water I sprayed her with as her mouth got closer and closer to mine.

“And there’s this scholarship,” I finish, shoving any thoughts of Moira into a corner where I can ignore them. “My dance association has a huge scholarship up for grabs. I’m going for it, but the requirements take up a lot of my time.”

Chris lets out a low whistle that trails off into a trill of cascading notes. He’s actually really freaking good at whistling, and the sound brings up a hundred memories of the few years we all got to live together and at least pretend things were okay.

I’ve missed him. Every cell of my body wants to climb through the phone and reappear wherever he is to wrap him in my arms.

“You think too hard about things, Kenzie. You should relax,” he tells me. “Hey, we should hang out! What are you up to this afternoon?”

Warmth blooms in my chest at the suggestion, even though I can’t take him up on it. Sometimes I still feel like a kid around him, like the adoring little sister desperate to spend some time with her big brother.

“Yeah, about that. I have a favor to ask.”

I grimace, waiting for him to let me down, but he just chuckles.

“So you weren’t just calling to say hello? What can I do for you?”

“I mean, it was nice to say hello. It’s just I’ve got a highland competition today, an important one for the scholarship, and my mom...I’m worried about leaving her alone. She doesn’t want to be by herself, and like I said, she’s off her prescription. It would only be a few hours. She’s already watching TV. You could just chill with her until I get back.”

He stays quiet for a moment and then blows out a breath. “Uhhhh, I meannnn...”

“We have your favourite chips,” I sing-song, doing my best to sound cheerful even though a glance at my clock has my heart rate going into red alert.

“For the chips, okay, but the problem is I’m over in Vanier, and I don’t have a car or a bus pass, so...”

I hold back a sigh. “If I order you an Uber right now, can you do it?”

“Ah, that’s gonna be expensive, Kenzie. You don’t have to—”

“Actually, I do,” I interrupt, letting my voice get sharp for the first time since he picked up. “I really need to leave, like, half an hour ago, Chris.”

“All right, all right. Gotchya. I’ll be waiting for the Uber. Text me the plate number, okay? I’ve got you, sis.”

My shoulders sag with relief. “Thank you, Chris. Thank you so much. I promise I’ll head back as soon as I’m done.”

I end the call after saying goodbye and scramble to get the Uber app open. There’s a car only a few minutes away from his address. I put the order through, ignoring the price that comes up on the screen, and rush out of the bedroom to tell my mom the plan.

“Chris is coming,” I say, holding my phone up and pointing at the little car zooming up the map as proof. “He’s going to be here until I get back.”

Instead of lighting up like I expect her to, she frowns. “Get back from where?”

My jaw ticks. She’s had spells of feeling what she calls ‘foggy’ before, but it’s never gotten quite this bad.

“The dance competition. I’m leaving now. You’ll have to buzz Chris in when he gets here. He won’t be long.”

She blinks at me before her attention slips back to the TV. She pulls the blanket a little tighter around her and murmurs, “Oh. Okay.”

I hold back a sigh. “I’ll see you in a few hours. I love you.”

I head over to grab the two garment bags hanging on the back of the apartment door and swing my purse over my shoulder, straining to hear any trace of a reply. My stomach churns with nausea when I pull the front door open and still don’t get a response.

She’s really not going to say it back.

I dig around for the car keys in my purse, stalling with the door still half-open as I step into the hall. I’m about to pull it closed and possibly give into my stupid tears when she calls out, “Love you too, Zee-zee!”

I let out a shaky exhale, my hands trembling a little as I lock the door behind me.

She loves me, and I love her. That’s why I do all of this. That’s why I’m still here.

When you love someone, you stay. You do the work. You hold it all together even when they can’t.

Somehow, after watching so many people walk away, I’m still holding onto that.

* * *

“Kenzie, this is absolutely unacceptable.”

Catherine’s hiss sends a chill up my spine and makes me straighten my shoulders like I’m expecting a visit from a drill sergeant as I turn to face her in the school gymnasium.

I’m in the middle of pinning my lace dickie to the front of the bodysuit I have on under my velvet highland jacket. I’ve already tried to get it straight three times, but my hands are shaking so much I keep pinning it on crooked.

“It’s your job to be here and support your students,” Catherine continues, the angular edges of her silver-streaked bob swinging in time with her steps.

She stops just in front of me, reaching to take the safety pin out of my hand and fasten the dickie perfectly into place with the deftness of someone who’s done it for hundreds of students before.

“Not to mention it’s your job to represent our school as a scholarship applicant, and you are”—she pauses to glance at the big clock on the gym wall—“not even fully dressed five minutes before your first event.”

She smoothes my hair down and adjusts a bobby pin before fastening the top button of my jacket. The silver buttons decorated with tiny thistle emblems are the same ones used on all highland outfits. They match the shiny silver trim edging the jacket. The velvet is jet black, a contrast to my scarlet red kilt and wool knee-highs.

I inherited this set when I was fourteen. Only the most serious dancers invest in a full highland outfit; the socks alone cost a few hundred dollars. Like most kids, I was part of the general process of cobbling competition outfits together out of borrowed pieces that have basically become the communal property of Ottawa’s highland dance community, but when I finally grew into this set, Catherine took it out of circulation and said it should be mine alone.

She even got it tailored for me, under the promise I’d do my very best to represent the Rebecca Stewart Academy of Highland Dance every time I put it on.

Even all these years later, I still think of those words when I do up my kilt. This outfit gives me a place here, a home, and it’s one I’ll always work to keep.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her. “It won’t happen again. There was a bit of an emergency...at home, but I’ll be more prepared next time.”

She stares into my face for a moment before she nods.

“Don’t let her bring you down, Kenzie. You have so high to climb.”

My mouth twitches, but I bite back any impulsive replies. My mother isn’t something I want to escape, no matter how much ‘better off’ without her Catherine likes to remind me I’d be.

It’s all way too much to think about five minutes before my first competition in over two years.

Catherine gives my shoulder a single pat and then turns to lead us out to the auditorium.

“You’ve got a six step Fling,” she says as we pass through the lobby, even though I’ve already memorized my events for the day, “so pace yourself. The piper is slower than usual today.”

I can hear said piper blaring out the notes of the Fling currently being danced onstage. The droning gets louder when Catherine pulls one of the auditorium doors open. I hurry down the side aisle to the staircase that leads to one of the wings. The other dancers in my category are already lined up and waiting to take the stage.

There weren’t enough older entrants to do an adults-only division for this level, so we’re a sixteen and up group instead. That gives me five people I need to beat. Even coming off two years out of the competitive scene, there’s only one dancer I actually need to be worried about.

Moira is waiting in line, decked out in a royal blue jacket and kilt. Her thick hair is piled in a tidy bun on top of her head, highlighting the heart shape of her face. The mascara she’s got on makes her green eyes shine like emeralds to contrast the sapphire velvet hugging her curves.

She’s staring straight at me, and I realize it’s not her dancing I have to worry about today.

It’s her.

CHAPTER 12

KENZIE

After the final medals have been given out, Moira and I end up with an equal number of firsts for the day.

Normally, a tie with Moira Murray would have me spitting fire, but I can barely focus on the closing remarks the SDOO organizers are making up on stage as I shift around in my auditorium seat, fighting the urge to look back at Moira in the row behind me.

The only time we’ve talked today was during the lunch break, when I asked her how the video turned out and she asked me if I had time to hear her answer or if I’d prefer to ghost her again.

She must have seen some sort of involuntary response in my face, because a second later, all the fight went out of her, and I saw something slip into her expression that made my blood run cold.

She pitied me. She looked at me like my whole life was something she needed to feel sorry about as she apologized for being insensitive about my mom.

She said it right in the middle of the warm-up gym swarming with teachers and competitors. I had to lean in and hiss at her to never say that in public again before I pulled back and left the room.

I couldn’t handle more pity.

If people around here start to pity me, I won’t be able to trust I’ve earned my right to belong. I’ll be the local charity case instead of the girl who excels because she tries harder than everyone else.

I don’t think Moira can understand that, and I don’t think it would be a good idea to tell her even if she could. We’ve only spent a few hours together outside of the dance world, and I’ve already told her way too much. Highland dance has always been the one part of my life that doesn’t feel like it’s falling apart. It’s the one aspect I have complete control over, and I don’t need her messing that up.

It’s already gone so far I can barely even keep myself from looking at her in this auditorium. It does not need to go farther.

“Before you all head off for the day,” I catch one of the organizers say, even as I strain my peripheral vision to catch sight of Moira, “we have a special presentation from the applicants for our brand new university scholarship.’

There’s a smattering of applause. I fidget with the end of the tartan string lacing my bodice together, rolling the little knot between my finger and thumb. I’m still wearing my Aboyne after my outfit change this afternoon.

I’ve always liked these outfits less than kilts. The poofy skirt and petticoat feel like they’re trying to tangle themselves around my legs, and the elasticised sleeves of the equally poofy white blouse dig into my biceps.

Moira has always had an edge on me in these types of dances. She might joke about her Aboyne being as femme as she gets, but when she’s swanning around up there in her skirt, her movements have an element of grace I’ve never quite been able to replicate with my highly technical approach.

I’ve missed half of what the organizers are saying and tune back in just in time to hear them announce Holly and Nicole’s interview will be playing first. A projector screen starts sliding down from the stage’s ceiling as everyone claps.

I brace for a bit of a wait; SDOO is not the most technologically advanced organization in the world, but it only takes a minute or two before they’ve got the video beaming out from a projector set up on the edge of the stage.

Holly and Nicole appear sitting on folding chairs, dressed up in skirts and cardigans with little matching tartan bows pinned to their shirts.

Looks like Moira and I weren’t the only ones who thought wearing tartan in the videos would be a great way to suck up to the judges.

My neck muscles itch with the need to turn around and see Moira’s reaction, but I keep my attention fixed on the screen as the two girls ask each other some basic questions about their highland dance history and their hopes for life after high school.

A lot of the questions match what I came up with—the ones Moira called boring, and as I listen to the girls share their sweet and slightly naive answers, I realize how right she was.

This is boring. If we’d gone with my questions, we’d have nothing to set us apart, and these girls would have the clear advantage of being all adorably starry-eyed in comparison to whatever jaded air Moira and I would give off now that we’ve both experienced the true demands of university.

The video comes to an end, and there’s more applause as the projector screen shows one of the organizers navigating through the laptop to find the next video file.

I’d chuckle about how long it takes her to find the ‘downloads’ folder if my throat weren’t so suddenly dry. My stomach is twisting itself in knots, and more than ever, I’m regretting not making it to this editing session.

I have to sit back and trust this will be good enough. I danced my best today, but this part is out of my control.

The video starts with a black screen, and before the first frame fades into view, a soft, acoustic folk song sung in Gaelic by a woman with a lilting Scottish accent starts playing as a backing track.

“I’m Kenzie Andrianakis,” I hear my own recorded voice say as the screen lightens, “and highland dance changed my whole life.”

I’m not watching myself in Moira’s sunroom. Instead, she’s layered my voice and the music over a series of grainy digital camera clips taken in this same auditorium over a decade ago now.

It’s easy to spot myself in every clip; for a few years when I was a kid, the kilt that fit me best was this horrible brown colour. I watch myself dance onstage, a concentrated frown on my face in every frame, and I realize I’m sitting here laughing to myself in my chair.

I forgot all about that awful kilt. I forgot how it took several teachers and several years of constant reminders to stop me from frowning through every performance.

Between her shifts at the hotel and her health, my mom was only able to come to a few of my competitions, so I don’t have old videos like these to pore over when I’m feeling nostalgic. Thanks to our history as constant division rivals, Moira’s family must have ended up filming me almost every time they filmed her.

The voiceover continues through the rest of my introduction before the video transitions to show me and Moira sitting in the wicker chairs at her house.

I don’t know how she managed it, but Moira has used some Oscar-worthy editing skills to turn our ridiculous and somewhat awkward interview into a work of art. She even included some B-roll footage of the Murray School and some close-ups of all the walls covered in dance photos at her house.

Even I’m totally swept up into the story. I listen to our words and watch us smile and laugh through some of the sillier questions before we both burn with earnestness as we get to the serious ones.

I see two women on screen who mean it when they say this community matters, that it’s changed their lives for the better, that they hope to keep being part of it for a long time to come. From the way the audience is sighing, chuckling, and even sniffling in response, I know they see it too.

“It was never just winning for winning’s sake,” I hear myself saying as I watch a clip of our division doing a sword dance in Scotland—the only event Moira was able to complete in at the world championships before she broke her ankle. “I remember the first time I got a stamp on my very first dance card. It was just a little bit of ink to say I’d placed, and I still needed so many more to get to the next level, but that stamp was like having proof I was part of a club—a family, even. It showed I had a place here.”

In the video, I leap over and around the swords so high even I can’t quite believe the strength and power in my movements. The frown from my childhood is gone, replaced by a calm determination and confidence.

That was the height of my career. Dancing there meant I was one of the best in the world.

Me—the girl who didn’t even own a pair of ghillies the day she took her first class.

A lump forms in my throat as I watch us go through a few more interview questions. The backing track starts to go quiet, and I can feel the crowd preparing to break out into a roar of applause, but then the video shifts from fading out on a photo of a young Moira holding a trophy to me in the sunroom again, asking her about the most fun she’s ever had doing a highland performance.

A cheesy record scratch sound effect plays, and the shot zooms in on Moira’s face.

“Well, Kenzie,” she answers, “I don’t think it will be a surprise to anyone who’s been a part of SDOO for a while to know my answer is, of course, the Nickelback routine.”

At least half the crowd bursts out laughing. Even people who haven’t been around the highland scene long enough to have witnessed the original Nickelback dance have mostly all heard of it by now.

The laughing continues all the way through Moira’s explanation of what she’s talking about as well as my urging her to recreate it.

Then the video cuts to not just her, but both of us whirling around to ‘Photograph.’

I feel the blood drain from my face. I sit frozen in horror as I watch myself act like a complete idiot up on a giant projector screen.

The crowd is howling with laughter now. A few of my students turn around in the row in front of me with their little hands clamped over their mouths as they squeal and kick their feet against their seats.

I can’t move.

I can only watch as we get to the point of pulling the photographs off the wall. I’m really getting into it up there. I almost don’t recognize myself as I start lip synching and making pained facial expressions, all while still maintaining the complicated steps of the Tribute I’m dancing.

Some of my horror starts to fade when I glance around the auditorium. The kids are all having the time of their lives, and the parents in the audience are smiling and clapping along with the song. The SDOO members up onstage even look a little misty-eyed.

They love it. They’re seeing the unpolished, imperfect side of me I’ve made sure to keep boxed up and out of sight, and they love it.

Before I can stop myself, I crane my neck around to look at Moira.

She’s sitting with some of the older girls from the Murray school, and she’s in the middle of a high-five with the one beside her. She’s beaming, her dimples out in full force. Her cheeks are flushed, and a few stray hairs are curling around her ears where they’ve slipped out of her bun. The teal blue tartan of her Aboyne’s sash is a perfect complement to the butterscotch colour of her hair.

She’s gorgeous.

For a moment, it’s the only thing I can think. I want to reach back and grab her hand to tell her. I want to say it again and again and again.

Then her eyes shift to meet mine, and the smile slides right off her face. She presses her lips together, her forehead creasing. Clearly my little blow-up when she mentioned my mom at lunch has not been forgotten.

Before I figure out what to do next, the people onstage have announced it’s time to go home, and the auditorium becomes a flurry of motion and voices. A couple parents get up and wait for me to let them out of our row. By the time I make it to the aisle and look back at Moira’s seat, she’s gone.

I let the mass exodus carry me out to the lobby, where parents and dancers are milling around with garment bags clutched over their shoulders, chatting with each other and getting a final look at all the vendor tables.

I spot Moira engrossed in a conversation with a couple parents, over by one of the large potted ferns along the lobby wall.

I need to talk to her. I might not be her favourite person right now, but she did an amazing job, and I need to tell her.

I cross the lobby and hover near the ferns. A few of my students spot me and come over to start impersonating my ‘Photograph’ dance, humming the song as they pretend to twirl around with imaginary picture frames in their arms. I’m grateful for the opportunity to not look like a total creep just standing on my own beside Moira, even if I know this means I’m going to spend at least the next month trying to make the kids stop doing this dance in my classes.

By the time Moira finishes chatting with the parents, my students have moved on, and the lobby is way less crowded than when we got out here. Moira has her back to me and starts making a beeline for the gym without turning around.

I could let her go. I probably should let her go. I should take the opportunity to backtrack over all the lines we’ve crossed. The interview is done. We don’t need to collaborate anymore. We can go back to facing each other onstage as the rivals we’ve always been.

I straighten my shoulders like I’m bracing for impact and then take a few steps after her.

“Moira, wait!”

She stops, but she doesn’t turn around.

“Moira. Hey.”

I halt a couple feet behind her, and she looks back over her shoulder at me.

“What, Kenzie?”

“I...”

Her usual annoyingly sunny expression looks like a full-on storm cloud now, and it drowns out everything I want to say.

“Yes?” she says, her tone sharp.

I force myself to swallow and clear my parched throat. “I just, uh...I wanted to say the video was good. Really good.”

Her eyebrows lift a fraction of an inch, and I don’t blame her.

Really good? Seriously?

“It was amazing,” I amend. “You did a fantastic job. Thank you. Thank you so much.”

I see her working her jaw like she’s figuring out what to say, some struggle I can’t keep up with playing out in her eyes.

“Well, I needed it to be good,” she finally answers. “For me. So I can win.”

She’s doing her best to sound cold, but I hear the trace of pain underneath, hot and full of hurt that has her tensed up like a spring just waiting for a switch to flip.

“Um, right. Yeah. That’s true,” I mumble, trying and failing to find the words that will get us through this stalemate. “Look, about earlier, I’m sorry I was harsh. You didn’t deserve that, and—”

“God, Kenzie!” She whirls around to face me, throwing her arms up in the air as she lets out a sound that’s almost a growl.

The vendor at the table closest to us turns her head to stare at the commotion, and Moira drops her hands before spinning back around and taking off—only she doesn’t head down the hall to the gym. She yanks open the door to the nearest stairwell, and before I can talk myself out of it, I follow after her.

We’re both still wearing our ghillies with Crocs on top to protect them, and the squeak of her foam shoes on the polished steps echoes through the stairwell as she charges up to the next floor.

“You know, you’re really fucking annoying.” She hurls the words down at me over her shoulder, but since she hasn’t told me to leave her alone, I grip the painted blue concrete banister and do double time in my Crocs to catch up. My heavy skirt and petticoat swish against my calves, like I’m acting out the culminating scene in some kind of Jane Austen movie.

Moira yanks open the door to the second floor, and I keep following her into a deserted hallway lined with beige lockers. She whirls around, the flare of her sash and skirts adding to the period drama effect.

The fact that she’s panting and her chest is straining against her tightly-laced velvet bodice makes the scene a little too impure for a Jane Austen adaptation. Even now, when we’re in the midst of having it out, I can hardly look up from her chest. My hands ache to reach out and pull apart the laces holding her costume together.

Moira doesn’t seem distracted at all. She’s glaring at my face like she can will me out of existence.

“I liked it better when all you did was be mean to me,” she says, practically spitting the sentence out. “It was easier. We could just shit talk each other at competitions, take it out onstage, and leave it all behind until the next one. It made sense.”

I want to tell her I never ‘left it all behind.’ I carried it with me everywhere I went: the heavy knowledge that I wanted a place here more than anything, which meant I needed to earn it, which meant I needed to spend every day working to be as good as and preferably better than her.

“But this thing where you’re nice to me,” she continues, “and then you disappear, and then you’re rude, and then you apologize, and then you’re...you’re acting like you want to kiss me, and then you’re immediately all mean again, it just...it fucking sucks, Kenzie, and I don’t want to do it anymore.”

The bottom of my stomach drops out as the truth of what she’s just said sinks in.

That’s what I’ve been to her, and maybe she’s been confusing too, but it’s all been in response to me.

This is why I don’t get close. This is why I don’t lose control. My life outside the dance world is a complicated mess waiting to swallow me up, and if I don’t have rules and expectations holding me in place, I become a complicated mess too.

“You’re right.”

Moira pauses in the middle of the deep inhale she’s taking. She tilts her head and squints.

“Huh?”

“You’re right,” I repeat. “That’s exactly what I’ve been doing. I...I don’t know what’s going on with us, Moira, and I don’t know what to do about it either, but I can’t keep doing this. You don’t deserve it, and believe it or not, it’s really not a fun time for me either. I’m sorry I’ve been hurting you.”

“O-oh.”

Some of the tension leaves her stance. She’s still panting, her eyes getting wider by the second, and the hallway suddenly feels smaller, like the lockers are leaning in to press us together.

I need to push back.

I ball my fists around the fabric of my skirt and stare just past her shoulder instead of at her face.

“The interview is done,” I tell her. “I really did mean it when I said it was amazing. Now we can focus on the scholarship on our own. We’ll only see each other at competitions. We don’t need to talk at them anymore. I mean, we’re twenty. We don’t need to shit talk each other like teenagers anymore. We can just focus on dancing and let”—I pause to swallow—“everything else go.”

I expect a nod or some kind of an agreement, but what feels like a full minute of silence passes after I finish.

Then she makes that growling noise again.

“Really? That was your takeaway?”

I blink a few times. “What? What do you mean?”

“Kenzie, come on. That is...that is not what I want, and I don’t think it’s what you want either.”

Her voice drops lower at the end of her sentence, and the walls move in even closer. The air gets thinner, forcing me to take rapid, shallow breaths. My chest is full of hot coals waiting for a spark.

“What...what do you want?” I whisper.

She takes a step toward me. “Do you really need me to say it, Kenzie?”

I can’t move. Even breathing feels dangerous now, like the slightest shift of my body might send me tumbling straight into what she’s offering with no way to get out.

And no desire to get out.

“I want...” She trails off, her tongue darting out to wet her lips, and I feel flames start to lick my skin. “I just want you, Kenzie. I want you. I don’t know how it started, but I do. I want you to kiss me, and—”

She doesn’t finish. I don’t give her a chance. As soon as I heard the words ‘I want you’ leave her mouth, I knew I’d never be able to walk back down the stairs without tasting her.

I just need to know what she tastes like.

We collide in the middle of the hallway, me lunging forward to frame her face with my hands as she grips my waist to steady us. I get one look at those wide green eyes before she leans in to press her lips to mine.

Everything stops, all my senses grinding down to a complete halt before they fire up again, more vivid than ever before.

I slide my grip around to the nape of her neck. Her skin is softer than any velvet. I can smell her hairspray, and the scent is comforting and familiar, a constant refrain from all the hours I’ve spent in this building, but the way she tastes—

It’s like nothing I’ve ever tasted before.

She tastes like music, like sunshine bouncing through an open window frame, like candle smoke and church bells and the glimmer of dawn on the snow.

I want to drink her up. I want bottles and bottles of her.

When I slip my tongue inside her mouth, chasing more of that flavor, she gasps against my lips and slides her hands from my waist to my hips. She tugs until our bodies are flush together. I can feel the rise and fall of her chest against mine.

There are so many layers of fabric between us, and I already want them all gone. I want to feel her. I want to sink right into her.

From the way she’s digging her fingers under the scalloped hem of my bodice, searching for even an inch of skin, I can tell she feels the same.

I’m so caught up in kissing her I don’t notice we’ve moved until her back thuds against a row of lockers. She moans into my mouth, which makes my fingers curl around the neck of her blouse, fighting the urge to rip it apart.

There’s a force to this kiss, made up of all these weeks of longing and all the years of loathing that came before them. There’s anger in the way our mouths move over one another. There’s fixation. There’s confusion, but there’s no hesitation.

We break the kiss for a moment, both of us gasping for breath, and I open my eyes to find her already watching me. Her stare is hazy. Her cheeks are flushed, and her lips are a deep, swollen pink from working mine so hard.

“No one has ever kissed me like that,” she breathes.

Her fingers are still working their way under my bodice, and when she gets them beneath the edge of my blouse to graze my back, I swear and drop my head forward, pressing my forehead to hers.

“Moira...”

There’s a warning in my voice. I don’t know if it’s for her or me, but either way, she doesn’t pay it any mind.

“Kiss me again,” she orders, exhilaration making her whispered words shake.

That’s all I want, and when she asks for it like that, I can’t remember a single reason why I shouldn’t give it to her.

Her hips buck up as soon as my lips touch hers, and I can’t resist tasting her mouth again. When I run my tongue along the back of her teeth, she makes a desperate sound in the back of her throat that reverberates through my whole body.

I pull back just long enough to mutter, “These fucking skirts.”

She lets out a throaty chuckle that’s impossibly sexy, and I groan when she arches her back to press herself even closer to me.

The yards and yards of tartan are really getting in the way.

“Here.” She drops her arms from where they’re snaked around my waist and shifts so she can hike her skirts up all the way to the top of her thighs.

I forget how to breathe. For a moment, I think even my heart forgets how to beat.

She’s wearing the standard plain white, boxy underwear that’s an official part of the costume, but even that looks stunning on her.

“Hey, Kenzie.”

“Huh?”

I look up and find her grinning

“I think you should keep making out with me.”

She shifts against the lockers, making one of the combination locks rattle against the metal, and the sound distracts me enough to get the slightest grip on reality.

“Moira, we’re...” I stop and glance over both my shoulders. “We’re in a hallway.”

“Yes, I’m aware.” She says it in her usual shit-talking voice, and I almost laugh, even as an instinctive flare of annoyance heats in my chest.

Apparently this girl knows how to get under my skin in every way possible.

“And you’re...” I glance down at her bare legs between us.

“Waiting,” she finishes for me, with a bratty little head toss for emphasis.

This time I really do laugh, the sound low and laced with tension.

“Perfect Moira Murray, darling of the highland dance world, is stripping out of her Aboyne in a high school hallway.”

She glares at me. “I am not stripping. I’m just actually doing something about our skirts instead of complaining like you.”

“Oh, I’m the complainer?” I raise an eyebrow. “You’re the one who keeps begging me to kiss you.”

I lean my face in closer to hers, and I see her pupils flare wide.

“I am not begging,” she hisses, even as some of the tremble comes back into her voice.

I place my lips right next to her ear. “Then you should be.”

Before she can come up with a reply, I yank my own skirt out of the way and press one of my legs between her thighs. She’s not quick enough to hide her gasp. Her legs flex around me, and I reach for one of her hands to pin it against the lockers behind her.

I brush the edge of her ear with my mouth before kissing the soft skin just behind it. She shivers.

“Is this okay?” I ask, pulling back far enough to glance at her face.

She has her eyes squeezed shut. She bobs her head in a few adorably enthusiastic nods and whispers, “Yes.”

I start kissing her neck again.

“So,” I murmur against her skin, “you were about to start begging?”

She tightens her fingers around my hand, which is still pinning hers to the lockers. “You wish.”

I really do wish, but I’m not about to tell her that.

Instead, I use my other hand to get a grip on one of those gorgeous, gorgeous thighs and hitch it up over my hip. Her breath catches as we press even harder against each other.

“Do you want me to kiss you?” I ask, just before I let my teeth graze her throat.

She arches her neck for me, but she makes a frustrated little grunt instead of answering.

“Just tell me to kiss you.”

She shakes her head. “I’m not letting you win that easy, Kenzie.”

“Good.” I give up on her neck and trail my nose up her cheek so I can speak in her ear again. “Because to be honest, Moira, I’ve always kinda liked the way you make me work for it.”

Her hips thrust against mine as she moves her free hand to the small of my back, pressing hard, and she almost gets the better of me.

I need another taste.

I’m trying to come up with another way to mess with her when a loud plop sound catches us both off guard.

I freeze. “What was that?”

Moira giggles. “Uh, I think my Croc just fell off.”

She lowers her leg from my waist to get her balance back, and I shift to see she’s right; her white foam shoe is sitting on the hallway’s tiled floor behind us.

“You know, I totally forgot we were wearing Crocs through all of this.”

As soon as the words leave my mouth, we both burst out laughing so hard we have to break apart and clutch the lockers for support.

Now that I’ve had a moment to process, I can see the hilarity in how surreal this whole scene is: the Crocs, the poofy swaths of tartan and lace we’re both draped in, the fact that this is all happening in an abandoned high school hallway against some poor kid’s locker while a highland dance competition wraps up downstairs.

It’s one of the least sexy setups I can think of, and somehow, it’s still incredibly hot.

She’s incredibly hot. Half her hair has slipped out of her bun, the rest of it sitting a little lopsided on her head. Her bodice is all crooked, and her eyes are still shining with need even as she lets out an adorable snort as she tries to get her laughter under control.

I want to pat her on the cheek and tell her she’s cute almost as badly as I want to push her up against the wall again.

As new as this is, it all feels easy.

Way too easy.

I’m completely out of control.

I turn away and straighten my outfit. I smooth what’s left of my bun down before facing her again.

“Moira, I don’t know if this was a good idea. I think—”

“I know what you’re going to say,” she interrupts.

I pause, waiting to see if she’ll tell me, since I’m not totally sure myself.

With the taste of her still on my tongue, I’m not sure of anything.

“You’re going to say we can’t do this again, that we should just totally ignore each other for the rest of the competition season and focus on what we each need to do to win the scholarship.”

I don’t agree, but I don’t have to; she nods like my silence confirms what we both know is true.

“Which would be smart,” she adds.

“Yeah,” I answer, “it would be.”

“It would also be boring as hell.”

A surprised laugh slips out of me, and the gleam comes back to her eyes. Her voice gets low again, dripping with a danger that makes my thighs twitch.

“I am not a boring person, Kenzie.”

I can’t take my eyes off her. “Never said you were.”

She goes still, and her face softens for a moment.

“Yeah,” she murmurs. “You never did say that.”

Then she’s all seduction again.

“If you want to take the boring route, fine. I won’t judge you. It’s the smartest thing to do, but I bet...” Her lips curl up at the corners, and a familiar thrill shoots through me. Even now, I can’t resist a challenge from her. Even now, I want to win. “I bet you can’t make it through a date without begging me to kiss you.”

I blink. “A date? You want to go on a date?”

She shrugs and glances down at the floor before looking back up at me. “For the purposes of this bet, yes.”

“Huh.” I pretend to think about it, even though the word ‘date’ is doing weird things to my stomach.

I am quite possibly getting butterflies at the thought of going on a date with Moira Murray.

“So what do I get if I win?” I ask.

“I mean...” She sways a little, her skirt swishing against her legs. “If you win, I’ll be the one begging.”

I blow out a breath. “Holy shit, Moira. You really know exactly what you’re doing, don’t you?”

I’m starting to wonder if any of the classrooms might be unlocked, so we can start our ‘date’ right here and now.

She does another cute and infuriating little shrug. I don’t know where this side of her came from, but I like it more than I care to admit.

“And you know this really is a bad idea, right?”

It’s such a bad idea I should have said no before she even suggested it. I have a scholarship to win. I have more demands on my schedule than there are hours in the day. I don’t date, period, never mind dating girls I’ve been feuding with for over a decade.

Girls who seem like they were born with everything I crave already clutched in their hands.

It’s not really a date, though. It’s a bet, and maybe it’s just what I need to make sense of whatever the hell is going on here.

Maybe I just need to remember what it feels like to beat Moira Murray.

CHAPTER 13

MOIRA

The rest of November and December are so filled with finishing papers, writing exams, and getting through the rush of the holidays that I don’t end up with a single day to spare for my date with Kenzie until the middle of January.

Based on her texts, Kenzie has been just as busy, but that hasn’t stopped us from sending the occasional taunting message. I had to stop and ask myself what the hell I was doing when I realized I was about to send her a cleavage-filled bikini selfie at the hot tub equipped cottage Lydia and her eternally confusing crew of friends, roommates, and lovers rented for New Year’s Eve.

I thought about it for approximately one second before I sent the photo with the caption ‘Ready to beg?’

I never sent Savannah photos like that. When it came to sex, it always sort of felt like I wasn’t quite what she wanted. I was close, but it was like there was something missing and if I could just figure out what it was, we’d go from ‘pretty good’ to ‘fucking amazing.’

When we talked about it, she said moving in together would help. When I moved in, she said that might be the problem.

At the time, I thought I was just shy about sending nudes, but I can see now I was really afraid of rejection.

There’s no trace of rejection from Kenzie. She responded to the photo with a very expletive-filled text and then sent a photo of herself wearing ‘pajamas’ in bed.

Apparently Kenzie’s pajamas consist of a skimpy white tank top that gives an excellent preview of her nipples and a pair of black ‘shorts’ I’m pretty sure are actually just underwear.

I force myself to stop staring at that particular photo and put my phone down to finish getting ready for the date.

I have an Arctic Monkeys album streaming through my speaker, and I swivel my hips to the sultry reverb of the bass as I pull a white t-shirt over my head. All we’re doing is meeting at a bar downtown, but after I glance in my full-length mirror, I start to worry my outfit isn’t enough.

The black skinny jeans I have on are the ones I like to call my ‘magic pants,’ namely because they hug my waist and thighs while still being the right length to achieve a tapered fit at the bottom. Finding pants like this is no small feat when you’ve got my combination of luscious legs and toned dance muscles.

The t-shirt has a relaxed fit and a deep enough neckline to show off some of the purple lace of my bra when I lean forward, which I plan on doing a lot of tonight. My hair is hanging in long, loose curls that took way too long to create.

I feel like I’m suiting up in a kilt, visualizing exactly how I’m going to upstage Kenzie during a sword dance, only in this case, the ‘dance’ in question is even more fun, and my outfit involves a lot less tartan.

I drop into a seat on the stool in front of my vanity table, which also serves as my desk. I move my laptop and a few textbooks aside to make room for my elbows as I reach for the glass jar holding the few makeup products I own. Some eye shadow, lip gloss, and a swipe of mascara later, I’m all ready to go.

My mum knows I’m heading out tonight, but I still do my best to pad silently down the stairs in an attempt to leave the house without her noticing. There’s no way I’ll be able to maintain my lie about ‘meeting up with friends’ if she sees me all done up like this.

I can hear her banging around in the kitchen, cleaning up the lasagna we had for dinner. My dad is down in the basement watching whatever his latest TV craze is, and my brother is sleeping at a friend’s tonight.

I get my coat and boots on, and I’m about to make it to the door undetected when the sound of my name ringing out through the house makes me wince.

“Moira, are you leaving?”

My mum appears in the entryway a moment later with a plate and dishtowel still clutched in her hands, her grey-streaked brown hair tied back with a tartan headband.

Of course she’s wearing a tartan headband.

“Oh, wow! Something tells me you’re not just hanging out with friends.” She shifts the plate around so she can make air quotes with one of her hands. I wince again.

“Uh, well...”

She makes a clucking sound. “Okay, okay, I get it. Annoying mum is butting out now. Just be safe, okay? Whatever you’re doing.”

She makes a show out of backing away slowly. I groan, but just before she steps into the living room, I tell her to wait.

“Do I, uh, look okay?” I ask.

“Oh, honey!” She sighs and rests the plate on her hip. “You look stunning. You’re so beautiful, and so grown up!”

“Grown up, right,” I say with a self-deprecating laugh.

She tuts. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

“I mean...” I gesture around the entryway. “No offence, but I am heading out to start my Saturday night from my parents’ house—my parents who are technically also my bosses.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

I sigh. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it, but you have to admit, it sounds a little pathetic.”

“Honey, you’re not pathetic! You have a great life and big dreams. There’s not a single pathetic thing about you.”

Do I have big dreams?

I have dreams. They’re just not about anything bigger than what I’ve already got.

“I’m proud of you,” my mum adds.

That at least makes the corners of my mouth lift as warmth blooms in my chest. “Thanks.”

“Now get out of here! Go have fun with Kenzie.”

I freeze. “Wh-what?”

She covers her mouth and laughs. “Whoops. Guess I was right. I just thought maybe...”

“We’re hanging out to talk about the scholarship,” I blurt. “As friends.”

It’s such a pathetic lie she doesn’t even call me out on it. Instead, she props one of her hands on her hip and nods.

“If you ask me—which I know you didn’t—I’ve always thought that’s exactly what Kenzie needs: a friend. That girl is so tough, but I’ve taught enough highland dancers to know when a kid just needs a hug. I think that’s always been Kenzie.”

My neck gets all hot as I try very hard not to think about how much more than hugging I’ve got planned for Kenzie tonight.

“Uh, right, yeah. For sure. I gotta go now.”

My mum’s laugh follows me out of the house.

* * *

I get off the bus on Rideau Street and make the quick walk over to the bar in the Byward Market Kenzie picked out. The slushy sidewalks are packed with people starting their Saturday nights, all huddled in their coats as they head for the crowded restaurants and pubs of the market.

I don’t come over here very much, and I’ve never even heard of the bar Kenzie suggested. I keep pulling out my phone to check the map even though the walk from the bus station is basically one straight line.

The place looks fancier than I expected, with a trendy metal sign spelling out the bar’s name in cursive letters above the door and a group of gorgeous women in expensive-looking pea coats and heeled boots milling around outside.

I hover a few feet up the sidewalk, trying to decide if I should text Kenzie to see if she’s here or just head in. My toes are starting to freeze in my Blundstones, and I shift my weight from foot to foot on the least slushy part of the concrete I can find.

A car pulls up, and the women outside the bar all pile inside, laughing and shouting about wherever they’re heading next. I slink a little closer, claiming their spot along the bar’s brick wall.

There’s no hope of getting a glimpse of Kenzie through the window; I can only make out the vague silhouettes of people shifting around tables in the dim glow from the pendant lights that dangle from the ceiling. I should just go in. If she’s not there, I could grab us a spot, maybe text her to get her drink order and start us off.

I don’t, though. All I can do is stare down at my plain outfit and wonder if I could somehow run into a late-night department store and grab something nicer.

I don’t go to places like this. I barely even go out at all. I like seeing friends, and the occasional visit to a bar is fun, but I’m more of a beer and board games at home after a long day at the studio kind of girl.

More of the boring kind of girl.

Suddenly the weeks of flirty texts from Kenzie don’t matter at all. Suddenly, all I can see her as is one of those gorgeous women in the heels and fancy coats, the women who know about bars like this and don’t have any trouble finding dates to take them there.

It’s like this whole street is a movie set, carefully constructed to show me—and the world—just how not enough I am.

I’m still standing there, my back to the bricks like a literal wallflower, when I hear someone call my name.

I look over and find Kenzie making her way up the sidewalk from the same direction I did.

She does look like one of those women—grey pea coat, heeled black boots, and mile-long, slender legs in a pair of dark tights—but no one in this whole city has anything on her face.

She’s got half her hair up in a ponytail, the lower section spilling down around her shoulders in straight, shiny layers. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen her with even half her hair loose, and the style makes her sharp features a little softer but not any less striking.

Her makeup has added a shimmer to the cut of her cheekbones, and her eyes look catty and dangerous, like she could absolutely devastate anyone she wanted with a single well-aimed glare.

When she flashes me a smile and lifts her hand in a quick wave, I forget all about the bar, my outfit, and the stupid sense of inadequacy that’s tying my stomach in knots. All I want is to feel her lips on mine again, to touch her skin, her hair, her body. I want so much more than I’ve already gotten.

I want everything.

After that day we kissed in the hallway, I spent a full hour laying on my bed wondering how the hell Kenzie and I went from years of hating each other to the complete opposite experience of wanting to tear each other’s clothes off before I realized that, for us at least, those aren’t opposites at all.

There’s always been a pull between us, something that draws our eyes to each other in every room, something that keeps us fuming over arguments for weeks and throwing ourselves into every chance for a competition like it’s a matter of life or death.

She makes me feel alive, and it doesn’t matter if we happen to be fighting or flirting. All it takes is being near her to make the whole world light up and burn so bright it almost hurts.

“Hey,” she says when she comes to a stop in front of me, her voice a little breathless.

“Hey.”

My voice mimics hers; even though all I’ve been doing is standing here for the past few minutes, I feel like I’ve just run a mile. I feel like I could take off and run a dozen more. Adrenaline is shooting through my veins and kicking my heart rate up faster with every second.

“You clean up good,” she says, her eyes dipping down to scan my body before meeting mine again.

She lifts a corner of her mouth in a satisfied grin, and I do my best not to gulp.

“Not so bad yourself.”

I congratulate myself on not blurting out how fucking incredible I think she looks and how I’m about two seconds away from calling this whole bet thing off and pulling her face to mine.

She turns to give the bar a once over. “Wow. This is kind of fancier than I thought.”

“You’ve never been here?”

She shifts her purse strap up her shoulder. “Uh, no. Have you?”

I try to stifle my surprise. I was expecting her to tell me this is her favourite bar in the city.

“I haven’t,” I answer. “To be honest, I, uh, think I’m a little underdressed, but it looks nice.”

I don’t even convince myself with the fake enthusiasm I put into the word ‘nice.’

“It looks kind of douchey,” Kenzie blurts.

I burst out laughing. “Oh my god, I am so glad you said that. I thought it looked kind of douchey too.”

She smiles—a real smile, not just a smirk. My breath catches at the way she glows and glimmers like a city skyline on a snowy night

“To be totally honest with you, I hardly ever go out in the market. I kind of hardly ever go out at all. I just picked this off Google Maps because it described it as an intimate venue with...I think it said ‘cozy alcoves and mood lighting.’”

“Oh?” I lift my eyebrows. “And why would you want to pick a place like that?”

My moment of flirty confidence gets snatched away as soon as she turns those catty eyes on me. They’re basically a military-grade weapon of mass destruction.

“Because I have a bet to win, and there’s a lot I could do to make that happen in a...cozy alcove.”

I swallow to wet my parched throat.

“With mood lighting,” I add, a little wheezy.

She throws her head back and laughs. “Yes. Never underestimate the power of mood lighting.”

“So...” I peer through the window into the crowded room. “Should we go in?”

Kenzie does the same for a moment and then shakes her head. “You know what? It looks packed in there. I don’t think we’d find any alcoves, and there’d probably be, like, douchey guys all over us. Do you want to find somewhere less busy? Maybe just a pub or something?”

Relief washes through me, unclenching my muscles, and I realize just how much I was gritting my teeth at the thought of going in there.

“That sounds great. I’d tell you to lead the way, but apparently you don’t come here often either.”

We settle on walking around until we find something that calls to us. We’re quiet for the first few minutes. I’m aware of every single one of her movements. I haven’t seen her in person since the day of the last competition—the same day she had me pinned against a wall with my skirt pulled up to my waist—and the memory simmers between us like a firework with its fuse lit, seconds away from exploding.

“I kind of thought that bar was like, your kind of place,” I say, since conversation seems like a necessary distraction if I want even a hope of winning this bet.

Kenzie stops in the middle of the sidewalk. “Are you saying you think I’m a douche?”

Blood rushes to my cheeks. “Wait, that totally came out wrong. That’s not what I meant.”

She puts her hands on her hips and cocks her head to glare at me, but there’s amusement hiding under the threatening tone of her voice. “So what exactly did you mean?”

“I mean...” My eyes drift down her body, to the outfit that’s as put together as everything else I’ve seen her wear when we’re not at dance competitions. “You’re, like, fashionable, and you’re...I mean, you know you’re really hot. There’s no way you don’t know. I guess I’ve just always thought you’d have, like, a whole crew of admirers around you at school and invitations to every party and...”

I trail off when I realize how deep this is getting, how much I’m revealing I’ve thought about her for years.

“So basically you think my life is an episode of Gossip Girl with some highland dance thrown in?”

“I mean...”

I try to come up with an argument, but that sort of is exactly what I thought. I took what I knew about her, what I saw when I looked at her, and I filled in the gaps with every stereotype I’ve been fed my whole life.

I pressed her into a mold I thought was made for girls like her—the same mold that’s always made me feel like I’m not enough because I don’t even have a hope of squishing inside.

Maybe that mold isn’t built for anyone. Maybe we’re all just trying to measure up to some hollow piece of plastic no one’s ever actually been able to fill.

“I guess I’ve just always been jealous of you.”

The admission slips out before I can stop it. I expect some kind of knowing nod or even another smirk from Kenzie, but my sentence makes her mouth drop open and her hands slide off of her hips.

My face is burning again, and I start trudging up the sidewalk so she won’t see how much I’m blushing. She falls into step beside me, and when she speaks, she’s so quiet I’m not even sure her question is meant for me.

“What could you have to be jealous of?”

From the corner of my eye, I see her glance at me like she really is waiting for an answer. We’ve passed the main area for bars, the street we’re on now mostly filled with the darkened windows of stores that have closed up for the night, but neither of us attempts to turn around or change course. The flirting is gone, the air between us charged with something else now, something deeper.

“Are you serious?” I ask. “You’re one of the best dancers in the country. A few years ago, you were one of the best highland dancers in the world.”

“So were you,” she counters.

“Yeah, but I was basically trained from birth for that. You started years later than me and still took everyone by storm. You’re also...I mean, you’re gorgeous, and thin, and exactly what people picture when they think of a dancer. You’re...you’re effortless.”

She stops in the middle of the sidewalk again, and when she laughs, there’s no warmth to it. There’s only a bitterness so harsh and pained it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

“Moira, every single thing I do is so fucking full of effort it exhausts me. Everything. You’re the one who’s never had to try. You’re the one who just fits in, who makes people laugh and smile and want to be near you. All I have going for me is being a good dancer, and you even have that too. When I’m just being me, I’m...I have to work so hard to be enough.”

Her voice cracks on the last word, and her bottom lip trembles. I watch as she wraps her arms around herself, her shoulders curving inward to make her seem so tiny—and not in a way that fills me with envy. Instead, as I look at her small frame, another layer of whatever image of her I’ve constructed shatters into pieces and scatters on the snowy street.

I’m left looking at the girl I think my mum was trying to tell me about. In this moment, all I can do is agree that Kenzie desperately needs a friend and has probably needed one for a long, long time.

She’s staring down at the tips of her boots, and I’m about to step toward her, to tell her it’s okay, to give her a hug, to do something, when she swears under her breath and starts marching up the sidewalk again.

I have to jog a few steps to catch up with her.

“Forget I said that,” she mutters without turning her head. She’s staring straight ahead, her gaze pinned to the streetlight on the corner of the intersection we’re approaching.

“Kenzie, you don’t have to—”

“Please,” she interrupts, her voice so raw it startles me into silence. “Please just forget it, okay?”

I don’t want to forget it. I don’t want to watch her shut down and turn into the cold and distant person she’s been to me for years.

We’re so far past that we can’t go back, even if she’s going to try.

We reach the intersection, and she peers up and down both streets like she’s only just realized we’re not in the market anymore.

“Where the hell even are we?” she asks. “We should go back. I mean, if you even still want to do the—”

“I want to take you somewhere.”

I don’t want to sit in a bar with her and pretend this conversation didn’t happen, but I don’t want to get back on a bus and go home either.

More than anything, I want to be with her, just the two of us. I want to forget everything else and let this moment unfold into whatever it’s trying to be. I don’t want a chance to stop and think about it too much.

Kenzie goes silent and stares at me for a moment.

“Where?”

I didn’t have a place in mind, and considering we both live at home, our options for solitude are pretty limited. Then the idea strikes.

“Somewhere...somewhere special,” I answer. “You’ll see when we get there.”

She scoffs and rubs her hands up and down her arms. “Is somewhere special far from here?”

I pull my phone out. “I’ll get us an Uber. My treat.”

She starts to shake her head. “Moira, I think maybe—”

“Kenzie.” I step a little closer to her. “Can you just trust me for a minute here?”

I don’t get a yes, but after a moment of silence, she nods and says, “I guess we’re going somewhere special.”

CHAPTER 14

KENZIE

As soon as the sign for the Murray School of Highland Dance comes into view up the street, I turn my head and squint at Moira where we’re sitting in the back of an Uber. She shrugs and spreads her hands in a ‘you’ll see’ gesture before setting them back down on the worn grey fabric of the seat.

Her fingertips land only a few inches from mine, and I fight the urge to reach for her hand and twine our fingers together.

It’s the same urge that’s made me blurt out truths I should keep to myself, the same one that made me kiss her in that hallway, the same one that keeps drawing me to her again and again when everything she represents should be a big red warning sign threatening enough to keep me away.

That sign should have been enough to keep me from coming on this date in the first place. I don’t do dates. I don’t do distractions or complications. My whole life hangs in a constant state of shifting imbalance, and one puff of an unpredictable wind could send me hurtling into the deep, dark hole I dream about tumbling down most nights.

The last time I dated was at the end of high school, and it only lasted a few months before we both realized I didn’t have the time or even the will to make it work.

It still hurt when she left me. I knew it was coming. I was on the verge of doing it myself, but the pain still dug into me like a knife pressing on old scars. She was leaving, just like my dad, just like Chris’s dad, just like Chris himself when he started showing up less and less.

That pain has been just another reason to stay away from relationships all through university.

Somehow, I’m here anyway. I’m in this car, my hand just inches from Moira’s. When I glance at her profile silhouetted by the glow of the streetlights we drive past, I don’t see an old rival or even a new threat to the only thing that might keep me in school next year.

I only see a girl I want more of—more of her words, more of her laugh, more of her mouth on mine and her body pressed to me.

I shiver even though the heat is blasting and I’m huddled in my coat. Moira notices and opens her mouth to say something just as the driver pulls up to an empty spot on the curb and asks if we’re close enough.

“This is great,” Moira answers. “Thanks for the ride.”

We climb out of the car and scale the mini mountain range of snow pushed up against the curb by the latest round of plows. The studio is only a few metres up the sidewalk. Moira fishes around in her purse for her keys while I take in the sight of the brick building.

“I’ve never been here,” I murmur.

I recognize the Murray School’s tartan-themed logo featuring a little illustrated pair of ghillies. The bicycle shop they share the building with seems to take up the street-facing side of the first floor, with big glass windows looking into a dark interior filled with racks of bikes. The Murray School has its own entrance around the side, right near a narrow parking lot, and Moira glances back at me as she leads us over.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been to the Stewie school either.”

“Stewie?” I repeat as she fits her key in the lock.

“Oh, whoops, yeah.” She keeps her back to me, and I hear the note of embarrassment in her voice. “That’s kind of what I call anyone who goes to the Rebecca Stewart Academy.”

I have to laugh at that one. “You call us Stewies?”

“Hey, be grateful I didn’t come up with something insulting.”

She pulls the glass door open, and we both step into a dark entryway with salt-stained mats on the floor.

“I mean, I wouldn’t say Stewie is particularly flattering.”

Instead of giving me a comeback, Moira steps ahead of me and reaches for a light switch. A few overhead panel lights flicker on, revealing a front desk still festooned with Scottish-themed Christmas decorations and a couple sets of string lights. Beyond it, there’s a short, narrow hallway lined with a few doors and a staircase at the end. The walls are painted a creamy yellow colour, and there’s a striped red and yellow runner covering the old wooden floors of the hall.

“Well this is adorable,” I blurt.

“Ha ha. We’ve all been too busy to take the decorations down.”

“No, no,” I protest while Moira starts pulling her boots off. “I mean it. It’s really sweet in here. I bet the kids love it.”

We’ve spent our lives mocking and challenging so many parts of each other, but I can tell Moira meant it when she said this was a special place for her. I feel it myself. I see it in the way she looks so protective and yet so vulnerable as she glances around the room.

Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t make fun of this place.

“Why here?” I ask instead.

She doesn’t need to ask what I mean.

“It just seemed like we weren’t really in a bar mood anymore, but I know neither of our places are really an option, and...”

She trails off and leans against the wall, her hands pressed behind her back. She’s got her shoes off now, but I don’t move to do the same.

“And this is where I like to go when I feel weird,” she says into the stillness, “or bad, or uncertain. It’s just...it’s special, and it seemed right for tonight.”

I let the honesty of those words sink deep into my chest.

Tonight is special.

As I watch her pull her coat off and hang it on the rack lining one of the entryway walls, I realize tonight was never really about a bet at all. Neither were the past few weeks of texting, or the bikini photo that’s burned into my brain, or the care I put into making myself look good tonight.

Whatever is happening between us, it’s special and powerful and way too much to stop when she’s looking at me the way she is now.

Her gaze is soft and curious, hesitant even, but underneath, I see the embers. I feel them shifting and crackling inside me too.

“You want a tour?” she asks.

It takes me a couple seconds to figure out what she’s talking about.

“Oh. Yeah. That would be cool.”

That would be cool?

Now I’m the one hiding my face in embarrassment as I hang my coat up. I’m so busy fumbling around with the hanger I almost miss her low murmur of, “Oh. Wow.”

“What is it?” I turn and find her with her gaze pinned to my ass.

“That’s just, uh...That’s a nice skirt.”

I don’t splurge very often, but when I do, it’s usually on clothes. They’re my one indulgence. The black velvet mini skirt and cropped white long-sleeve top might only be Forever 21, but I got them brand new at full price with my first paycheque from the campus dining hall in freshman year, and they looked so good on me I didn’t even feel guilty.

I run my hands over the velvet and let myself smirk a little when I see her eyes following my every move.

I definitely don’t feel guilty about the clothes now.

“You mentioned a tour?” I ask when she keeps staring.

She jumps to attention like I’ve caught her red-handed in an attempted burglary.

“Right. Tour. Yes. This way.”

She clears her throat and gets her cool back as she starts leading me around. We make our way past the front desk and look into a storage closet and a small but bright studio before heading up the creaky stairs. I can feel the pride beaming off Moira as she talks about all the renovations her family did to make the school a reality.

We take a look at a second studio, and then a third. I see the change in Moira as soon as we step into the third room. Her eyes light up even more than they already have, and she crosses right to the centre of the smooth white floor, spreading her arms out wide and grinning at me.

I can tell this is her place.

“This one is my favourite,” she says. “It’s kind of weirdly shaped, but as you can see, it feels a bit more airy than the other rooms. Also, you can’t see how pretty it is at night, but I love that stained glass.”

She points to the windows looking out on the street, and I follow the line of her finger up to the ruby red stained glass semi-circles crowning each of the old-fashioned window panels.

“That’s gorgeous,” I agree. “It must look really pretty in the sun.”

She nods. “So yeah, now you’ve seen the Murray School of Highland Dance.”

I nod too, and we stand a few feet apart, watching each other as our reflections shift around on the mirrored walls.

“Thanks for showing it to me.” My voice comes out low and a little breathy.

She looks so good, even in a simple white t-shirt. A couple times during the tour, I got a glimpse of a purple lace bra underneath.

I wonder if she thought about me when she picked it out.

A few seconds of silence tick by. There’s no clear next move here. We’re so far into uncharted territory it even feels like a struggle to tell the difference between up and down.

I open my mouth, not really sure what to say to break the silence, but Moira beats me to it.

“Wait right here,” she orders, pointing at my feet before stepping past me to get to the door.

“Is this the part where you lock me in here for the night as some kind of prank?” I joke.

She pauses in the doorway and winks. “You gotta trust me, Kenzie.”

I take a shuddering breath as I stand there listening to her jog down the stairs. I’m not sure how to trust anyone but myself, and around her, I can’t even do that.

That dark chasm I’m always evading starts opening under my feet as my breathing gets even faster, but it closes up again when I hear the floor creaking as Moira makes her way back down the hall.

“Found it!” she shouts when she reappears around the edge of the door. “I knew there would be a bottle of this around here somewhere.”

I look down to see the bottle of Macallan Scotch clutched in her hands. She shakes the amber liquid around and wags her eyebrows at me.

I bring a hand up to my cheek, pretending to be scandalized even though her expression has my stomach doing back flips. “Exactly what kind of a dance school is this?”

“It’s for special occasions,” she protests, “for the staff and parents and stuff.”

“So what’s the occasion?”

She steps back into the studio and taps her chin, just under her bottom lip. I want to place my finger there too. I want to see the way she’d look at me if I traced the outline of her mouth.

“Hmmm. You know, I think anyone who’s part of the Canadian highland dance community would think you and me having a civil discussion is an occasion for raising a toast.”

Before I can stop myself, I step closer. “Who said anything about civil?”

Her breath catches. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I called it too soon.”

There’s a dangerous glint in her eyes as she keeps the bottle clutched in one hand and trails the other up the front of her shirt, teasing me just like I did to her with my skirt downstairs. I bite my tongue to keep from letting a groan out when she reaches the curves of her chest. She hooks a finger over her t-shirt’s neckline, tugging down until I get another look at the purple lace of her bra.

“Guess we won’t be needing these, then.”

She tugs the fabric lower, and I’m about to rasp her name when she reaches into her shirt and pulls two stacked shot glasses out from where she hid them at the base of her cleavage.

I swear under my breath, and she lets out a peal of laughter as her shirt snaps back into place.

“Did you plan that?” I demand.

She takes the whisky over to the table housing the sound system, her hips swaying.

“I don’t know about you, but I haven’t entirely forgotten the bet,” she drawls. “Do you want a whisky, or will that make it too easy for me to win?”

I don’t know how she shifts from sweet to sexy so fast, but the transformation always leaves me mesmerized.

There are more sides to Moira Murray than I can count, and I want more of them all.

“You don’t think it would make it easier for me to win?” I say as I stalk over to join her.

She shrugs as she unscrews the bottle’s cap. “I guess we’ll find out.”

The sharp and bitter tang of alcohol fills the air for a moment, and I see Moira’s hands shake a little as she aims the stream of whisky into the glasses.

“Are we really shooting these?” I ask when she’s done.

“Well, my dad would probably have a heart attack if he saw me doing anything but ‘properly savouring’ Macallan. I couldn’t find any whisky glasses though, so...”

I reach for my glass and tap the edge to hers where it’s still sitting on the table next to the boxy CD-player. The fact that they still use actual CD players is yet another adorable aspect of the Murray School.

It’s almost as cute as Moira.

However, there’s nothing cute about the heated look she gives me before she grabs her glass and tips her head back to down the whisky all in one go. I watch the smooth, pale skin of her throat bob. She licks her lips when she’s done, the burn of the fiery liquid failing to make her wince at all.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone make taking a shot look so damn hot.

“You gonna drink that?” she asks, nodding at my glass as she smirks.

What I really need is a huge glass of ice water, but I settle for Macallan instead. It’s smooth at first, the taste laced with a smoky sweetness that makes me think of crème brûlée, but I can’t stop myself from coughing when the burn hits.

Moira’s chuckle is smug. “You’ll get used to it.”

I roll my eyes in answer. She sets her shot glass down and starts flipping through a stack of CDs.

“I don’t think we want to listen to the Essential Highland Dance Pipe Series,” she says with a laugh, “but I could put this on?”

She holds up an album with a photo of a brunette woman on the front. I don’t recognize the name, but I nod anyway.

“I forgot to grab them, but there’s, uh, blankets in the closet up here. We usually use them as tablecloths for the music stations at Christmas. I was thinking we could sit in here and have sort of, like, a picnic?”

She gets all sweet and shy again, avoiding my eyes as she fiddles with the CD case. I’m hit with the urge to brush her hair aside and give her a kiss on the cheek.

“A picnic?” I say instead. “Don’t those usually include food?”

“Um, well yes...” She opens the case and pops the CD out. “Think of this as more of a...whisky picnic.”

I burst out laughing. “A whisky picnic. Nice.”

She laughs too, and I head for the hall closet while she gets the music going. I find a few red blankets with little snowmen and reindeer embroidered along the edges and bundle them in my arms. When I step back into the studio, I recognize the soft folk song filling the air as the same one from our interview video.

“I like this,” I say, nodding my chin towards the stereo.

“Julie Fowlis is one of my favourites,” Moira says, walking to meet me in the middle of the room. “I’m choreographing a piece for one of my classes to a song from this album. We’re going to use it for the Freeform Showcase in June.”

In June.

By June, the scholarship will have already been awarded. SDOO’s competition season will be over. Regular classes will be wrapping up at the Rebecca Stewart Academy, making way for summer training camps and intensives.

I’ll have no reason to see Moira for months on end.

Unless we give ourselves a reason.

The thought surfaces before I can push it down deep enough to ignore it. My mind starts racing with a hundred ‘what if’s’ and chasing them all with choking tendrils of doubt.

What if this is more than a bet?

What if it’s always been more?

What if it’s just a mistake?

What if I shouldn’t be here at all?

“Kenzie?”

I blink myself out of my stupor and find Moira watching me with concern in her eyes.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, uh...” I glance down at the floor and shift the blankets around in my arms. “I guess we should put these down?”

I unfurl one of them in front of me, and Moira helps me get it straightened on the floor. We bundle a few of the spare ones up like cushions, and Moira sets our shot glasses and the bottle down before we both take a seat.

“Let’s just sip this round,” she says as she pours two more shots.

We clink them together, and I let the burn of the little sip I take singe away some of my fear. When I’m focused on Moira, on how it makes my heart race just to sit next to her and watch her lips curve around the edge of her glass, the rest gets easier to push away too.

Somehow, she makes the freefall less scary. She makes it feel more like flying than plummeting.

CHAPTER 15

KENZIE

“So...” Moira sets her half-finished shot down and leans back to prop herself up with her palms. “How does the Murray School compare to the illustrious Rebecca Stewart Academy of Highland Dance?”

“You mean the Stewie school?”

She chuckles and shakes her head. “You’re really going to make me regret telling you that, aren’t you?”

I shrug and try to play it cool. The way she’s sitting has her chest thrust forward to make the cups of her bra strain against her shirt, and I have to fight the urge to ask her if she’s doing that on purpose.

Asking would imply I’ve been looking, and I can only imagine how smug she’d get about that.

“I think RSA is...flashier,” I say as I shift on the blankets.

I’ve been sitting with my knees tucked under me, and when I drop my weight onto one of my hips, my skirt rides up a few inches. Moira’s gaze flicks down to the velvet hemline, and I let myself smirk.

“But I can see how much care goes into this place,” I continue. “I admit it’s got more personality than RSA does.”

“You mean you don’t think our reindeer blankets are flashy too?” she asks, pointing at one of the little embroidered creatures beside her leg.

I laugh. “Okay, the reindeer are pretty flashy. Did you bust these out to help seduce me?”

She trails her finger along the edge of the blanket, dropping her eyelids to stare up at me through her lashes. It’s not subtle, but it’s also not entirely ineffective; my thighs clench under my skirt.

“Do you think I need help seducing you?”

“Well, you haven’t won yet.”

Both our voices have dropped low. Moira reaches for her glass and lifts it up, tilting her head at me.

“Neither have you.”

She drains what’s left of her shot in one go, and I have to tighten my grip on my own glass because damn it, she looks way too good shooting whisky.

She licks her lips when she’s done, just like the first time, and I can’t even pretend I’m not staring at the pink tip of her tongue.

“What do you say, Kenzie?” she asks. “You ready to beg me to kiss you?”

I shake my head and rasp, “Not even close.”

She pushes into her hands to straighten up, and before I can predict her next move, she shifts forward onto her hands and knees and fucking crawls towards me to bring her mouth right up to my ear.

“How ’bout now?” she murmurs.

Her breath is warm on my skin, and I know if I turned my head a few inches, I’d get an excellent view of her tits where the neck of her t-shirt is hanging loose and low.

Instead, I keep my eyes focused on our reflection in the mirrored wall across the room, which doesn’t help much, seeing as it gives me an equally excellent view of her now perfectly positioned ass.

She’s got a great ass. My arms ache to pull her into my lap and get a handful.

“Now you’re just playing dirty,” I answer, my voice hoarse.

“I never said I’d be fair. I just said I’d win.”

Her lips are so close to my ear they almost brush my skin—almost. She’s careful to keep her mouth from touching me, since I’d definitely consider it a forfeit if she kissed me anywhere before one of us begged.

I close my eyes, and I can already taste her again. I’m hungry for her, and she really is going to win if I don’t get the upper hand back soon.

“I can play dirty too.”

Before I lose my nerve, I twist and place my hands on her shoulders, giving her a soft push that sends her scuttling back onto her ass. A half second later, I’m straddling her lap, my skirt riding dangerously high and her face now at eye-level with my chest.

She gasps, and on instinct, her hands fly up to grip my hips hard.

I might have misjudged the effectiveness of my plan; with my thighs wrapped around hers and her mouth now mere inches from my tits, I’m in barely any more control than I was on the floor.

That doesn’t stop me from arching my back and rolling my hips under her hands.

“You ready to beg me?” I ask.

Without any warning, she yanks the edge of my shirt out from where it’s tucked into the waistband of my skirt and slides her hands up to press against the bare skin of my lower back. I arch even more, moaning a little when her hands reach higher and brush the band of my bra.

“Not even close,” she answers, her eyes hooded and dark with need.

I want to keep those eyes on me. I want to keep pushing her. I want her to keep pushing me. I want to see how far we can take this. Every second that passes stretches the tension tighter and tighter, like a bowstring being drawn to its breaking point, and I want to know who will snap first.

I reach for the edge of my shirt and pull it over my head.

Moira groans. “Fuck, Kenzie.”

I hiss when she grabs my waist and squeezes, her nails digging in just hard enough to make white hot sparks pop and fizz behind my eyelids.

Something about her swearing is such a turn on. I’ve always thought of her as some kind of squeaky clean golden girl, but here she is, cursing and bucking her hips under me in the middle of the floor, an abandoned whisky bottle lying beside us.

Moira Murray is being bad, and I want to see how much badder she gets.

She slides one of her hands around to trail her fingertips up my stomach and along the edge of my bra. It’s just a plain nude one with a bit of lace trim, but she’s caressing the soft fabric with a reverence that makes my breath catch. Something in my chest twinges, but I forget all about the sensation and whatever it might mean when she hooks a finger under one of my bra’s cups and tugs down, exposing the edge of my nipple.

“Oh, fuck,” I gasp.

Her eyes flick up to meet mine. “Is this okay?”

All I can do is nod, and one corner of her mouth lifts before she goes back to tugging my bra down. She groans when my whole breast is finally on display for her. Electricity surges through me when her thumb starts brushing back and forth over my nipple. I whimper, exerting every ounce of concentration I have left to keep me from pulling her mouth to my skin.

I want to feel her. I want her—maybe more than I’ve ever wanted anybody.

“Moira...”

She chuckles at my breathless voice, but her own comes out cracked and ragged. “You ready to beg yet? If you begged me to suck on your tits, I’d do it right now.”

I make a low, guttural sound and squeeze my thighs tight around her, but I don’t give in.

“I didn’t think you’d be the type to dirty talk,” I say as I rock against her.

She groans again. “Oh yeah? You didn’t think I’d be the type to tell you that if I pushed that skirt up right now and slid my hand between your legs, I bet you’d be soaked for me?”

She grabs one of my thighs just under my skirt, like she might do it right here and now.

“Jesus, Moira,” I hiss.

“I don’t think you should underestimate me, Kenzie.”

She goes back to stroking my nipple, and I bite my lip to keep from screaming. I need her mouth.

“You talk a big game, but...” I trail off as a shiver runs through me when she undoes the clasp of my bra. It slips forward, baring me to her, and she tugs the whole thing down my arms with a grumble of impatience.

Once she’s tossed the bra to the side, she reaches up to cup both my breasts, kneading and squeezing until I’m panting for breath and shaking from the effort of not giving in to the burning need to kiss her.

“You were saying?”

Her smug tone cuts through my consciousness enough to let me climb off her lap and put a few inches of space between us.

“If I’m getting naked,” I pant, “you should have to get naked too.”

“That’s getting very close to begging, Kenzie.”

I shrug like I’m not a half-second away from jumping back into her lap. “I just don’t think you deserve an advantage.”

She reaches for the bottom of her shirt. “I don’t need one.”

A few seconds and a couple less articles of clothing later, Moira is completely topless, and I’m completely unable to breathe.

She’s mesmerizing. Every curve of her body looks like it took a master artist hours to carve out of smooth, pink and peach marble. Her nipples are hard peaks just begging me to lean over and trace them with my tongue.

“Goddamn,” I breathe,

When I can finally avert my gaze long enough to glance at her face, I find her blushing. She sits up straighter and crosses her arms, hiding herself from me.

“I know I’m not—” she starts to say, her eyes fixed on the blanket until they flick up when I interrupt her.

“I’m not interested in what you’re not, Moira.” I can’t listen to her say anything cruel about herself, not when she’s sitting there looking good enough to deserve every word of praise in the world. “I promise you, no one in their right mind could think about anything you’re not when what you are is so...so fucking beautiful.”

We stare at each other as the intimacy of the word washes over us both.

I could have called her hot or sexy. Even gorgeous or stunning would have been casual enough, but beautiful—

That’s not something you say when all you’re focused on is winning a bet.

“You think so?” she whispers.

I could deflect or laugh it off, but instead I swallow and nod.

“I do.”

She smiles, her grin full and uninhibited, and I feel like I’m soaking up the sun itself as I watch her. After a moment of me staring like an idiot, she chuckles and shakes her head. “You know, that still doesn’t mean you’re winning.”

Another jolt of electricity hits as I watch her gaze rake down my body.

The game is on again.

“Yeah, but this might.”

I spring to my feet and yank on the zipper of my skirt before shimmying the fabric down my hips. The velvet hits the floor with a thud, and I hear Moira gasp, but I don’t stop until I’ve got my tights off too. Then I’m standing there in nothing but a black lace thong.

Moira gapes at me for a few moments, and as I watch her stare go from hungry to ravenous, I know there’s no way to hide how right she was earlier.

I’m soaked.

To her credit, she recovers quickly enough to push up onto her knees in front of me before I can make my next move. Her hands slide up to fist around the band of my thong. I can feel her hot breath on my stomach.

I need it lower.

“Kenzie...” She inhales through her nose, and I’m sure I’m so wet she can smell how much I want her.

From the way her eyes practically roll back in her head, I can tell she wants me just as bad.

“You sure you’re not ready to beg yet?” she murmurs. “You look...close.”

I tangle one of my hands in her hair, and she moans.

“So do you.”

“We’re sure this bet doesn’t include touching, right?”

She’s only an inch away from being able to dip forward and grab the edge of my thong with her teeth.

“Just kissing,” I say through a clenched jaw, “but I think kissing anywhere should count, don’t you?”

She swears under her breath, “Fine. As long as I can tell you how fucking bad I wanna touch you right now.”

Her words come out so harsh they’re practically a snarl, and I feel a twitch between my legs as my muscles tighten.

“If you touch me, you’ll be begging to taste me,” I warn.

And I’ll be begging for it too.

“I’ll take my chances.”

I don’t have time to come up with another reply before she nudges my thighs apart and cups me over my thong, her thumb pressing against my clit. I squeeze my eyes shut, and a whole meteor shower of stars fills the darkness. A strangled cry pushes past my lips, followed by a second one when my eyes fly open and I get a look at our reflection in the mirrored wall.

Moira.

On her knees for me.

Her hair hanging loose down the smooth skin of her bare back.

My hand gripping a fistful of those curls.

Me, next to naked, my face pinched with the need for more.

All of a sudden, my knees go weak, and my legs threaten to give out under me. She guides me down to the floor until we’re lying side by side on the blanket. Everywhere she touches me burns.

“Moira,” I rasp, reaching for her, pulling her closer until she’s hovering over me.

We’re chest to chest. I can feel the brush of her nipples over mine. There’s so much need in my body it feels like it’s splitting me open.

“Do you want me to touch you, Kenzie?”

All the teasing is gone. I lost the ability to keep up any pretense as soon as I felt her hand on me, pressing into where I need her most.

“Touch me.”

She sits up enough to pull my thong down my legs. I squirm and squeeze my eyes shut again.

I’m totally naked now. She can see all of me.

My breath comes out in shuddering gasps as I lay there waiting to feel her fingers on me, but the moment never comes. After a few more breaths, I crack my eyes open.

She’s staring at my body, her eyes roaming over every inch of my skin, and there’s a tenderness in her face I’ve never seen her look at anyone else with, not in all the years I’ve known her.

In that moment, I know that if we’re going to do this, I want us to do it right.

“Moira, wait.”

She freezes and then meets my gaze.

“Should we stop? We don’t have to—”

“I want to. But first...” I take the deepest breath I can manage. “First I want you to kiss me. Please.”

She could smirk. She could pull an ‘I told you so.’ She could tell me to beg harder than that.

Instead, she leans over me and cradles the side of my face in her hand.

“I want to kiss you so bad,” she whispers.

Then she presses her mouth to mine.

The kiss is soft at first—softer than we ever went in the hallway. It’s slow too, with a curiosity that verges on hesitant, like we’re trying out a language we’re not totally sure how to speak yet.

She tastes as good as I remember. After a few minutes, I can’t help darting my tongue out to taste the inside of her mouth, just for a second. She whimpers and deepens the kiss, her tongue slipping between my lips. I clutch at her back, and she puts enough space between us to cup one of my breasts and squeeze without breaking the kiss.

I moan into her mouth, my hips bucking up of their own accord. She trails her hand lower, over my stomach and all the way to my thigh.

I pull my face back from hers just long enough to murmur, “Please.”

She keeps kissing me for a few minutes, her fingertips digging into my thigh, before she rolls onto her side and settles herself so we’re lying face to face on the blanket. She pushes my legs farther apart and then starts tracing my inner thighs. Goosebumps break out all over my body.

“You’re beautiful too, Kenzie,” she says, the words laced with reverence.

We both moan when she parts my folds with one of her fingers. She twists to press her face into my shoulder, swearing as she traces up and down the length of me.

“Fucking hell. You are soaked.”

“I want you.” I’m too caught up in the jolts of pleasure surging through me to be anything but honest.

She slips a finger inside me and starts to thrust. My eyes roll back, and I bite my lip so hard it hurts.

This is what I needed.

“Kiss me again,” I say, my voice reedy. “Oh god, please. Please kiss me.”

I want my tongue in her mouth while her fingers are inside me.

She brings her mouth to mine, adding a second finger as she does and using her thumb to stroke my clit. I gasp into her mouth. I can already feel my muscles tightening and clenching, the moment of release building inside me.

Her hair hangs around us like a curtain, blocking everything out but her. She’s moaning too, and she starts to thrust harder, taking me—fucking me—and spinning me farther and farther out of control with every flick of her thumb.

I’m edging towards some dark unknown, my toes curled around a towering cliff with no bottom in sight.

I always turn back from the edge. I always cling to control.

Losing control means getting hurt.

“Kenzie...” Moira murmurs against my lips.

I close my eyes and grab a fistful of the blanket, squeezing hard to push the thoughts away.

I want this.

I asked for this. I begged for this. For once in my fucking life, I want to do something without keeping a constant eye on the consequences. I just want to let go.

But I can’t.

The nerves have crept in. The doubt is coiling around me, intercepting the haven of this room, of this blanket, of this girl who can make the whole world stop.

“Kenzie,” she says again, slowing her thrusts as her free hand comes up to frame my face again. “Hey. Hey, hey, hey.”

I take a shuddering breath and force my eyes open to look at her. Her bright green eyes bore into mine, her kiss-swollen lips forming my name.

“Kenzie, let go. Just let go for me.”

I should be shocked to have her read my mind, but I’m not. With her watching me like this, I feel connected, tied together, interwoven like two strands of the same thread.

She’ll lead me. She’ll make the leap for us both.

I just have to let go.

“Let go for me,” she says again, just as her fingers curl to reach even deeper inside me than before.

My back arches, baring my throat to her, and when she presses her lips to my neck, I can’t help crying out. She thrusts harder, faster, her thumb working in rapid circles back and forth over my clit. I’m tipping over the edge, clinging to the last inch of stability within my grasp.

“Let go.”

My hold slips, and I’m gone.

I could be falling. I could be flying. Those two words could mean the same thing. All I know is that I’ve broken into a million pieces scattering in every direction. There is no up or down. There is only me and Moira and the explosion shredding us both.

When the pieces finally fall back into place, they’ve shaped us into something new, something that can’t be undone.

“Come here.”

She pulls my shivering body to hers and kisses my forehead. I wrap my arms around her, clinging to her warmth.

CHAPTER 16

MOIRA

Lydia nudges me with her elbow and leans over to whisper in my ear as the announcer on stage finishes handing out the last round of medals at SDOO’s February competition.

I’ve already received all of mine—just one less than Kenzie today. That should probably have me seething, or at least leave me twitching with irritation, but instead, my legs are all jittery for an entirely different reason.

I drum my heels against the floor, using the fidgeting as a distraction to keep me from craning my neck around to catch sight of Kenzie a few rows behind us in the auditorium. I’ve had to wage full-on war with myself to keep from gawking at her all day.

Now that I know what she looks like under her dance costumes, I can’t stop staring at her in them.

“Hey. Earth to Moira,” Lydia whisper-yells, loud enough to make a few parents turn their heads and throw some affronted glances our way.

“Huh?” I whisper back, waving my hand to get her to be quieter.

She rolls her eyes. “I’ve asked you the same question like three times. I said what is that dance called where you do like a chain around each other and grab arms to do that weird little hobbly thing?”

I hold back a snort at that description of a Highland Reel. To be fair, it’s pretty accurate. The Reel is the only group dance in highland. It consists of four dancers weaving around each other and occasionally linking up in pairs to grasp elbows and spin around in a tight circle. It’s the only dance you can sabotage for someone else if you don’t do it right, which always makes performing it onstage extra tense.

“That’s the Reel,” I tell Lydia.

She nods. “Right. The Reel. Well, yours and Kenzie’s was probably the steamiest Reel I’ve ever seen in my life.”

“Lydia!”

A few more heads turn as I smack her arm, which totally defeats my purpose of getting her to be quiet. She sits there shaking with silent laughter as I pretend to be transfixed by the distribution of the medals while waiting for everyone else to turn their attention back to the stage.

“What do you mean?” I whisper once the coast is clear, leaning in until I’m only a few inches from her ear.

She turns and gives me a clear ‘come on, girl’ look, complete with a raised eyebrow and pursed lips.

“You know what I mean. You were practically fondling Kenzie’s elbow, and you guys did not break eye contact at all. It was steamy.”

She makes a show out of fanning her face, and I grimace.

“I did not fondle her elbow.”

I did very much enjoy touching it, though. With her studies and her hours at the studio keeping her schedule packed, Kenzie’s turned down my last two attempts to ask her out again. That would have me worried if we weren’t also texting most days of the week and continuing to send the occasional teasing photo.

When we finally peeled ourselves off the floor of Studio B three weeks ago, our hair a mess and our bodies still begging for more, I didn’t know if I’d ever see her like that again. I didn’t know how to ask for it.

We put the blankets away and headed down the staircase in silence. I was about to put my coat on downstairs when I felt her lips on the back of my neck. Her arms circled my waist, her chest pressing against my back, and I could feel her hot breath on my skin as she murmured, “Take me out again sometime.”

I’ve been thinking about again ever since. I thought about it every time we touched during the Reel. Even that was enough to send a jolt of anticipation coursing through me, tightening my stomach.

Usually, you stare at your partner’s ear or their forehead when you’re doing your Reel turns to avoid the awkwardness of an uninterrupted three seconds of eye contact, but my gaze stayed locked on her deep brown pupils every time.

Even weeks later, I can still remember exactly how she looked when she fell apart underneath me on the floor, when she let go and gave herself to the moment.

It was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.

The sound of applause makes me jump in my seat, and I bring my hands together on instinct to join the crowd. The announcers send the last line of dancers off the stage and take a moment to give some general updates, including one about the scholarship applicants’ progress.

Holly, Nicole, and I all volunteered at a Robbie Burns dinner put on by a local Scottish heritage organization at the end of January, but Kenzie didn’t attend. All she told me was that she was busy.

We’ve all had to hand in our essays as well. I’m proud of mine, although the interview video has definitely been the crowning jewel of my application so far. The only thing I really have to worry about is Kenzie’s competition results. Based on how busy she seems to be, and how good she looks onstage, she’s putting a lot of time into training.

Maybe I should be trying harder.

The thought bleeds a somber note into the symphony that goes off in my head when I rise in time to glimpse the back of Kenzie’s head as people start shuffling out of the auditorium.

Even with everything that’s happened, she’s still laser-focused on the scholarship. She still wants to win, which means no matter what else I am, I’m still her rival.

“We still on for skating?” Lydia’s voice pulls me back into the moment as we make our way up the aisle.

“Of course!” I answer. “We’ll just need to get a huge dinner after. I don’t even want to know how much energy I’ve burnt today.”

“And Beavertails,” she adds. “We definitely need to get Beavertails.”

My mouth waters at the thought of the sugar-coated pastries they always sell along Ottawa’s famous Rideau Canal in the winter. The weather is supposed to turn unseasonably warm for a whole week tomorrow, which is how Lydia talked me into skating on the canal directly after a dance competition.

“Definitely,” I agree.

We reach the lobby and loiter just past the auditorium doors, waiting for the crowd to disperse enough for me to dart over to the warm-up gym and grab my stuff. I’ve already changed into fleece-lined leggings and a flannel, so all I’ve got to do is pack my garment bags and hair supplies into my mum’s car before she gives us a ride to the canal.

Lydia follows along behind me as we pass milling groups of parents and students, most of whom give me a wave and a smile. We walk right by my mum herself as she stands chatting with a group of parents.

“I’ll meet you out there, girls!” she calls when she spots us. “I just need to retrieve a few kilts.”

Lydia chuckles as we keep moving through the lobby. “I really need to publish a book called Shit People Say at Highland Dance Competitions.”

I laugh too. “That’s not a bad idea. You could rent one of these vendor tables and sell copies to everyone here.”

I glance at the row of tables selling their usual selection of dance supplies, Scottish memorabilia, and sewing patterns for DIY costumes. My steps falter the second my eyes lock onto the back of Kenzie’s head where she’s crouched down to talk to one of her younger students. Her hair is still up in a brutally tight bun, and she’s wearing a green jig dress from our last event of the day, her white apron strings dangling down from where they’re circled around her waist.

“Okay, lover girl.” Lydia taps me on the back and clears her throat. “Let’s get a move on. If you keep staring like that, Kenzie is going to start charging you admission.”

My cheeks get hot. “I was not...”

I trail off instead of finishing my sentence; arguing seems futile when Lydia has plenty of evidence. I focus on getting us to the gym instead.

Lydia leans against the gym’s painted cinderblock wall while I stuff all my outfits into their garment bags and throw the rest of my miscellaneous supplies into a worn canvas duffel bag embroidered with the Murray School’s logo. The gym is almost empty by the time I’m ready to go, and I start to apologize for making Lydia wait so long when I spot Kenzie walking through the doors.

She’s in skinny jeans and a grey v-neck t-shirt now. Her bun has been transformed into an equally tight ponytail, but having her hair twisted up all day has left the long brown locks hanging in loose, bouncy curls.

I really want to know what it would feel like to wrap them around my hand.

Lydia doesn’t fail to notice where my attention has gone.

“Hey, you know what?” she says. “You should invite Kenzie to come skating with us.”

That’s enough to rip my gaze off Kenzie.

“What?”

“Why not? Ty is still down to meet us there, so if Kenzie comes, no one will be the third wheel. Plus, you’re clearly crazy about her. I feel like it’s time I got properly introduced. I need to give my bestie seal of approval.”

I splutter a few unintelligible words; I have so many protests for that, it’s hard to start with just one.

“You mean like a double date?” I finally get out. “Kenzie and I are definitely not at double date level yet. We’re barely at single date level. I don’t even know if we’re on a level. I’m really not sure what we’re even doing, and—”

“And you like her.” Lydia puts her hands on her hips and waits for me to deny it, but all I do is glance behind us to make sure Kenzie’s too far away to overhear. Lydia smirks like that’s answer enough. “I was totally right about you two banging, and now I’m totally right about you two liking each other. You are in hardcore queer like with that girl, so just ask her to come skating with you and your friends. It doesn’t have to be a whole double date thing.”

I crack up laughing before she’s finished talking. “Did you really just say hardcore queer like?”

She pretends to flick her hair over her shoulders even though it’s too short for that. “Yes I did. I know what I’m talking about. Ty and I are in hardcore queer like too. Last night I told them I want to make things official.”

I gasp. “No way! Why didn’t you tell me? What did they say?”

She laughs, trying to play it cool, but I can see the excitement glittering in her eyes. I haven’t seen her this ‘hardcore’ into someone in a while. I guess that really does make two of us.

“You know how hard it is to get a hold of you at competitions. They said yes, of course. I’m a catch.”

I let out a whoop, and I’m about to demand a high-five when I hear someone clear their throat behind me. I whirl around, still grinning about Lydia’s news, and my heart kicks into overdrive when I find Kenzie standing just a couple feet behind me, her own stack of garment bags clutched in her arms.

A curious smile tugs at the corners of her lips as she looks at my jubilant face.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she begins. “I’m, uh, heading out now, so I thought I should just...say goodbye.”

I can feel Lydia’s eyes burning into the back of my head like laser beams.

“Uh, yeah. Right. Thanks. Um...” I let myself stutter off into silence.

Thanks? What the hell am I thanking her for?

It’s kind of funny; I was bold enough to bet on her begging to kiss me, but now that I’ve literally had her face between my legs, I can’t even get a sentence out around her.

“We’re going skating,” Lydia blurts from behind me.

I cringe. If I could whack Lydia in the arm without Kenzie seeing, I totally would.

Kenzie glances between the two of us. “Uh, cool. I hope you have fun.”

I bob my head. “Thanks.”

Lydia is much less concerned with subtlety than I am; she gives me a thump on the back with her palm as she strides past the two of us while shooting me a loaded stare.

“I’ll be right back,” she announces.

She does not, in fact, leave. Instead, she stands in the gym’s doorway and does some sort of makeshift ‘ask her out’ sign language mixed with a few interpretive dance moves behind Kenzie’s back.

I look back at Kenzie in front of me and see concern written on her face. “Did I do something? Was she mad?”

“No, no, no,” I rush to answer. “She, uh—I mean we...I mean I was wondering if maybe you wanted to...come?”

A huff of shocked laughter slips past her lips before she raises an eyebrow. “You were wondering if I wanted to come?”

“Skating!” I nearly shout as my face gets even redder than I’m sure it already is. “Doyouwanttocomeskating?”

She squints. I make myself take a deep breath.

“Do you want to come skating?” I ask after I exhale, the question slightly more intelligible now.

“Oh.” Kenzie’s face shifts from confused to flustered. She presses her lips together and glances down at the floor before looking back up at me. “Really?”

I nod a few too many times. “Yeah. I mean, it’s just for fun. Although when is skating not just for fun? I guess if you’re an Olympic athlete, or an NHL player, or—”

I cut off my ridiculous tirade, and Kenzie grins.

“What I’m trying to say,” I restart after another deep breath, “is that it’s just casual and that it would be fun to have you there, if you want.”

She blinks a few times, and I can’t read her expression. “I...”

I watch her shift the garment bags around in her arms as I wait for some sign of an answer. “I know we just did a whole competition, so I’d get it if you said no.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t want to keep saying no, Moira. I promise I’m not avoiding you. It’s just...I’ve got a lot going on, and it’s hard to do anything last minute—not that it’s any easier to plan things weeks in advance.”

Her laugh is harsh and bordering on dark. The sound makes the back of my neck tingle, and not for the first time, I wonder if there’s more than just her job or school or even her mom going on in her life.

Whatever it is, it’s hurting her. I want to find the thing that made her laugh sound like that and make it stop. The thought slams into my chest with so much certainty it almost sends me staggering back a few steps.

“It’s fine. I get it,” I say, even though I don’t.

Even though she won’t let me.

“Thanks. I promise I’ll...I’ll be able to say yes...sometime.”

She winces like even she knows how unconvincing she sounds.

My stomach lurches, and I suddenly feel like an idiot for staring after her like a longing puppy all day. Just because that night in the studio scrambled all my priorities, doesn’t mean it did the same to her.

We get through a goodbye strained under the weight of everything left unspoken. I ignore whatever Lydia’s trying to signal to me and turn back to my stuff once Kenzie heads off with hers.

“Okay, hold up,” I hear Lydia say as she jogs up behind me. “What happened there?”

“She’s busy,” I say, fighting to keep my voice even.

I’m being stupid. I’m latching onto her just like I did to Savannah in Johannesburg.

As Savannah clearly informed me, it’s not a hot look.

“Oh. Okay. Do you want to talk about it?”

I stoop down to load my final garment bag into my arms, my fingers curled into little claws to keep hold of the loads of fabric. I grunt as I press up out of my ungraceful squat.

“I don’t think so. Let’s just—”

I get interrupted by the sound of another pair of footsteps approaching behind me.

“I can come!”

I turn and peer over the edge of my stack of costumes to find Kenzie beaming at me. Her cheeks are tinged pink, and she’s a little out of breath, like she ran all the way back here. I forget all my momentary shame and go right back to blatantly staring at her gorgeous face.

Lydia coughs.

“Skating!” Kenzie clarifies. “I can’t stay long, but I can join for a bit. I just need to figure out what to do with these costumes. Oh, and I don’t have skates. I can rent some, right?”

“You sure can!” Lydia answers when I don’t show any signs of being able to speak. “And I’m sure you can just throw those in the car with Moira’s stuff. Her mom is taking us to the canal.”

Kenzie glances between the two of us. “Would that be okay?”

I nod as I finally find my voice again. “That would be perfect.”

* * *

Half an hour later, Kenzie, Lydia, Ty and I are all lacing ourselves into skates while we sit crammed on a bench at Dow’s Lake, one of the entry points onto the canal.

“I’m really going to regret not making time to get these sharpened,” I announce as I tie the final knot on my pair of well-worn, white leather figure skates. “I haven’t been out since last winter.”

“You’ll be fine,” Lydia says, waving a hand at me as she pushes herself up off the bench.

Ty follows after her, laughing as they reach for the hand she extends to them. The two of them almost lose their balance before getting their footing and taking a few test strides along the ice.

Lydia’s eyes haven’t lost their enthralled glimmer since Ty showed up to meet us. They’re a good looking person, with deep brown eyes and dark hair that falls into their eyes whenever they laugh, which seems to be a lot when they’re around Lydia. We met once before a couple weeks ago, and they got my immediate bestie seal of approval.

I watch them both join the crowd of skaters all bundled up in scarves and hats. The scraping sound of skate blades fills the frigid air. My breath clouds in front of my face each time I breathe out, but the sun is giving off a bright evening glow that makes the snow banks lining the ice sparkle.

Far ahead, I can see where the lake narrows into the canal, grey stone walls rising up on either side to create a tunnel effect for the hundreds of skaters out here enjoying their Saturday. This is Canada’s longest skating rink; you can get all the way downtown from here without ever stepping off the ice, and it draws crowds all winter long.

“Want to go join them?” I ask Kenzie.

She’s just sat up after finishing with the laces of the skates she rented from a tent a few feet away.

“Um, about that...” She chews on her lip and stares down at the white tips of her skates.

“Yes?” I prompt when she doesn’t go on.

I still can’t quite believe she’s sitting next to me, out on an adventure with my friends. It almost feels like stepping into an alternate dimension. Judging by how quiet she’s kept and how nervous she sounds whenever she does talk, Kenzie feels just as disoriented as I do—maybe even more so. I’ve never seen her this unsure of herself.

It’s different from that night at the studio. Then, she may have seemed vulnerable, but she also seemed purposeful, like she was where she wanted to be, even if it scared her.

Today she just seems straight-up scared.

I inch closer to her on the bench until our thighs are touching, and when she doesn’t flinch or scoot away, I rest my gloved hand on her knee.

“What’s up, Kenzie?”

A puff of air clouds under her nose. “I don’t actually know how to skate.”

I blink. “Oh?”

It seems like something that would have been worth mentioning before now.

“I mean, I did know how to skate, when I was really little. It’s been a long time.” She looks out at the milling skaters instead of at me. “My dad used to take me.”

I hear it again: that mix of pain, bitterness, and self-deprecation that has me itching to throw her behind me and fight off anyone who’d ever do her harm.

“I didn’t say anything because I was hoping it would all just come back to me, but...” She digs one blade into the ice, and her foot wobbles in the skate boot. “Now I’m not so sure.”

I try not to smile. She’s letting me in, if only a little, and I need to respect her, but damn does she ever look cute.

“Would it be condescending if I said, ‘Don’t worry, it’s not that hard?’”

A trace of her familiar glare slips over her face. “Yes. Very.”

I nod. “Noted.”

I push myself to my feet and come to stand on my skates in front of her.

“You still want to do this?” I ask.

She looks up at me for a moment before setting her face in a determined grimace. “Yeah. I do.”

I back up to give her a little space, and she keeps one hand clutching the arm of the bench as she raises herself up to stand in front of me.

“The good news is you’re on your feet now,” I tell her. “The bad news is it’s about to get a lot harder.”

“Ha,” she barks after letting go of the bench for a second just to flail for it again in the next. “Is that how you coach your highland students?”

I chuckle. “Not quite.”

Lydia and Ty return, already zipping around and doing fancy things like turns and braking.

“You two coming?” Lydia asks as her blades scrape to a halt beside me.

“You go ahead,” I answer. “Kenzie and I need to warm up our skating skills. We’ll meet you down by the Beavertails stand.”

Lydia nods. “Sounds good, but do not ask us to put your order in for you. I can and will eat four of those things.”

“Four? You think you’re getting mine too?” Ty jokes.

Lydia pats them on the cheek and then peals away as she shrieks, “If I beat you there, then yes, I do!”

I lose sight of them a few seconds later as they duck and weave through the crowds.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Kenzie says, still clutching the side of the bench. “I know you came here to hang out with your friends. I can figure this out myself and meet you there. I can’t stay long anyway. You should be with them.”

I shake my head, fighting the urge to growl at her. She might have me totally mesmerized, but she is still pretty good at saying things that annoy me.

“I invited you to because I want to spend time with you, Kenzie, and with my friends. I...I like having you here all together.”

I go still—as still as I can on skates—as the impact of what I’ve just said hits us both.

“Moira...” she murmurs.

There’s a hesitation in her voice I don’t want to face, not here in the sunlight when I’ve just figured out how good it feels to be with her out in the world.

How right it feels to have her by my side.

“So let’s get you skating!” I interrupt, putting some fake gung-ho enthusiasm in my voice as I lunge for her arm and tow her away from the bench.

“Wait, wait, wait!” she yelps. “I didn’t say I was ready!”

“Ah, but when the student is ready, the teacher appears,” I drawl, fighting back laughter at the way she screams every time we hit even the tiniest of bumps in the ice.

“Moira, slow down!”

We’re moving at about half the speed of an aerobics class for people in their eighties, but I don’t point that out to Kenzie.

“Slowing down!” I announce like I’m calling out instructions to a flight crew.

“That is also bordering on condescending,” Kenzie hisses.

I try to hold in another laugh, but a snort slips out. Kenzie glowers, but she still grips my arm extra tight when we hit another bump.

“That guy at the skate tent said the ice conditions were good,” she complains.

“These are good conditions,” I tell her. “It’s just a little choppy where everyone’s been getting their skates on and off. It will be better when we get out there on the path.”

I start tugging her forward a little faster. She squeals and squeezes her eyes shut.

“Kenzie!” I say on a laugh. “You’ve gotta keep your eyes open!”

I’ve never seen her be so cute before.

“You’re whipping me around like a hockey puck! Of course I’m going to close my eyes!”

“Then maybe you should try steering yourself.”

We’ve reached a less crowded part of the path, and just as I predicted, the ice is much smoother. I pry Kenzie’s arm off mine and dig my blades in to push off and glide a few feet ahead of her.

“Like that,” I say gently.

She purses her lips and then tries to imitate my motions. She shoots forward a few feet, and her screech turns into a laugh.

“I skated!” she crows.

I take another stride to catch up. “You did! Look at you!”

The momentum from her first push is still carrying her forward. All of a sudden, her eyes go wide, and a look of horror twists her face.

“Wait, how do I stop?”

I chuckle and grab her arm again. “Okay, get ready for lesson two.”

By the time we make it down to the red-roofed huts that house the Beavertails stand and a few other concessions, Kenzie has gotten some mild control over her movements. She comes to a wobbly stop at the picnic table Lydia and Ty managed to score for us.

“Well, don’t you two look adorably gay out there?” Lydia sing-songs as we get ourselves settled.

I shoot her a look, but really, my heart feels like it has grown wings in my chest, and I can’t stop smiling. I’m having a ridiculous amount of fun, and even though Kenzie might make a show out of grumbling about my ‘condescending’ encouragement, the beaming grin she turns on Ty when they compliment her skating proves she is too.

“We’ll grab the Beavertails,” Lydia announces. “Moira, I assume you want that one with lemon? What about you, Kenzie?”

“Um...” Kenzie looks over at the long line stretching in front of the stand. “I don’t think I’ve ever had one actually.”

All three of us balk.

“You live in Ottawa, and you’ve never had a Beavertail?” Lydia demands.

“Like, not even on a field trip?” Ty asks when Kenzie shakes her head.

I can tell she’s uncomfortable from the way she’s shifting on the bench beside me with her arms wrapped around her stomach.

“Two of the lemon then, Lydia,” I say. “Thanks. I’ll give you some cash when my hands are a little less frozen.”

Ty and Lydia take off after that, their hands linked as they skate up to the line.

“Sorry about that. They didn’t mean anything. They just—”

“I know,” Kenzie cuts me off. “It’s okay. Also, I’ll give her some cash too.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I will.”

I watch her for a moment, searching for some clue to bring her back from wherever she’s gone in her head, before I nod. “Okay.”

She stares over at the line of chattering people for a few seconds before she sighs.

“Sorry. I know I get...weird sometimes, but I’m having a really great time. Really. I’m...I’m glad you invited me. Thanks.”

The wings attached to my heart beat extra fast. “I’m glad I invited you too.”

“Moira...” My breath catches when she rests her hand on my thigh under the table. “I don’t really know what’s going on here...with us...but I still want to go on another date with you. A real one. I just...whatever this is, I have to take it one step at a time. This is all so complicated, so that’s all I can give you, and I’d get if it isn’t enough.”

Her voice cracks, and before I know it, I’ve whipped my glove off so I cradle her cheek in my hand.

“Hey. Look at me.”

After a moment of staring down at the table, she does.

“One step at a time sounds pretty great to me.”

Her bottom lip drops open, and her eyes flood with hope. “Yeah?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

Before I can overthink it, I lean in towards her lips. She meets me halfway and presses hers to mine.

CHAPTER 17

MOIRA

I spread a white linen cloth over the flimsy metal bistro table I pilfered from my family’s backyard and smooth a few wrinkles out before I start pulling supplies out of the grocery bag sitting on the floor of Studio B.

In a typical move for me and Kenzie, the entire premise of our official second date is based on a competition.

Kenzie originally suggested a restaurant that specializes in wine and dessert pairings. I joked about her letting someone else handle getting the brownies out of the pan. She told me she could bake brownie circles around me any day. I told her that didn’t make any sense but that I wouldn’t bring the Murray brownie making prowess into question if I were her.

So here I am, filling up a glass display plate with the brownies I spent my whole afternoon making while waiting for Kenzie to show up with hers.

Somewhere along the line, a perfect wine pairing became part of the brownie competition requirements. After I’ve finished my plating, I set four wine glasses up on the table and fill two of them with the crimson cabernet sauvignon I brought along.

I’m hoping the brief Google search I did for ‘wine to go with brownies’ hasn’t led me astray; I know nothing about wine.

Once everything is good to go on the table, I start setting candles up all around the room. I brought enough tea lights and pillar candles to cast the whole studio in a soft glow once I shut the overhead lights off. I let my eyes adjust to the dim ambience and then immediately consider turning the lights back on again.

“This is way too much,” I mutter as I take in the scene.

The studio now looks like something out of a ‘time to lose our virginities’ scene in an early 2000s teen movie. I still have no idea what exactly Kenzie and I are to each other or where we’re headed, but that is definitely not the vibe.

Before I can make any adjustments, the ding-dong of the doorbell rings out downstairs, and I jump. My heart climbs into my throat. I don’t have time to pack up all the candles again, so I bite the bullet and stash my grocery bag over by the music station before galloping down the stairs.

When I reach the entryway and spot Kenzie on the other side of the glass door, I nearly trip over my own feet and have to grab the edge of the front desk to steady myself.

She’s not nearly as dressed up as on our first date, but somehow, she’s even more stunning. Her hair is completely down tonight, the long, needle-straight layers hanging over the shoulders of her grey pea coat. She has a little makeup on, just enough to make her dark eyes look extra bright and her cheeks extra flushed from the cold.

My blood runs hot at the memory of what it felt like to have her stare up at me with glittering eyes and pink-stained cheeks while we lay chest to chest on the floor upstairs.

I haven’t seen her since we went skating two weeks ago, and the need to kiss her senseless takes over like some kind of dormant spirit waking up to possess my body. Now that I’ve had her once, I just cannot get enough. She makes the whole world bolder and brighter.

She makes me feel bolder too. Somehow, she makes me feel like my old self and a new self I’m just getting to know.

“You gonna let me in?” she shouts, smirking at me.

The rap of her knuckles on the glass pulls me out of my daze.

“Don’t look so satisfied with yourself,” I say after I’ve got the door unlocked and she’s stepped inside, her smirk still locked in place. “That was just a power move to establish my superiority in this competition.”

She snorts. “Right. Okay. Whatever you need to tell yourself, Moira.”

I take the Tupperware container and paper bag printed with the liquor store’s logo out of her hands so she can get her coat off.

She’s wearing black leggings made out of some kind of slippery, shimmery fabric that stretches over her toned legs like liquid obsidian. Her perfectly oversized cardigan is a deep navy blue, and the wide neckline falls over one of her shoulders to expose her smooth white skin.

“You always look like a fashion model,” I blurt as she’s hanging her coat up.

She pauses for a second, her back to me, and then shrugs.

“They’re just clothes.” She turns around and avoids my eye as she takes her Tupperware back. “Clothes are just a way to blend in where you want to blend in, to direct people’s attention, to make them think...”

I wait for her to go on, but she just presses her lips together and shakes her chin from side to side.

“Think what?” I prompt.

She looks up from the floor, her eyes going wide like she forgot she was talking to me. Then she brushes past me to head for the stairs.

“I don’t even know. I’m rambling.” Her laugh sounds forced. “We’re in your favourite studio again, I presume?”

I confirm we are and follow her up to the room. I tug on the hem of my flowy, striped button-up as I trot up the stairs behind her, tucking the front into the waistband of my skinny jeans.

She may have said clothes don’t matter, but I still feel underdressed.

All the worries leave my head when we get into the studio and I watch her set the brownies down on the table next to mine. I stand just inside the doorway, tracing the lines of her body with my eyes. I’m staring like an idiot again, but I can’t stop. I can’t even move my feet any farther on the floor.

The glow of the candles makes everything about her look soft and blurred, like a prized oil painting on the wall of an ancient old house. If I could draw, I’d sit down with a sketchbook right here and spend hours capturing the way the light catches on her hair.

She’s here, in this room, with me, and as I watch her fuss with the brownies, I realize this doesn’t feel strange anymore. The sense of walking around in an alternate reality every time we’re close to each other is gone.

This is reality. This is happening. Kenzie is more than my rival. She’s more than the girl I grew up wanting to beat at all costs. She’s become even more than the girl I threw a plate of brownies at, or danced around my house with, or kissed in a hallway until my knees went weak.

She matters to me. She makes my whole body light up in ways it’s never done for anyone else. She makes me feel like the sun and the sky and the stars all at once. She makes me feel limitless, even when so much of the world has tried to tell me just how limited I am.

“Hey, Kenzie.”

Before I can lose my nerve, I close the distance between us. She turns from finishing up the brownies, and I hear her breath catch when she sees how close I am. I set the wine bottle I’m still clutching down on the table and move even closer, until we’re only an inch apart.

I watch the candlelight flicker in her dark eyes for a moment, and then I reach up to frame her face with my hands. Her cheeks are smooth and soft beneath my palms, the bones of her jaw so delicate as they shift when I press my lips to hers.

It’s a soft kiss, as gentle as the warm glow filling the room, and I pull away before any heat builds. She watches me through thick eyelashes, her lips parted, as I drop my hands to grab both of hers. I weave our fingers together and squeeze.

“Kenzie, you should know something.”

“Moira...”

There’s a note of warning in her voice, but I don’t heed it. I can’t dance around this anymore. We’ve spent our whole lives dancing around each other, and maybe it’s time to stop.

Maybe it’s time to dance together.

“There’s a reason I applied for the scholarship,” I begin, “and it wasn’t just to beat you, although I’ll admit that made me even more determined.”

We both let out a quiet chuckle before I go on.

“When I got back from South Africa, I...I was a mess. I’m still a bit of a mess, to be honest, but I’m pulling through. You’ve...you’ve helped with that.”

I feel my face flush, my heart racing at the thought of saying too much too fast, but she brushes her thumb along my knuckles, pulling me back into the moment. I squeeze her hands again.

“The truth is, I’ve never really felt like enough. I’ve always felt like the whole world is telling me to, like, be more, you know? To seize the day and take every opportunity I can because I’m supposed to want this huge and majestic life. I was never the girl who wanted to backpack the world or start a side hustle or move across the country for school. I was never even the girl who wanted to lose weight. I like who I am, and I’ve always felt like I have some...some piece of me missing, the piece that’s supposed to tell me to be more in the same way everybody else wants to.”

I wince as the memories start shifting around in my brain, smarting like old wounds that haven’t quite set.

“So I pretended to want things I didn’t want, thinking it would just magically feel right one day. I only went backpacking because it’s what Lydia wanted to do after high school. All I really knew I wanted was...this.” I crane my neck around to indicate the room we’re in, the little studio I love more than anywhere in the world. “When we made it to South Africa, I met this girl...Savannah. By then I knew I liked girls, but she was the first girl I really fell for. She was so cool. So adventurous. She was...everything I felt like I was supposed to be, and I guess maybe I thought if she liked me back, if I stayed and joined her volunteer program, some of that would, like, transfer to me? I don’t know. It all sounds so stupid when I finally say it out loud.”

I’ve never put it all into words like this, not even in my own head.

I thought I was falling in love with Savannah, but maybe all I really wanted was her approval.

“Moira,” Kenzie murmurs as I stare down at our hands, my face getting hotter by the second. “That’s not stupid. You are not stupid.”

I nod. “Thank you.”

She grips my hands tighter. “I mean it.”

I take a shaky breath and nod again. She does mean it. I can feel it in her touch, in the heavy air between us, and it gives me the courage to go on.

“It all backfired, of course. Savannah could tell I didn’t really want to be there, and everything fell apart. I caught her cheating on me, and I guess that means it should have been me dumping her and calling her names, but I got that end of the stick too. She said everything I’d always been afraid of: that I’m too boring to have dreams of my own. It...it fucking messed me up, Kenzie, to hear it from her like that, to know I didn’t have any answer except to go home, back to my same old life.”

Kenzie slides her hands out of my grip, and for a moment, I think she’s going to turn and leave, that she’s going to sneer at me and say the exact same things as Savannah. I brace for the blow.

Instead, she grips my shoulders and stares so deeply into my eyes everything else around us fades.

“Moira Murray,” she says, her voice strained with sincerity, “you are many, many things, but you are not boring.”

A silent moment passes, filled only by our heartbeats and heavy breaths. Then the corner of her mouth twitches, and suddenly, we’re both smiling. She lets go of my shoulders and drops into one of the folding chairs arranged by the bistro table, her eyes on me the whole time. I take the other seat and sigh as the mood lightens just a bit.

“So that’s why I signed up for the scholarship,” I conclude. “I mean, aside from the nine thousand dollars. I just thought...if I could, you know, achieve something, maybe I’d feel better about it all, but the truth is...I don’t think a scholarship can do that on its own. I don’t think anything can. You have to find it in yourself.”

I pause and then laugh for a moment at how cheesy I sound, but Kenzie doesn’t join in. She’s watching me with her head tilted to the side.

“I’m probably not making any sense, especially since you seem to have it all figured out, but...” I trail off as I scramble to find the words to tell her how I feel about her, how she’s changed more for me than a scholarship ever could.

A shift in her expression warns me not to go on. Even in the candlelight, some of that old Kenzie coldness has crept back into her features, bringing out the sharpness I’m so used to seeing there.

My blood runs cold, but before I can start backtracking on whatever has her guard up, she speaks.

“I don’t have anything figured out.” Her voice is hollow, distant—like it’s coming from some deep and secret part of her I’ve only caught glimpses of over the past few months. “Every day, I feel like everything I have is seconds away from getting ripped out of my hands, like there’s this big pit waiting to open up under my feet and swallow it all down before it eats me up too. I fucking dream about it, about falling and falling and falling. I...”

Her forehead creases, two deep lines forming between her eyes. She looks so lost, like she’s halfway to falling already, but before I can reach across the table to steady her, she pushes up to her feet and wraps her arms around herself. I watch as she takes a few steps closer to one of the mirrored walls, her eyes on her reflection.

“You felt like you were faking your way through life,” she says. “You think I don’t know how that feels, but I do. These clothes, my job at RSA, every medal I’ve ever won...sometimes it feels like it’s all happened to somebody else, like the world is going to take it all back someday, and I’ll be nothing.”

My heart lurches at the bite in her tone, like she really can look in that mirror and not see a single one of the amazing things I see when I’m staring at her.

“Maybe I don’t deserve to be more,” she continues. “You’re worried you don’t want enough, but sometimes I’m worried I want too much. I’m worried I’m going to pay for it. I’m worried all the time. The only time I’m not is when...”

Her eyes find mine in the mirror, and I feel my throat tense.

“It used to only be when I was dancing,” she whispers, “but now...now it’s also when I’m with you.”

She spins around to face me, and even though my legs are shaking, I still push myself to my feet. Blood is rushing in my ears, and I’m not sure what I’m doing or what will happen next. All I know is I have to get to her.

She meets me halfway, and when we’re a breath apart, we freeze.

Her fingers trail up my arm, and I shiver. Her gaze is pinned to my lips. I can almost taste her already, and I can feel her everywhere. She smells like sweet vanilla perfume, just like she did the first night I brought her here.

Just when I’m about to lean in, she cups her palm around my elbow and steps back, a sly grin on her face. The expression sends a thrill shooting through me, and it takes me a second to figure out what she’s doing.

Then I grin too.

I flip my hand up to grip her elbow the same way she’s holding mine, and without speaking, we shift into position for a Reel turn.

The room is silent, but we don’t need any music to fall into perfect step with one another. We whirl through the turn, spinning around our point of contact in a flawless circle with our gazes locked.

We keep going longer than we would in an actual Reel, spinning and spinning until I’m dizzy and the only thing I can keep still is her. My chest heaves when we finally stop. She stares back at me with fire in her eyes, and even though the floor is still lurching underneath me, I lunge for her.

We crash together with what feels like a static shock, electricity arcing out from everywhere we touch. Her mouth is on mine, and my hands are in her hair as she claws at my back to pull me closer.

She moans into my mouth when I part her lips with my tongue. I tug on her hair to tilt her head back and trail kisses down her throat while she flounders with the buttons of my shirt.

I chuckle against her skin and reach down to help her, just long enough to get my shirt open while she does the same with her cardigan. We drop both garments to the floor and wrap our arms around each other again, her bare chest flush with mine over my bra.

“You’re just too gorgeous.” I moan the words as I let my hands roam up the smooth, warm skin of her back, my eyes on our reflection in the mirrors as she tugs my earlobe between her teeth.

I hiss and grip her hips hard. When she arches her back to press herself against me, I almost lose it. Every flex of her muscles is mesmerizing.

We’re mesmerizing, the shape of us intertwined in the mirror so entrancing I can’t look away. I wrap the ends of her hair around one of my fists and watch the strands ripple in the light. Her teeth are grazing my shoulder now, and even my bra feels like way too much of a barrier between us.

Like she’s read my mind, she reaches behind me to tug on the clasp. I pull away just long enough to yank the bra down my arms and fling it to the floor before reaching for her again. I feel her taut nipples brush my bare chest, and my thighs clench.

We kiss like starving people, like we’re finally eating a meal we’ve waited years for. Nothing else is enough.

Just when I think I won’t be able to stand up any longer, she tugs on my arms and leads us down to the ground. We land in a tangled heap, her hips straddling mine as she leans over me to capture my mouth again.

The studio floor is hard and cold under my back, but I don’t care. There’s something wild about her taking me down like this, our need so heedless and impatient there’s no option but right here and now.

When she shifts to start trailing her mouth down my neck, I tilt my head to watch us in the mirror again. My whole body burns when I feel her hot breath on my chest. When I see her lips close around my nipple, I can’t help gasping her name and bucking my hips up underneath her.

She moans and flexes against me, the two of us grinding against each other as she sucks and licks until I’m shaking and so wet for her all I can think of is the way her tongue will feel between my legs.

No one’s ever made me this desperate. No one’s ever made me this bold.

She makes me feel special, desirable, sexy.

She makes me feel like more than enough.

“Kenzie.”

She sighs in answer, shifting to work on my other nipple. I fight to keep my eyes from rolling back.

“Kenzie.” I hook a finger under her chin, and she goes still after glancing up at my face.

I want her—maybe more than I’ve ever wanted anything—but I also want her to know how I feel. I didn’t finish telling her before, and if we’re going to do this, I want to be brave enough to let her know what it means to me.

“I need to tell you something.”

She straightens up a little on top of me, her hair hanging loose and wild around her face. The sweet scent of vanilla fills my nose and makes it hard to think, but I force myself to take a deep breath.

“I don’t want this to stop, Kenzie. Whatever it is, I—I want more. I know I’ve just told you I’ve hardly ever wanted more in life, but with you, I...”

Her eyes search my face as I search for the words, for the right way to tell her this isn’t about a scholarship anymore. I don’t care who wins.

I just want her.

I’m about to tell her exactly that when a low buzzing sound fills the room, vibrating through the floor from a few feet away. It takes me a couple seconds to realize it’s her phone in her cardigan’s pocket.

She glances over at it, and even in the dim lighting, I can see her face go pale.

“Kenzie?”

She stays frozen like a statue for a few seconds before she climbs off me and crawls to her cardigan, yanking on the sleeve to pull it closer. She whips her phone out, worry lines creasing her face.

“Is everything okay?” I ask as I sit up.

My head spins, still trying to catch up with the past few moments.

“My brother is with my mom. I told him to only text if something was wrong. He...”

She trails off as her eyes rake over the phone, her thumb pressed to the screen. The white light is harsh against her skin, and it makes her expression look even more eerie as her eyes get wide and her bottom lip trembles.

“Kenzie, what happened?”

“It’s from my mom,” she whispers, her voice so low I have to crawl closer to hear. “It’s...it’s Chris. Something’s wrong with him.”

CHAPTER 18

KENZIE

Moira floors the gas pedal of the station wagon, aiming at the intersection where a yellow light cautions us to slow down. The signal switches to red just as we fly over the crosswalk, but I don’t even blink. I don’t even register what street we’re on.

I just know we need to go faster.

Faster. Faster. Faster.

My brain chants the word like it’s a magic spell that can ward off the crushing wave of guilt and horror threatening to break and drag me under.

I shouldn’t have left her, and I definitely shouldn’t have left her with him.

My mom asked me to stay with her as I was walking out the door tonight. She’d been doing better for weeks. She’d been getting up on time in the morning and hadn’t missed any shifts at the hotel. She even made me breakfast today, and we sat eating toast and scrambled eggs while she asked me about my scholarship with a clear, bright voice I hadn’t heard in months.

But depression is like that. It lurks like a shadow in the corner, ready to steal in and darken the whole room.

She slept for the rest of the day today. She said she was just tired from work, but when she woke up from her nap, I heard the fear in her voice when she asked me to stay.

Just for an hour.

That’s what she said. I could have stayed for an hour, and maybe she would have been fine. Maybe I wouldn’t have had to call Chris, and maybe I wouldn’t have had to ignore the hazy drawl in his voice that told me he was buzzed on something before he’d even finished his first sentence.

I thought he’d only smoked a joint. I thought he’d be fine to sit on the couch with her for a couple hours.

I thought for once in my life, I could stop worrying and go on a normal date like a normal girl.

“I should have been there,” I mutter, my arms wrapped around my stomach in the front seat of the car.

My mom’s texts said she thought Chris had some kind of seizure, but I knew what must really have happened as soon as I read the messages. He took something bad or took too much. He might have even OD’d by mistake.

“It’s not your fault,” Moira answers as she speeds up whatever street we’re on. “Kenzie, it is not your fault.”

She keeps saying that, but it just sounds like a cruel mockery, because of course it’s my fault.

It’s all my fault.

I never should have signed up for the scholarship in the first place.

“We’re almost there,” she says, her voice gentle.

Everything sounds like we’re underwater, and the world is moving too slow.

Faster. Faster. Faster.

“Did she say if the ambulance has arrived yet? I can stay with her if you want to ride with them to the hospital, or I can drive her there too. We can—”

“No.”

I blink at the streetlights whipping by my window, and some of the fog starts to clear from my head. I can feel my feet on the floor now, feel the ridges of the rubber mat under my shoes. I grind my heels down and shake my head.

“Just drop me off. Please. It’s not your mess.”

“Kenzie, what are you talking about?” She spares me a confused glance before focusing back on the road. “Your brother probably just OD’d, and your mom is sick, and I am going to help you.”

“It’s not your mess,” I repeat as my whole body tenses.

I know this feeling. It’s the same mix of keening pain and dumb detachment I felt when things ended between me and my high school girlfriend.

I realized there was no way to keep her while keeping up with my life. I’d always be failing someone. I’d always be losing something.

“I mean, it’s not your mess either, but—”

“It is,” I cut her off, the words harsh. A flame of anger flickers inside me. I’m not even sure who I’m angry with, but she’s the only one here to aim the pain at. “Look, Moira, you don’t get it. You have a perfect family full of love and—and being there for each other, and shit like that. I have...I have this.”

I wave my hand at the windshield, at whatever fucking mess we’re heading towards, and my voice gets harder with every word.

“My mom isn’t sick like you think. She has...she has depression. She’s had it my whole life, and it only seems to be getting worse. I’m not enough to make it better. I’m not even enough to make her try getting better. I wasn’t enough to make my dad stay, and even...even Chris doesn’t show up half the times he says he will, and when he does...”

My voice breaks, and I can’t stop the horrific vision that flashes in front of my eyes: Chris face down on the floor, his skin turning grey. I don’t even know what it actually looks like when someone OD’s, but I can’t make the picture go away.

“I have to be there for them. Always. I have to hold it all together, because if I let go for even a second, it all falls apart. It all slips away. I thought for one fucking night I could be someone else, but I’m not.”

The car is silent for a moment, the hum of the engine the only sound until I hear Moira take a shaky breath.

“Kenzie...”

There’s hurt in her voice, hurt I put there, and my stomach twists with even more guilt, but I can’t take it back. I can’t undo the truth.

“It’s not your fault,” she murmurs. “You have to know it’s not your fault.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Stop saying that. Please just stop saying that. It is my fault. I shouldn’t have even applied for this fucking scholarship in the first place. I should have just sucked it up and taken a year off school.”

She grinds the car to a halt just in time to pull up behind a line of cars backed up at a red light. The brakes squeal, and my chest presses against my seatbelt as I’m jerked forward.

“You have to take a whole year off school if you don’t win?”

I don’t answer. I can’t even look at her. I’m sweating now, and I can taste bile in the back of my throat.

If we had time, I’d tell her to pull over so I can be sick.

“Kenzie, why didn’t you say that? I thought it was just another one of our dumb competitions with some money thrown into the mix. I don’t even care about it anymore. I’ll drop out. I—”

“No.”

The word explodes out of me like a missile, and I hunch my shoulders as I all but sneer at her.

Everything I’ve learned from Catherine springs to the front of my mind, everything she’s ever told me about ‘rising above’ and keeping the ‘unsightly’ parts of your life locked away. I’ve spent the past few weeks trying to ignore the instincts she’s drilled into me for years, but they ring out loud and undeniable now.

Control is the only thing that’s going to get me through this. Anything else is weakness.

“I’m not a charity case,” I say through my clenched jaw. “I didn’t say all that as a way to beg for help. I can handle my shit—or at least I could have, if I’d actually been there tonight like I should have been.”

“I never said you were a charity case,” she mutters.

I plow on like I haven’t heard her. Everything hurts, like a broken rib that makes every breath a pained gasp, and my brain and body are both telling me I need to defend myself. I can’t let anyone see me be weak.

I can’t give anyone a chance to hurt me more.

“I told you all that so you’ll know why I can’t do it anymore.”

We’re almost at my street now. My heart is clanging against my sternum, and Chris’s white face and closed eyes flicker in and out of my vision every time I blink.

“Do what?” Moira asks, her voice cracking.

“This.”

I don’t have to elaborate. The low moan she utters makes it clear she knows exactly what I meant by this.

She turns the car onto my street, pressing on the gas to get us up the small hill before my apartment complex comes into view. We enter the maze of parking lots, and I see it: the bright yellow ambulance idling in front of my building, its flashing red and blue lights painting the pavement in macabre disco hues.

I squeeze the edge of the seat to keep from gagging on the bile in my throat as my vision swims.

“I should have been there.” The words sound like they’re coming from someone else. I don’t even feel my lips move.

“Kenzie, please.” Moira’s voice is ragged as she brings the car to a stop a few feet away from the ambulance. “Let me help. I want to help you. Please, Kenzie. I...I...Please.”

I ignore her.

I ignore the beeping sound the car makes when I unclick my seat belt before she’s even shifted into park. I climb out of my seat and ignore the shouts of recognition from the building staff gathered outside.

I ignore the sound of Moira calling my name, again and again, as I slam the car door shut.

I ignore my own heart as it screams out in protest when I sprint away from her.

CHAPTER 19

MOIRA

I get one text from Kenzie.

Only one.

It comes the day after that night that ended with so much horror:

Chris is okay. We’re home now. He’s staying with us for a few days. My mom is okay too. Thanks for driving me. Thanks for everything, Moira.

That’s all I get after the dozens of texts and calls I spent the night sending, and I don’t get anything in response to the dozen more I send once she texts me back.

Three whole days go by in silence.

I reach for my phone in the middle of a Netflix binge that’s taken up my whole evening. I can’t remember the name of the show. It’s supposed to have a good lesbian subplot, but I can’t keep up with the story. I’m five episodes in, and I don’t know any of the characters’ names.

The sight of a text notification on my screen makes me sit up straighter in bed, my heart jumping into my throat as I swipe my passcode in.

My heart sinks right down to the bottom of my stomach when I see the message is only from Lydia:

Any news?

Part of me wants to type something sarcastic and nasty, to inflict some of the pain poking holes in my chest on someone else, but the rest of me knows she’s only trying to help.

I type out a simple ‘nothing’ in answer.

Three dots pop up in a little bubble to let me know she’s typing a reply, but I toss my phone back onto my bedside table before the message comes through. I don’t want to talk. I want to lose myself in mindless, overdramatic queer TV, but not even that seems to be working out for me.

On my laptop screen, two women get very close to kissing while sitting in a car together. I can tell this is supposed to be some pivotal point of the narrative, but my heart does not swell along with the soundtrack like I’m sure the director intended.

Instead, my eyes prick with heat at the same time my stomach lurches so violently I jump out of bed, sure I’m about to be sick. I stagger to my bedroom door, but by the time I reach for the handle, the urge passes, replaced by a hollow sensation that seems to suck me up from the inside like a black hole.

I sink to the floor, landing on my knees on my striped carpet, and flop to the side to curl up in a fetal position. That’s when the tears finally start falling.

“Dammit,” I curse between sobs.

I thought I was past the crying phase.

I give in and let my emotions swell until I’m gasping for breath and shaking with the force of my sobs. I feel like I’m surrounded by tiny but brutally sharp spears, ready to jab into me no matter which way I twist on the carpet, no matter which way I let my thoughts turn.

There are only dead ends, and every single one pierces my skin with the painful reminder that she’s gone. Just when I’ve finally realized exactly what she means to me, she’s gone, and she doesn’t want to come back. She won’t let herself come back, and when it comes down to it, there’s nothing I can do about that.

I lay curled on the floor until my cheeks are puffy and my whole face is streaked with salty tears—and snot.

“So much snot,” I mutter as I push myself up to a seat.

A moment of head rush clouds my vision, and when it clears, I scan the room for tissues. I’m still sitting there in my snot-strewn state when there’s a knock at my door.

“Moira, honey,” my mum says, her voice muffled by the wood, “I brought you tea and shortbread. I’m coming in, okay?”

Before I can clear my throat enough to protest, she pushes the door open and then freezes once she’s taken a step inside.

“What are you doing on the—oh, honey!”

My general slovenliness probably makes the reason I’m on the floor clear enough. My mum sets the mug and plate of cookies she’s holding down on my desk. I start to push myself up to my feet, but before I can even get out a grunted ‘I’m okay,’ she’s kneeling on the floor in front of me and pulling me into a rib-squishing hug.

I tense for a moment, but when her hand starts rubbing circles into my back, all my muscles go slack, and heat starts to prick my eyes again.

“Mum,” I say, my voice thick and cracked, “you’re gonna make me cry again.”

“You cry as much as you need to, honey.” She pulls me in even tighter.

I don’t know how long we sit like that. A lock of her grey-streaked hair is practically suffocating me, and I’m sure I’ve gotten her soft knitted sweater all covered in snot, but neither of us cares. I breathe in the ‘fresh rain’ scent of the laundry soap we’ve all been using for years, and some of the little spears surrounding me drop to the floor. The pain eases, if only a bit.

“Come on, sweetie,” she says, pulling back once my breathing has evened out. “Drink your tea.”

She leads me to my bed, and I give in to the experience of being taken care of, letting the love on her face surround me like a second hug. She hands me the steaming mug of black tea, the sweet scent of milk and sugar wafting off it, and sets my cookies down on my bedside table before perching herself at the end of my blankets.

“Shortbread, Mum?” I say, aiming for a joke even though my voice is still all watery. “Could we be even more stereotypically Scottish?”

“Aye, lassie. That’s enough out of you,” she says in a feigned Scottish accent as she reaches over to give my thigh a playful slap. “Drink yer tea, ya goose.”

I take a sip, letting the familiar mix of bitter and sweet settle on my taste buds. My shoulders relax even more.

My mum picks up the spare throw blanket strewn between us and keeps herself busy folding it, humming a little as she does. I can tell she’s letting me set the pace and decide if I want to talk or not.

As I stare at the familiar lines creasing her face and pick up on the song she’s humming—the bagpipe accompaniment for the sword dance, because of course—some of Kenzie’s words from that awful drive to her apartment filter through my mind.

You don’t get it. You have a perfect family full of love and being there for each other.

She was right. Maybe not about the perfect part, because god knows no family is perfect, but I can’t deny I’ve always felt love in this house. I’ve always known someone will be around to comfort me any time I’ve needed to ask.

I can’t understand what it might be like to go without that, but I could have tried. She could have let me try.

She could have turned towards me instead of running away. I would have shown her what it’s like to have someone be there for you.

“We weren’t just friends,” I blurt.

My mum’s just set the folded blanket down next to her, and she goes still for a moment before smoothing out a crease in the soft fabric. Then she nods.

“I thought that might be the case.”

I was such a mess after coming home from Kenzie’s place that I told her all about the overdose and Kenzie not wanting to talk to me anymore. I’m not sure how much she actually pieced together given how hard I was sobbing, but I know I didn’t mention why I was out with Kenzie. I wasn’t ready to get into it yet.

Then again, she is my mom, and she did catch me sneaking a full table and chair set out of the house to have a nice meal with my ‘friend.’

“I don’t understand how she could just...just cut me out so fast, after everything...”

My mum sighs and moves a little closer so she can pull my feet into her lap. “I know you’re hurting, Moira. Just remember it’s only been a few days, and Kenzie has been through a lot in a very short time. I expect she’s doing what makes her feel safe by shutting you out, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to do it forever.”

I shake my head. “I get what you’re saying, but...you weren’t there. You didn’t see her. You didn’t hear her when she...when she left.”

A chill runs up my spine, and I shiver as I think back to how cold she sounded, like every trace of the Kenzie I’ve gotten to know over the past few months was gone.

“If I thought this was just her being overwhelmed by the overdose, that she just needed some time to herself, of course I’d understand that, but she...I don’t think she’s coming back to me, Mum. I think I’ve lost her.”

She starts rubbing her thumb over one of my ankles, watching me with a pained look on her face, like she’d take all my hurt and make it her own if she could.

My heart feels like it’s cracking open when I realize Kenzie’s mom might be too sick to give that same look to her daughter. If what she’s said in the car is anything to go by, Kenzie’s always been the one taking on everyone else’s pain.

“You don’t know that, sweetie,” my mum says. “Give her a little time.”

Another protest rises in my throat, but there’s no point in letting it out. Either way, all I can do is wait. I wrap my arms around myself and hunch forward, bracing against the thoughts I’ve been pushing down for days.

I’m scared to lose her, but the truth is I’m also scared of losing myself.

“Have you ever been with someone who made you feel like you could do anything?” I ask, my eyes on my mum’s thumb as she keeps rubbing my ankle. “Like, when you’re around them, you feel better about yourself?”

She’s quiet for a moment, and then she nods. “That’s how I’ve felt every day I’ve been a mom. That’s how I felt when I fell in love with your father, too—after he stopped being an eejit, of course.”

We both chuckle; the story of my dad transforming from some kind of pint-swigging, log-tossing playboy of the highland games into someone my mum actually wanted to give the time of day to is a family favourite.

“I think that’s how I felt about Kenzie,” I admit, “or at least how I was starting to feel. For the first time in months, I was back to feeling good about myself. Well, actually, it was more than that. I wasn’t back to feeling how I used to. I felt new—different, in the best way possible. It was like I was finally starting to feel like I was good enough just being me.”

My mum jerks upright so fast I’m scared she’s going to hit her head against the wall.

“What are you talking about, honey? Of course you’re enough! You’re incredible. You’ve always been more than enough.”

My cheeks heat as I drop my gaze to my comforter. I run one of my fingers along the stitching.

I’ve never really told her this before.

“It’s just...you and Dad always told us we could be anything we wanted, that we should dream big, and...I mean, Anna went off to school in Toronto with like a bazillion scholarships and her own social media management business already built, and now Logan has his whole karate thing going on and won’t stop talking about how he can’t wait to go to Australia after high school, and I...I’ve never wanted anything like that.”

I look up and see her forehead crease as she stares at me. “Honey, you don’t need to do karate or be a social media manager or move somewhere far away. What makes you think that?”

A twinge of frustration makes me wrap my fist around the edge of the comforter.

“Everything!” I say, a little louder than I mean to. “Everything makes me think that. I’m supposed to want more, but I don’t, and I was finally starting to feel okay with that, but now...now I’m scared I only felt that way when I was around Kenzie.”

My mum lets out a long breath and stares at me for so long I have to glance away. She shuffles herself backward on the mattress until she’s resting her shoulders against the wall, right next to an old Lumineers concert poster I’ve had up for years.

“Maybe Kenzie helped you get there, and for that, I’m grateful to the girl, but nobody can take away what you know about yourself once you accept it as the truth.”

I make myself stay quiet and let her words settle deep in my chest.

I know the truth.

“Moira, when we told you to dream big, what we really meant was that you could dream of being anything—anything that made you happy. True happiness is never small or ordinary, no matter where it comes from.”

I let that one sink in too. I let myself imagine what it would mean if I accepted that as the truth too.

When she pats me on the shin and offers a gentle smile, I feel a sniffle coming on.

“Jeeze, mom,” I say after clearing my throat, hoping a joke will keep me from crying again. I’m really sick of crying. “You should get a job writing fortune cookies.”

She smacks my leg. “Eejit.”

We’re both smiling now.

I reach for the plate of cookies and offer her one before taking my own. I take a couple sweet, crumbly bites before I speak again.

“So you don’t think it’s, like, boring that my only real plans after I finish university are to keep working at the studio?”

She shakes her head and puts on a faux-stern expression. “That’s my studio you’re talking about, Miss Murray. Of course I don’t think it’s boring, and honestly, I don’t know what we’d do if you left. You make a real difference there, honey, for so many kids. You always have. I’m more proud of you than I can put into words, and I’ll keep telling you that as often as you want to hear it—probably even more than you want to hear it.”

My eyes start to get watery, and I blink rapidly as I whisper, “Thank you.”

She leans closer and drops her voice too. “I’m proud of you.”

My face cracks into a grin. “I know.”

She leans even closer. “Soooo proud.”

I roll my eyes but keep smiling. “Okay, Mum, I get it.”

She grabs onto my legs. “So, so, so, so proud!”

“You’re a lunatic!” I shout through my laughter as she starts tickling me.

She doubles her tickling efforts. “I’m your mother. It’s my job.”

“I’m gonna spill my tea!” I shriek as I squirm around on the mattress.

“Well, we mustn’t have that.” She sits back up and gets to her feet. “I’m going to go finish my laundry, but you come get me if you need me, okay?”

I nod. “Thank you, Mum. You’re kind of the best.”

She lifts her eyebrows. “Kind of?”

I laugh. “You are the very, very best, and I love you.”

“I love you too.” She heads for the door but pauses before she leaves. “Don’t give up on her, sweetie. Not yet. Something tells me you two were only getting started.”

A lump rises in my throat, and all I can do is nod as she steps into the hallway and pulls the door shut behind her.

Something tells me Kenzie and I were only getting started too, but the rest of me already believes we’ve reached the end.

CHAPTER 20

MOIRA

Kenzie doesn’t show up to the next Tartan Tea. I utterly fail at being subtle when I ask five different volunteers if they know whether she’s said anything about attending, but nobody has any answers for me.

I text her for the first time in over two weeks after I get home from a day spent slicing up baked goods and watching kids dance around to bagpipes. I could barely hear the music, and my eyes kept drifting to the door, searching for any sign of her grey pea coat or the flash of her ponytail whipping around the corner.

Her reply arrives a day later. The text comes through while I’m scrolling through Instagram in between classes at the Murray School, and I sprint to the supply closet as soon as I see it pop up on my screen.

Whatever the message says, I don’t want to be out in the open when I read it.

I’m already shaking when I pull our conversation up. I don’t even bother pulling the cord for the overhead light. I hunch over the glow of my phone in the dark and drag my eyes over her message:

Chris is much better now. He went back to his place. Thanks for asking about him, but I don’t think we should talk anymore. I meant what I said. I shouldn’t have said it so harshly, but it’s true. I just can’t do this, and it would be better if we stopped texting. Please don’t message again.

I sag against the shelving unit behind me. My heart is pounding so loud in my ears I can’t hear the drone of bagpipes and the shouted instructions from the studio across the hall. I can’t even feel the phone in my hands anymore.

She really does mean it. She’s giving up on us.

My chest feels hollow, and I have to remind myself to breathe.

“It’s okay,” I whisper into the dark of the closet. “I’m going to be okay.”

I don’t know how long I stand there before I get a grip on myself. As soon as I do, the first flash of anger singes through me.

She says we can’t do this, but she won’t even try. She says I don’t fit in her life, that I won’t understand, that she’ll lose everything if she tries to keep me, but even though I’m sure there really is a lot I don’t understand, I’m also sure she doesn’t understand me either.

She doesn’t understand how much I can take. She doesn’t understand how hard I can fight. She doesn’t understand just how far I’m willing to go for the people I care about. I thought she saw my strengths better than I did, but she’s turning a blind eye to them all now.

I click off my phone screen and drop my arms to my sides, blinking as my eyes adjust to the hint of light shining through the gap at the bottom of the closet door.

I’m not going to grovel anymore. My heart is breaking for her and all she’s been through, but I can’t keep pouring myself into texts and phone calls just to keep getting pushed away.

Just like my mum said, I have to accept the truth about myself, and the truth is that I’m worth trust. I’m worth a chance.

I take a deep breath and pull the door open, stepping out into the light.

* * *

The next couple weeks fly by in a blur of dance classes, training sessions, and long hours spent hunched over my desk working on university finals.

I’ve thrown my cracked and bruised heart into the studio with everything I’ve got, and the proud smiles on my students’ faces when they smash all their dance goals is slowly patching me up. They might just be kids learning Scottish folk dances, but they’re going to grow up and make their mark on the world someday. If I can give them even an ounce more confidence on their way to discovering who they are and what they want to be, I’ll have done something worthwhile.

“And that’s enough,” I mutter to myself as I lift a pile of heavy garment bags off of the backseat of my family’s station wagon.

Part of me can’t quite believe SDOO’s April competition is already here, but even though time has blurred for me, it’s kept passing.

Today is the day I’ll see Kenzie again.

The thought that she might already be in the building is enough to shake my resolve. If I walk in there and she says she wants to make things work, I’ll give her everything I’ve got. I’ll show her she can count on me. I’ll be there for her over and over again until she believes being with me can make her life better instead of more complicated and painful.

But she has to give me a chance, and I have to live with it if she doesn’t.

My fledgling confidence might not survive watching the girl who told me I’m worth everything look at me like I’m nothing to her now.

“You good with all those, honey?” my mum asks, coming around from the back of the car with a couple duffel bags slung over her shoulders and a full roller cart of sewing and hair supplies trailing behind her on the pavement.

“Yep,” I answer from behind my stack of garment bags, which rises high enough to block part of my vision. I’m carrying all my own outfits and a few spare ones for dancers from our school.

My mum pats me on the back. “Let’s do this.”

A flush of warmth fills my chest. No matter what, I’ve got her on my team.

A passing parent holds one of the school’s glass front doors open for us when we reach the entryway. The lobby is filled with its usual crowd of students, parents, and coaches all milling around the vendor and refreshment tables. I can smell the bitter coffee wafting out of the thermoses and the bite of citrus from a group of kids peeling fresh oranges near the doors. Echoes of excited conversations bounce around the high-ceilinged room, but the competition day thrill I always look forward to doesn’t hit me with the same joy it usually does.

Instead, my stomach twists as I scan the crowd for a sight of Kenzie.

She must be coming today. Even if she weren’t competing, she’d be here as a coach, and I don’t see why she wouldn’t dance today too. This is our final chance to earn scholarship points before the winner is announced at the end of the day.

Even after missing the Tartan Tea, she might still be in the lead. She has a slight edge on me as far as dance scores go. The only wild card would be our essays, but I wrote mine in between jam-packed study sessions, and I’d be lucky if it turned out fully coherent, never mind wow-worthy.

For me, competing today is just an act of going through the motions. I stopped caring about winning a long time ago, and even if Kenzie blows me off today, even if looking at her splits me in two, I know I’ll be filled with a bittersweet joy if I get to watch her earn something that means so much to her.

“Miss Moira! Miss Moira!”

A high-pitched voice pulls my attention away from the crowd. I turn to find Jessica, one of my seven-year-old students, galloping towards me as she drags her mom along behind her.

“Miss Moira! I’m all pretty!”

I do my best to hide my gasp when I get a good look at her face. Even though we’re nearing the end of the season, this is the first time Jessica has signed up to compete, and her mom clearly did not read the hair and makeup guide.

The most makeup highland competitors are supposed to wear is a little mascara, but Jessica is done up like a Broadway actress, with blood red lips and powder blue eye shadow that goes all the way up to her brows. I hear my mum let out a muted snort beside me when Jessica bends forward and shakes her head to show off her hairdo.

It’s a bun, at least, but it’s a bun streaked with sparkles. Her whole head looks like it’s been coated in fairy dust.

“Aren’t I beautiful?” she shouts as she starts hopping around in a circle and flapping her arms like they’re wings.

Her mom looks on with a proud smile, completely oblivious to everyone staring at Jessica like she’s just been beamed down from outer space.

I shift the garment bags around in my arms, nearly losing my grip. “Uh, yes. So...beautiful.”

I can practically feel my mum holding in a laugh.

“Here, Moira,” she says, “let Yasmine take those costumes. You can...handle this.”

She drops her voice to say the last part as she waves over a passing teenager from the Murray School to grab my garment bags.

I throw a glare at my mum, but all she does is grin and leave me to burst Jessica’s bubble. I spend the next half hour so deep in the de-glittering process that Kenzie gets pushed to the back of my mind, which tells me my mum had more than torture in mind when she foisted this task on me.

“I don’t see why she can’t have a little glitter,” Jessica’s mom says for what has to be the tenth time as she blots a squirming Jessica’s face with a makeup wipe.

I resist telling her there is no world in which this is a little glitter.

“Glitter would be fun,” I say instead, “but the judges haven’t gotten the memo, and I want to make sure Jessica has a great day today, which means we should probably stick to the dress code.”

By the time we remove enough sparkles to leave the judges with their eyesight intact, I have to run around like a maniac to get all my other dancers ready for their first events. I’m on autopilot, delivering smiles, encouragement, and costume adjustments all while keeping a constant look out for Kenzie.

There’s no sign of her.

I don’t know what I expected today, but it didn’t occur to me to consider she might not show up. This is her world. She might be okay with giving up on us, but if she’s given up on this, I have reason to be scared for her.

“Hey, Mum!” I shout the next time I catch sight of her as I lead a trail of children into the auditorium. “Have you looked at my division lists yet?”

The sparkle debacle set me back so far I haven’t even looked at the competitor lists for my own events.

Her face pinches, and I’m sure she’s about to tell me Kenzie isn’t signed up. I almost lose my grip on the auditorium door and tighten my fingers just in time to keep it from swinging closed on a tiny, kilted human.

My mum comes close enough that no one can overhear us. “She’s on the list, but I haven’t seen her. I...I overheard Catherine Stewart saying she has no idea where Kenzie is.”

Alarm bells sound in my head, and a sweat breaks out on the back of my neck under my personalized Murray School t-shirt.

“Oh. Okay.”

I fight the urge to bolt for the warm-up gym and pull my phone out of my duffel bag, even though Kenzie told me not to text her. She as good as told me she never wants to talk to me again.

She said it over and over when I offered my help: it’s not your problem.

“Do you want me to take them?” my mum asks, nodding her head at the group of kids waiting for me to convey them to the stage.

“Oh, um, that’s okay. I’ve got it.”

The room feels like it’s spinning, but I square my shoulders and start marching down the aisle anyway.

I march through the rest of the morning and into the afternoon. I barely remember my time on stage. The day is a blur of bagpipes and tartan, and before I know it, I’m sitting on one of the fold-down auditorium seats, watching the last group of kids get their medals and ribbons for the day.

There’s been no sign of Kenzie. I even dug deep for the courage to walk up to Catherine Stewart during the lunch break and ask if she’d heard from her, but all she did was glare and shake her head.

I can’t shrug off the feeling that something is wrong. It clings to me like a parasite, sucking up all my energy and focus until I’m nothing but a zombie.

“And now, the moment we’ve been waiting all year for! As you may recall, the April competition is our date for announcing the recipient of the Scottish Dance Organization of Ottawa’s first ever scholarship!”

The applause rippling through the audience is enough to pull me out of some of my stupor, and I sit up straighter in my seat. This all feels like a dream, like some warped version of how I pictured this moment playing out when I first held the scholarship information paper in my hands back in September.

I’ve already won more than I ever thought I would this year.

And lost just as much.

“Could our lovely applicants please come to the stage?”

It takes my mum tapping on my shoulder to get me to my feet. I’m still decked out in my Aboyne, and so are Holly and Nicole when I meet up with them in the wings. Our skirts swish around our legs as we file out onto the stage.

The soft sound of the heavy fabric makes me think of that day in the hallway, the first day I got an inkling of just how much Kenzie might mean to me.

“Unfortunately, we’re missing our fourth applicant today, but let’s all give these girls a round of applause!”

I blink at the audience, their clapping dull in my ears.

She should be here.

She should be standing beside me. She needs this scholarship.

Where are you, Kenzie?

The announcer says something else that makes the audience laugh, but I don’t catch any of the words. I’m too fixated on the flash of movement I spot at the back of the auditorium.

I tense and gasp like the wind has been knocked out of me as I watch one of the doors inch open to reveal a sliver of light from the lobby.

The gap widens, and my heart soars as Kenzie steps through. Her hair is loose, and she’s wrapped up in her pea coat. She hovers by the doors, and I stare at her like I can bore my thoughts straight into her mind.

What are you doing? What’s wrong?

Something is wrong. Even from here, I can tell she looks pale. Her hair is limp instead of hanging over her shoulders in all its shiny glory. She takes a few faltering steps down the aisle and braces her hand against an empty chair.

Then her eyes lock on mine.

I stop breathing again.

Despite everything between us, despite everything said and unsaid, despite how sick and haggard she looks, she smiles.

She smiles like it’s all going to be okay.

“And the winner of the scholarship issss...the one, the only....MOIRA MURRAY!”

The middle-aged volunteer doing the announcements makes more noise than she seems like she should be capable of, and the crowd bursts into a roar of applause. Someone grabs my hand and pumps my fist in the air, but my arm is limp in their grasp.

I’m still looking at Kenzie. Her smile falters for a moment before shifting into a mix of emotions I can’t read.

“You all know her. You all love her. Moira is a—”

“Wait.”

The announcer pauses at the sound of my voice, which rings out with an urgent authority.

“Wait,” I repeat, softer this time, as I rip my eyes away from Kenzie and hold my hand out for the microphone. “I have something I want to say.”

I’m going to make this okay. I’m going to take whatever that smile was as a sign to show up and be there for Kenzie in a way no one’s been there for her before.

The microphone is cool in my grasp. I clear my throat before bringing it up to my mouth.

“This is an honor,” I begin, somehow sounding much calmer than I feel. “Really. I’m not just being cheesy.”

A few light laughs drift up from the crowd. I’ve moved to the middle of the stage, and the lights have me partially blinded, but I still stare at the place I know Kenzie is standing.

“I can’t accept it, though. There should be someone else up on this stage with us. She’s been through way more than me to get here, way more than any of us. This money should go to the person who could use it the most, and so I’d like to give the Scottish Dance Organization of Ottawa’s first scholarship to Kenzie Andrianakis.”

A chorus of murmurs fills the room, and I even hear a few people say ‘Awww!’ before someone lets out a whistle and yet more applause takes over.

One of the volunteers pats me on the back, but I just step to the edge of the stage until I can get a clear look at Kenzie.

My stomach drops as soon as I do.

The grimace of betrayal twisting her face tells me I’ve just done something very, very wrong.

CHAPTER 21

KENZIE

The floor feels like it’s rolling under me. I brace my palm against the cool wall of the empty lobby as my stomach lurches.

Closing my eyes, I make myself take a deep breath and then pinch the fold of skin between my thumb and pointer finger with my opposite hand. Some article I read told me that’s supposed to help when you’re feeling nauseous. I don’t know if it’s true, but at the very least, I avoid puking up the half slice of toast I forced down on my way here.

I straighten up and push away the lock of hair that’s slipped into my eyes. I don’t know when I lost my ponytail holder. I don’t even know if I actually grabbed one before I dragged my ass downstairs to my mom’s car.

If the urge to empty my stomach weren’t enough proof, my sweat-slicked skin and the dull throbbing reverberating through my skull would leave me no choice but to acknowledge it: I’m hungover.

Half a lifetime of working to prove myself in this place, and here I am, reeking of vodka and stumbling through the lobby hours after I was supposed to arrive.

I take a few faltering steps towards the glass front doors, where a gorgeous April day is beaming its sunny light into the room in complete mockery of my life. I stop when my stomach does another few somersaults and I’m hit with the urge to gag.

I don’t think I’m making it out of here without throwing up.

I cross my arms over my stomach and fumble my way over to the nearest door as my eyes begin to water. Instead of a hallway with a bathroom like I was hoping for, I end up in a stairwell. I curse under my breath and flail for the banister, the metal cool and smooth beneath my hand. I trip over the metal-lipped edge of the third step, my palms slapping the hard tiles as I catch myself before I manage to bash my shins. I roll sideways until I land in a seat on one of the steps and hunch forward to drop my head between my knees.

If I’m going to puke, it’s just going to have to be here.

As I sit hunched in the brace position, a sharp ringing builds in my ears and then subsides a few seconds later. Some of the nausea slips away along with it. The sweat on the back of my neck starts to get cold. My bent knees begin shaking, but I don’t risk sitting up.

Resting here in the silent stairwell with the world gone still around me, I can almost pretend I’m somewhere else. I can almost pretend none of this ever happened, that I’m back at the September competition, that in a few seconds I’ll stand up and chase after that runaway student of Moira’s and then come face to face with Moira herself for the first time in two years.

Maybe I’d kiss her right then.

Maybe I wouldn’t speak to her at all.

I don’t know which would be worse.

The creak of the stairwell door makes me lift my head, as quickly as I can without making my vision spin.

“Kenzie!” Moira stands with her hand braced against the push bar, her eyes round and wide. A few locks of hair have escaped her high bun and are curling around her ears. “Oh my god, Kenzie!”

The nausea hits all over again, wracking my body so hard I have to drop my head again and take sharp huffs of air in through my nose. I hear her jog over and then feel the rush of air as she climbs the steps and lowers herself to sit down beside me.

My limbs go cold, and my lips start to tremble. When she lays a hand against my back, I flinch and lean away.

“S-sorry,” she mumbles. “I...I...are you...are you sick?”

I can’t find my voice to answer. My face starts to burn the same way it did when I realized what she was about to say up on stage. I blink my eyes open, and my vision narrows to hone in on the step in front of me as I start shaking.

“Kenzie...”

Her voice is cracked, and I feel the flutter of her fingertips on my back again. She pulls them away a half second later, before I can tell her not to touch me.

I don’t want her here. I don’t want any of this. She as good as told the entire auditorium I’m a charity case who needs handouts I don’t deserve.

I can hear the crashing roar of everything I’ve spent years building as it collapses around me. Nothing is stable. Nothing is perfect. Everything is a heap of cracked illusions and vain efforts to hide the fact that I’m not the girl I’m trying to be.

The bottom of the staircase falls away, cracking and shifting before it drops, drops, drops into the gaping nothingness below—the same nothingness I’ve been walking the edge of all my life.

“Kenzie, I should have asked.”

I blink a few times, the doomsday vision fading. I can hear my heart thump in my ears, each beat of my blood pumping a vile mix of shame, regret, fury, and an aching loneliness through my whole body.

“I shouldn’t have said that in front of everyone,” Moira continues. “I should have asked if it’s what you wanted. I thought...I thought...”

I take a shuddering breath, trailing my thumbs up the seams on the ankles of my leggings to help ground me.

“What exactly did you think, Moira? That I wanted a handout? Really? You don’t know much about me, but I thought you at least knew enough to realize that’s the exact fucking opposite of what I want. How could you say that about me in front of everyone?”

I don’t have to look up to know she’s flinched. I hear her breath catch and feel the sting of the words as they leave my mouth. She does know about me. She knows a lot about me, more than I’ve let anyone see in years, and I’m acting like none of it mattered.

I wish none of it mattered. I wish I could banish the stupid urge to lean over and put my head in her lap, to let her wrap her arms around me and rock me until nothing hurts anymore. I wish I could make my heart as cold as my words.

I force myself to sit up. I wobble a little and wrap my hand around the base of the banister, taking a shuddering breath before I turn my head to look at her.

She’s in her Aboyne, her skirts flared out on the steps and her tight velvet vest putting the curves of her chest on display. She looks like she did that day we kissed in the hallway, only now her expression is warped with despair and her eyes look like they’re on the verge of spilling tears.

My throat gets thick, and I tighten my grip on the banister.

It’s like I’m watching her through two lenses at once. In one eye, she’s Moira Murray—the golden girl always a step away from taking everything I want.

Of course she won the scholarship. It was always going to be her. As I sped over to the school after waking up in the middle of the afternoon with a dry mouth and a pounding headache, I realized my blind rush out the door wasn’t about salvaging my shot at the scholarship.

It was about showing up to watch her win, to concede, to give in to the grim future I’d been scrambling to avoid and make my peace with putting all my career dreams on hold.

That would all be a hell of a lot easier if my other eye wasn’t watching her through a different lens, one that won’t let me forget what it feels like to have my body pressed to hers, to watch her move in dim candlelight, to dance with her, to laugh with her until neither of us can breathe.

“Kenzie, I shouldn’t have said it like that, but please, take the scholarship. I want you to have it. You need—”

“Yeah, I know what you think I need.” The words force their way out of the bitter, twisted part of me that’s snarling with pain. “You told the whole room what you think I need, but you’re wrong. I don’t need money I wasn’t good enough to win. What I need is...Right now, what I need is to get the fuck out of here.”

I will myself to get to my feet, but no part of me moves, not even when I break our joined gaze and stare down at the door to the lobby instead. I can hear the muffled chatter of the crowd out there now, and a brief moment of the nausea returns when I realize I’m going to have to walk past them all.

“Kenzie, please. I’m sorry.” Moira’s voice is barely more than a whisper. “When you looked at me, when you were out in the crowd, I thought...I thought you wanted to try again. I thought you were saying you hadn’t given up on us.”

My voice drops to a whisper too as the outline of the door gets blurry. “I was trying to say goodbye. For real. I was trying to say it was okay that you won. I never should have been competing in the first place. I’m just going to take the time off school, and—”

“Goddammit, Kenzie!”

Moira’s shout echoes off the walls, and the Crocs I didn’t even notice she was wearing bang against the edge of a step as she kicks her feet in emphasis.

A morbid urge to laugh takes over me, but I’m too stunned by the force of her voice to make any noise.

“Look, I know I fucked up just now,” she says, her cheeks and neck red as she leans forward to call my attention back to her face, “but that aside, why the hell do you keep saying you have to do things, you have to be a certain way, you have to, you have to, you have to...It doesn’t make sense. I know I’m never going to totally understand the things you’ve been through, but I don’t get how you can tell me I’m enough and watch me listen to you and then turn around and ignore me when I tell you the exact same thing.”

Her chest is heaving by the time she finishes, and she shakes her head a few times as I sit there, unable to move or speak.

A tiny, beat-down part of me crawls out of hiding to drink up her words.

“You told me I don’t need to be something I’m not, and I’m telling you the same thing. You’re good enough. You’re more than good enough, and you don’t have to keep stuffing yourself into some mold of what you think absolute perfection looks like. I didn’t...I didn’t fall for the perfect version of you.”

I can’t hold my gasp in. “Moira...”

She glances away when I don’t go on and clears her throat. “It’s true. Maybe you don’t feel that way, but I—”

“I do,” I blurt, because even now, I can’t stand to see her hurting. “I fell for you too, Moira, and if things were different, maybe—”

“So let them be different.” She leans closer, her eyes shining. “Take the scholarship. Keep going to school. Keep...keep me.”

She’s so close all I’d have to do is reach for her and pull her mouth to mine, but I don’t. I can’t, and along with that realization comes the echo of her question to me.

Why do I keep saying I have to do these things? Be this way?

The words keep crashing and colliding until only a single one rings out clear.

Why?

Why can’t I do what she’s asking? Why am I saying no before even asking myself what it would mean to say yes?

The question is so disorienting I have to shake my head to clear it. The room is starting to spin again, and none of this makes any sense. I don’t know up from down anymore.

“Things fell apart, Moira.” I say her name, but I’m mostly talking to myself. “It’s like I’ve been outrunning this force waiting to suck me down, down, down for way too long, and it finally caught me. It...it caught Chris, and it could take everything down just like it almost took him.”

An image of him lying stretched out in the ambulance flashes through my mind, his body jerking as grim-faced paramedics worked to bring him back from the brink.

“I asked for too much. I tried to...to rise above it all, but I can’t. I can’t have it all. You think I’m enough, but...look at what happened.”

Moira’s face has gone pale. She folds her hands in her lap and squeezes them together. “Kenzie, please listen. What happened to Chris is not your fault. It has nothing to do with you.”

That small, starving part of me is desperate to hear more, to gorge itself on what she’s saying, but the rest of me knows the meal is an illusion, just cardboard and sand in my mouth.

I shake my head. “You don’t understand.”

“So help me to.”

She lifts one hand like she wants to touch me before letting it drop back in her lap.

I could wrap my fingers around hers. I could pull her close. I could let her in like she’s asking, but I already let her in once, and this is where it’s gotten us.

“I’m scared to trust you again,” I murmur.

Her face creases with pain, but before I can explain myself, before I can tell her it’s me that’s holding me back and not just what she said onstage today, the door below us flies open and the chatter of the lobby fills the stairwell as Catherine Stewart steps inside.

Her low-heeled boots click-clack on the floor as she strides to the base of the staircase. The clamour of the door swinging shut behind her reverberates against the painted cinderblock walls.

“There you are,” she says, her tone cool as her eyes laser-focus on me.

My spine straightens on instinct, my shoulders squaring and my chin lifting just like she taught me.

If you carry yourself like this, no one will ever question you. No one will ever know anything is wrong.

That’s what she told me when I got dropped off late to my second competition ever and she found me crying in the bathroom because I was too scared to walk into the warm-up gym an hour after everyone else. She picked me up and put me together. She taught me what to do when the world is falling apart.

“We need to talk.”

She doesn’t even look at Moira, but I can’t find it in me to call her out on it. I can’t even find it in me to look at Moira myself.

I don’t know who I am anymore.

There are so many versions of me now, all colliding with each other here in this stairwell, and there’s no way to tell which Kenzie is real—or if any of them have ever been real.

“Kenzie.” Moira’s strained murmur is just one of dozens pulling me in as many directions. I turn my head just enough to catch sight of her. “I...”

I notice her hands flex in her lap. Catherine taps her heel against the floor as a few otherwise silent seconds tick by.

Moira takes a shuddering breath before she stands.

I don’t call out as she takes a slow walk down to the doorway. I sit there staring at her tartan-swathed back. I don’t stop her when she leaves, but as soon as she’s gone, something in me snaps. Something breaks loose.

A jagged, gasping sob forces its way out of me, and I crumble forward to drop my head between my knees. I hear Catherine climb one step and then another one before she goes still. I can see the tips of her black leather boots waiting for me.

I wrap my fingers around my shins and squeeze hard before straightening up.

“You’re hungover.” It’s not a question, but I still nod. Her face is an impassable mask as she looks me over. “What happened?”

I stare down at my legs, at the smooth black fabric outlining muscles carved by relentless hours in the studio. I try to conjure up what I can of last night, but most of it is a blur.

“My mom went to bed early.” My voice comes out robotic as I keep my gaze pinned to my kneecaps. “I was...I was thinking about my step-brother, and how I never should have signed up for this scholarship with everything going on at home, and...and it was all too much. For once, it was too fucking much.”

“So you got drunk.”

I expect more harshness in her tone, but there’s no emotion in her voice at all.

Just like mine.

“I don’t know what made me do it. I hardly ever drink. I’ve had this half-finished bottle of vodka lying around for forever, and after one shot, I did another, and then...you get the picture.”

“I thought you wanted to win today.” I glance up to watch her take another few steps until she’s level with where I’m sitting, but she props her hip against the wall instead of joining me on the ground. “I thought you were serious, Kenzie.”

“I was.” I sound hoarse, and I pause to swallow. “I did want it. More than anything. I think maybe that’s why I drank. When I woke up late today, at first I panicked about missing the competition, but on the way here, I realized...maybe I ruined my chance today so it would be easier to give it all up. I need to be at home more, clearly. I need to be there for her. For Chris too. Even if I’d won today, I couldn’t have taken the scholarship. Even though Moira...”

Her name sets off a pulsing strobe light of emotions, flashing by too fast for me to latch onto any of them.

“She shouldn’t have done that,” Catherine says.

“No, she shouldn’t have.” I shake my head. “She was trying to help, but...”

“But you’re not a charity case.” Catherine sighs and shifts her stance. “You’re stronger than that, or at least you always have been. This drinking...I’m not impressed, Kenzie. You’re better than that.”

I’m too busy letting her first sentence play on repeat in my head to feel the crushing sensation of shame.

I’m not a charity case.

That’s exactly what I said to Moira, and the hairs on the back of my neck lift when I hear it come out of Catherine’s mouth. That simple but earth-shaking question Moira planted in my mind shakes and thrashes to get my attention.

Why?

Why do I think being strong means not getting any help, not letting anyone in, not letting anyone see any part of what I handle every day?

“You’re better than everything happening at home too.”

I snap my head around to face Catherine, the comment enough to spark something to life in my chest.

“‘Everything happening at home’ is my mother. She’s sick, Catherine. She needs help.”

She sighs again, and the sound fans the sparks into a crackling flame. “She needs help she’s refusing to get, and she’s dragging you down with her. I’ve said it to you for years: you need to—”

“I’m sick of rising above!”

My shout rings out loud enough to make her eyes widen. She stops in the middle of her sentence with her mouth hanging open.

“I’m sick of it,” I repeat, quieter this time but fueled with just as much fire. “I’m sick of pretending. Every time I’m here, or at the studio, or anywhere, I’m pretending. I’m not rising above anything. I’m just hiding it inside me, and you know what? I think that’s what’s dragging me down. I’m not like you, Catherine. Maybe I’m not strong. Maybe I’m not going to have it all like you do. Maybe I’m not your perfect prodigy. I’m just a girl with a fucked up family and an even more fucked up set of ideals.”

I’ve never spoken to her like this. I’ve never even raised my voice to Catherine before, and she stares down at me like there’s an alien inside my body.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Kenzie,” she says after a few moments, “but I do know that if you’d shown up and danced today, you would have won, and you wouldn’t have to be having whatever this...meltdown is. That scholarship was supposed to be yours. It was supposed to help you.”

A sarcastic scoff bursts out of me. “So I should have said yes to Moira? Weren’t you just saying she shouldn’t have done that?”

“It’s not how I intended things to work out, but if you take it, you’ll at least be putting the nine thousand dollars where I intended it to go.”

I go rigid, and my ears whine like I’ve just been hit over the head.

“What do you mean?”

She shifts to lean her back against the banister and crosses her arms over her chest. The blunt ends of her bob sway where they’re tucked behind her ears.

“I knew no one could light a candle to you, Kenzie. I knew if you went for a scholarship like that, you’d win. I believed in you. I always have. I was sick of seeing you throw your future away, and unlike Moira Murray, I understand that opportunities we earn are the only ones that matter, the only ones that aren’t insults, so I made the anonymous donation along with a few instructions. I wasn’t going to tell you, but now...honestly, I don’t know what to do with you, Kenzie.”

I don’t know if it’s the bomb she just dropped or my raging hangover, but either way, the room is spinning again. I draw my knees in close and rest my chin on them to steady myself.

“Do with me?” Something about that tastes bitter in my mouth as I say it back to her.

“Yes. You’re letting all of your potential slip, and I don’t know what else to do about it.”

“You couldn’t have just...just talked to me?” I ask, squeezing my eyes shut to keep the stairwell still. “You really created a whole scholarship to...what? Teach me a lesson?”

“If I’d talked to you, if I’d told you I wanted to pay for you to continue your studies uninterrupted, would you really have accepted?”

I open my mouth to argue about how ridiculous this whole thing has become, but I clamp my jaw shut again without saying anything.

I just said no to someone who offered me the exact same thing, someone who cares about me and the dreams I’m pursuing, even if her phrasing wasn’t the best.

I would have said no to Catherine too. I would have told her I could handle it on my own. I would have done what she’s taught me.

“You wouldn’t have,” she answers for me, “because you are like me. You are strong, and right now, you’re letting yourself forget it.”

All those dozens of voices are still waging war in my head. Some sound like Catherine, some sound like my mom, some sound like Chris. Some even sound like my dad.

Lots sound like Moira.

“Catherine.”

My legs feel weak when I push myself up to stand, but I grip the railing for support and meet her eyes, the two of us on equal ground now.

“I’m not like you. You’ve just...you’ve made me like you.”

Her eyes narrow. “Careful, Kenzie.”

I shake my head. “I can’t keep being careful. Don’t you see? Don’t you see how cut off we both are? We’re not being strong when we act this way. We’re just being really good at playing make believe and shoving everything unpleasant under the bed. When is the last time you actually felt something about your family instead of—”

“Kenzie!”

She barks my name loud enough to make me jump, and her eyes flash with a fury I’ve never seen before. The echo of her shout is still reverberating through the stairwell when the door swings open again. Both our heads swivel to watch as Moira’s mom hovers in the doorway, glancing between the two of us.

“What is it, Margaret?” Catherine’s voice is piercing, almost cruel.

It’s not enough to faze Moira’s mom.

“Moira’s not here, is she?” she asks, patient and calm.

“No,” Catherine answers before I can say anything. “She left.”

“Hmm. She’s probably at the car.” Moira’s mom continues to stand there with her hand braced on the door’s push bar, her eyes darting to me. “Is everything okay here?”

“We’re fine, Margaret. There’s nothing for you to fix.”

I’ve never heard so much venom in Catherine’s tone before. It’s enough to make me glance at her with wide eyes. She’s glaring down the stairs like she wants to incinerate Moira’s mom with the power of her mind.

“Just checking, Catherine. Kenzie, you’re all right?”

I’m the farthest thing from all right, but I need to finish this conversation with Catherine. I nod a couple times, and Moira’s mom retreats into the lobby with a wave.

Catherine starts to say something, but I cut her off. “I don’t know exactly what’s going on with me, and I have no idea what the hell to believe, but I can’t do this anymore. I can’t live like this, and all this shit you’ve taught me, this mold you’ve shaped me into...it doesn’t help. It doesn’t help you or me. The pain is still there for us both.”

Her chest is heaving, and I can see a flush creeping up over the neck of her silk blouse. “I told you to be careful, Kenzie. Don’t push me on this. You—”

I hold up a hand. “It’s not about you. It’s about...I think it’s finally about me.”

With my heart thundering and my head still pounding, I turn and take a couple steps down the stairs.

“I don’t give second chances, Kenzie.”

I pause, eyes on the door handle. My shoulders start to shake.

“You’re upset and hungover, but don’t be stupid.”

This might be stupid. It also might be the smartest thing I’ve ever done.

It’s certainly one of the most terrifying.

“If you walk away, you’re walking away from your job, from the academy...from me.”

I don’t know if she means it. I don’t know if I’m just calling her bluff, or if I really am giving everything up when I reach for the door.

I pull it open anyway and take a deep breath of air.

CHAPTER 22

KENZIE

I don’t realize where I’m driving to until I pull the car into my usual parking spot. The red brick wall of the Rebecca Stewart Academy of Highland Dance looms in front of me, looking much taller than its single storey today.

I cut the engine and unclip my seatbelt before sagging back against the driver’s seat to continue staring out the windshield, my eyes tracing the lines between the bricks. The bright April sunshine is doing a number on my head, but the nausea seems to be gone, and I’m not sweating anymore.

My heart is still going a mile a minute, and I can’t tell if it’s from the hangover or the last of the adrenaline burst that got me out of the high school and into the car.

I saw Moira in the parking lot. She was hunched over in the passenger seat of her family’s car, but I recognized the golden brown of her lopsided, half undone hair bun. Her mom’s arm was around her shoulders, and I drove off before either of them could catch a glimpse of me in the rear-view mirror.

My chest felt like it was cracking open wider and wider the farther from Moira I got, but I couldn’t stop and talk to her. I have no words yet, not even for myself.

I get out of the car and lock it behind me, my footsteps the only sound in the empty, narrow parking lot that spans the length of the building.

I round the corner to stand in front of the wide expanse of windows next to the glass front door. RSA’s name and logo are spelt out in laser cut sheet metal above them. The bottom half of the windows are covered with an opaque film for privacy, but above that, I can just glimpse the tops of the mirrors in one of the studios.

I guess I can grab my stuff in case Catherine really does fire me.

The thought makes me let out a huff of bitter laughter. I step over to the door and fish my key out of my purse. I’ve opened this door so many times, I’m sure I could do it with my eyes closed. The lobby inside is just as familiar, from the metal shoe racks topped with smooth leather benches to the linoleum-covered desk with another metal cut-out of the school’s logo attached to the front.

Even the sharp, chemical smell of carpet cleaner and floor polish is comforting. I pull my boots off, not bothering to put them on a rack, and step over to trace the blunt edge of the logo with my fingertip.

On the wall behind the front desk, there’s a display of photos all arranged in identical plain white frames. Each one shows a pivotal moment in the school’s history of excellence, but even though the logo says ‘Established in 1976,’ the photos are all from after Catherine took the school over from her mom.

Catherine stands with her signature tight-lipped smile on in a few of the shots. In the front and center of the display, she’s got her hand on my shoulder while I hold my second place trophy from the world championships in Scotland. We’re standing under a white tent with open sides, a rolling green field and the rare glow of a sunny Scottish day visible behind us.

I remember clutching the smooth sides of the trophy when we took that photo. My velvet highland jacket was sticking to my sweaty torso, and all I could think about was how disappointing it was to miss out on beating Moira.

Why?

The word keeps slicing through my thoughts like an arrow refusing to slow down or land. I don’t know where its final target is. I don’t know how much it’s going to rip apart on the way.

I tear my eyes away from the photos and head for the locker room down the hall, but I pause in front of one of the studios. The door has been left open, and I can see myself in one of the immaculate mirrored walls.

I look awful. My hair is limp and tangled. My face is puffy and red even though I haven’t done much actual crying. My outfit is a sloppily selected pair of leggings I dug out of my laundry bin and a worn old grey sweater under my coat.

Despite how off-putting my reflection is, I take a few steps into the studio. Three of the walls are lined with mirrors, the fourth painted in a bright, clean white that matches the hall and entryway. The floor cleaner must have come in last night; the white, springy surface gleams when I flip the light switch on.

I step to the middle of the room, spreading my arms as I spin around a few times and then come to an abrupt halt when my stomach reels in protest. I sit down instead, the ends of my open coat fanning out around me. I pull my knees into my chest and hug them, my gaze fixed on the girl watching me in the mirror.

Some people might call RSA’s decor vibe stark or even severe, and I admit that compared to the hominess of the Murray school, the monochrome tones and shiny surfaces are a little impersonal, but that hasn’t stopped this place from becoming my home.

This is where I learned to teach, to turn my ability for observation and precision into a gift that could help my students soar. This is where I learned to fly too, to jump and whirl and spring, up and away from anything that made me feel small and powerless.

I found something to reach for in these rooms, something that pulled me through so many dark moments.

I know Catherine has found that here too.

For the first time since I left the stairwell back at the competition, I let the fear and pain of what she said to me crash into my chest like blow after blow from an iron fist.

I could lose all of this. I could lose Catherine, and the part of me that feels washed with relief at the thought just makes the rest of me ache even more.

I don’t know how to feel. I don’t know what to think. Everything is splitting at the seams.

In the mirror, my eyes turn glassy and glimmer under the lights before my vision blurs. Hot tears slide down my cheeks, and I squeeze my legs in extra tight as the first sob wracks my body. The sobs keep coming, again and again, leaving me gasping for breath and rocking to soothe some of the pain.

“I don’t know what to do,” I wheeze between gulps. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. Idon’tknowwhattodo.”

I drop my head down and roll my forehead back and forth across the hard surface of my kneecaps as my headache flares. There’s snot dripping down my face and pooling on the thighs of my leggings.

I almost had everything, and now I have nothing.

It’s what I’ve always been afraid of, and now it’s here. I can’t run. I can’t leap away. I tip over and curl into a fetal position as the deep, dark pit I’ve been running from all my life swallows the floor underneath me.

I fall. I fall and fall and fall, and as I lay shivering and crying alone on a dance studio floor, I realize this is the bottom. This is the unknown that’s always haunted me. This is what I’ve been scrambling to escape.

It’s got me now, and I’m still here. I’m still breathing. There’s still earth underneath me and sky above my head.

There’s still today, and tomorrow, and the day after that.

I’m still me.

I still have that.

Breath by breath, my sobs fade to sniffles and then to shaky inhales before they finally smooth into a rhythm that soothes me. I rest for another few moments and then push myself up into a cross-legged position.

I’ve hit the bottom, and I’ve gotten back up.

I wipe my cheeks with my hands and then grimace as I use the edge of my sweater to clean up the snot. I run my hands through my hair and tuck it behind my ears.

I keep breathing.

Just when I’m thinking of getting to my feet, a series of knocks on the front door echoes down the hall.

I freeze, a spike of alarm shooting up my spine.

We don’t run classes on competition days. There’s no reason for anyone else to be here.

I wait, straining my ears for any other sounds, and the knocks come again a moment later.

Slowly, like I’m on some kind of espionage mission, I get up and test my weakened limbs before tip-toeing over to peer into the lobby. One of the grey, faux-wood floorboards creaks as I pad into the hallway. I can see a woman at the door, and as soon as I catch sight of her face, my steps come to a faltering halt.

Moira’s mom is here.

She spots me and lifts her hand in a wave, a tentative smile on her face. I stand there blinking for a couple seconds as the shock wears off and then walk over to open the door.

“Um, hi,” I say as a rush of chilly wind slips in. The sunny afternoon is fading now.

“Hey, sweetie.” Her eyes sweep over my face and crease with concern. I’m sure I look like even more of a mess now that I’ve been crying. “Sorry if I scared you. Do you mind if I come inside?”

“Oh. Yeah. Of course.”

I step back so she can make her way in to stand on the large black mat. Under her navy blue jacket, she’s still wearing the Murray School shirt and black slacks she had on at the competition. Miniature ghillie-shaped earrings are dangling from her ears.

“I guess you’re wondering why I’m here.”

“I am,” I admit, and I’m surprised to hear myself laugh too when she chuckles.

“I just had a hunch you might be here and that it might be nice to have someone check in on you. I can leave if you want. No pressure.” She hooks a thumb over her shoulder to point back at the door.

“Oh, no. You don’t have to leave, Mrs. Murray. I just...how did you know I was going to be here?”

“You can call me Margaret, honey.” She waves my formality off. “I heard...I heard some of what’s going on from Moira, and after bumping into you at the competition, I just thought...well, I’m a mom. I worry. It’s my job. Call it a mother’s instinct, or maybe just a highland thing, but I figured if you’re the kind of person who loves dance as much as my Moira and I do, you might end up here on a day like today.”

“I...I...” I splutter myself into silence as she looks at me with so much warmth and concern I almost collapse back into sobs. Her caring tone has part of me wanting to rush right into her arms, even though we’ve hardly spoken before today.

“Ah, so you’ve got a Stewie hall of fame.” She takes a few steps closer to the front desk as her eyes dart over to the gallery wall, chuckling to herself. “Did you know that’s what Moira calls everyone here? Stewies?”

My chest tightens, and I press my lips together as I nod. “Yes.”

I can see Moira in her face, hear Moira in her voice every now and then, and it leaves my heart aching.

“Catherine has a lot to be proud of.” Margaret gets quieter as she scans the photos. She rests her hands on top of the wide desk, and I watch one of her fingers tap out a slow rhythm. “You know, the Rebecca Stewart Academy looked very different back in the day. I didn’t even know the address for the new location. I had to look it up. It’s...” She pauses and glances around the room. “It’s very Catherine in here.”

I huff a laugh. “Yeah, you could say that.”

She turns back to the photos, and I stare at her profile. There’s a shift in her expression I can’t quite place. She almost looks wistful.

Curiosity gets the better of me, and I ask, “So you’d been to the old school before? You used to compete against Catherine, right? I think I’ve heard you had some sort of...like kind of a famous rivalry?”

The corner of her mouth lifts. “You could say that.”

She’s silent for a few seconds, and I start to think that’s the only answer I’m getting, but then she sighs.

“We had a rivalry, yes. Our rivalry could have rivalled you and Moira’s, but...everyone seems to have forgotten that for a few years, Catherine and I were very good friends. Best friends.”

She must hear my stifled gasp; she breaks her focus on the photos to grin at me.

“Shocking, I know. My family moved to Ottawa when I was in junior high. I’d been doing highland out on the east coast, and I joined the Rebecca Stewart Academy when I got here. It wasn’t...this back in the day.” She lifts a hand to indicate the high class vibe of the room. “But it was a good place to learn. Catherine and I hit it off right away. We went to different high schools, but we had sleepovers almost every weekend and called each other on the phone almost every night. At competitions, they used to call us the dream team. We always said we didn’t care who won as long as it was one of us.”

I blink a few times, leaning my weight against the desk as I process. “You’re serious?”

She gives my arm a playful swat. “Of course I am.”

“Sorry. I know you’re not lying. It’s just...Catherine’s never mentioned any of that to me.”

She shrugs, and that same wistful look takes over her face. “Like I said, most people seem to have forgotten about it, including Catherine herself.”

“So you grew apart?”

She opens and closes her mouth a few times, one of her hands rubbing the other on top of the desk. “It was a bit more...abrupt than that, although she got distant for a while before. Catherine...she went through some hard times.”

I drop my gaze to the floor, my voice lowering. “You mean things with her dad, right?”

Margaret’s voice lowers too. “So she’s told you about that?”

I was in junior high when Catherine told me. I’d bombed at a competition after a shit week at home during the initial phases of the divorce between my mom and Chris’s dad. Catherine found me practicing alone in one of the studios the next day, working myself dangerously close to the point of injury.

She sat me down and listened while I told her what was going on, and that’s when she told me about her dad getting violent when she was in high school. She said he mostly threw stuff and screamed, and that it was enough to have the whole family terrified of worse.

I’d weathered some shouting matches, but nothing like that. Still, we both knew the need to escape, to want better. It was the same drive that already had me sure I wanted to be a social worker one day.

After she told me, Catherine helped me create a training schedule that wouldn’t kill me, and from that day on, we both committed to me making it to the world championships before I graduated high school.

“She has.” I nod, still looking at the floor. “I...Things haven’t always been great at home for me either. I never dealt with abuse, thank god, but it’s been...tough.”

Margaret shuffles closer and slides her hand over to mine. She gives me a questioning look, and when I nod, she closes her warm fingers around my palm.

The simple gesture has my eyes getting watery, and before I can stop myself, I blurt, “My mom has really bad depression.”

A weird choking sound climbs out of my throat, and before I know it, Margaret has her arms around me and I’m leaning into her while she strokes my hair.

“I know it’s not her fault,” I find myself saying as a few tears slide down my face and onto Margaret’s jacket. “I feel so bad for struggling with it, but I also...I want a life. Catherine’s always told me to rise above everything that brings me down, but...but I also don’t want to leave my mom behind or think of her as a burden. She’s my mom. I just...I don’t know what to do. I thought I wanted to be just like Catherine, but I...I don’t. I can’t shut myself off from my family like she has. I don’t want to shut myself off from everyone like she has.”

Margaret keeps stroking my hair as I continue to lean into her hug.

“Oh, sweetie,” she murmurs. “Don’t you ever feel bad for struggling with any of this. You’re so young, and this sounds like so much.”

Sometimes it’s so much I feel absolutely flattened by the weight.

“It’s okay,” Margaret soothes. “It’s all okay.”

Once I’ve calmed down a little, I straighten up and step out of the hug, but I don’t retreat back along the desk. We stand side by side as Margaret looks between me and the photos.

“I always kind of thought Catherine saw herself in you. When you and Moira developed your little feud, I...well, it’s just funny how things play out.”

I stare at the world championship photo, at how stiff the two of us look even during the culminating moment of my whole dance career. “How do you mean?”

Margaret hums for a moment as she thinks. “I guess funny is the wrong word. It’s...eerie, almost, to watch history repeat itself. You’re very right that Catherine’s shut herself off from everyone. She has for a long time. I think it’s the only way she’s ever known how to cope. When she started shutting herself off from me in high school, I kept pushing. I told myself I would be the one to be there for her. I wouldn’t give up on my best friend, but...I pushed too hard.”

She starts sliding one of her hands over the other on the desk again.

“One night, her dad got particularly bad when I was over doing homework with Catherine. When I saw him get angry like that, I was terrified—not just for myself, but for her. For the family. Things were so much worse than I thought, and I...I got very blunt. I kept insisting I’d call the police, and Catherine panicked. She didn’t want anyone to know. She didn’t want it to be real. I know the police weren’t the right people to call, but I didn’t know any better back then, so I did it. I was so scared. Catherine had already kicked me out of the house. She called me a lot of names and said she’d ruin my life. It hurt back then, but I don’t blame her. Even with whatever the police did, the family kept living with her father for years after that night, but...Catherine never spoke to me again, except for a few sharp words at competitions.”

I let the story sink in as we stand in silence for a few moments. Catherine and Margaret’s exchange in the stairwell makes perfect sense now, and my heart aches for both of them.

“Does Moira know about this?”

Margaret shakes her head. “She knows Catherine and I were friends for a bit, but the rest is Catherine’s story, not mine. I’m telling you because you seem to know most of her side already, and...and because I know Moira hurt you today. I know she acted rashly about something she’ll never fully understand. I can’t claim to fully understand your or Catherine’s situations, and I’m not trying to get into your and Moira’s business, but I thought you deserved to know that whatever happens with you and Moira, you will always have a safe place to stay in my home, and if you ever need somewhere to dance, there’s plenty of room at the Murray School.”

My throat gets thick. “Margaret, that’s...that’s...”

She holds up a hand. “I didn’t come here to push things, and I don’t need a reply. I just wanted to say it.”

I swallow around the lump that’s choking me and murmur, “Thank you.”

She nods. “I’d better go.”

She takes a step back, but instead of leaving, her fingers reach down to trace the metal logo affixed to the desk.

“I always thought she’d change the name,” she says, so quietly that at first I’m not sure she’s even talking to me. “Rebecca Stewart left town years ago, and I heard she and Catherine had a falling out years before that, but she’s never changed the school’s name.”

I watch as she curls her fingertip around the top edge of the ‘R’ on the logo, the one that stands for Catherine’s mom.

“She still has a lot of love in her, Kenzie.” Margaret looks back up at me. “You do too. I can tell. I think you’re going to find your way.”

I don’t move from my spot beside the desk as she says her goodbyes and heads back outside, but once the door swings shut, I speak into the silence.

“Yeah. I am.”

CHAPTER 23

KENZIE

I leave the studio a few minutes after Margaret and drive the familiar route back home. Once I’ve pulled into our parking spot, I sit with the engine shut off and stare up at the high rise in front of me.

I don’t know what’s going to happen when I walk in there. These days, I never do, but I know something has to change.

For me. For my mom.

I don’t want her to turn into a distant, painful memory inscribed on a dance school logo, but I can already feel resentment creeping into the way I feel about her.

She doesn’t deserve that, and neither do I, so we need to do this differently.

When I get up to our unit, I find her sitting at the kitchen table with her laptop in front of her. One of the living room windows is cracked open, filling the whole apartment with the rich, earthy scent of spring. She smiles when she looks up and sees me. Her shoulders are wrapped in a fluffy blanket, and she’s wearing a clean purple sweater underneath.

“Kenzie! I was starting to worry. It’s been a long day for you today, huh?”

I finish hanging my coat in the closet and walk over to place a hand on her shoulder. “You don’t have to worry, Mom. I’m here.”

She places her fingers over mine. “I was worried about you, Zee-zee. I’ve been okay today. Better than okay, actually.”

A flutter of hope beats its wings in my chest, but I know better than to take a good day as a sign of anything more. I walk over to the couch and flop down. A wave of exhaustion settles over me as soon as I hit the cushions. There’s so much I need to tell her, and I don’t know where to start. I can’t do this on a bad day, but I don’t want to ruin a good one either.

“You look so tired. Is everything okay?”

The word ‘no’ is on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t get it out. I’m far too used to fighting for control, to holding everything in so I can hold everyone around me up.

“Long day,” I finally manage to answer.

“Hmm.” She gets up from her chair and comes to join me on the other cushion. “You want to talk about it?”

It’s been a while since I’ve seen her eyes so clear and focused. It’s been a while since I felt like she was well enough to really see me, the way Moira’s mom looked at me and saw everything today.

“I’m...I’m scared to,” I admit. “So much has happened today. So much has happened over the past few months, and...I love you, Mom. I really do. You know that, right?”

“Of course I do, Kenzie.” She shifts so she’s facing me. “I love you too. I...I have some things I want to tell you too.”

“Oh?” I squint at her, looking for some hint of what’s coming. “Why don’t you go first?”

She lets out a rueful chuckle and drags a throw pillow into her lap, her hands smoothing down the ridged fabric. “That’s one of the things I want to talk about. After Chris...After what happened to Chris, I realized some things. I realized you’ve been doing exactly that for a long time: you’ve always been putting me first, and I’ve been too sick to even realize.”

Her words send a shock jolting through me, and I tilt my head as I stare at her.

She’s never said she’s sick before. She’s always called it ‘a little trouble’ or ‘feeling blue.’ She’s always changed the subject when I’ve tried to address depression as an illness.

“Everything has been so foggy, and I’ve been...I’ve been so frightened of that. I’ve been like a drowning person grabbing onto anything in sight. I’ve grabbed onto you, far more than is fair. You’re my daughter. I’m supposed to take care of you.”

“Mom.” I lunge forward to grab her hand, sliding over to sit even closer. “We take care of each other. We’re a family. I want to help you.”

“I know you do.” She squeezes my hand back. “And you have, but...we can’t go on like this. Seeing Chris like that made me realize it, and I’ve been working up the strength to get organized and tell you.”

My shoulders tense. “Tell me what?”

She takes a deep breath before speaking again. “After Chris recovered and went back to his place, I called my sister. She’s been offering this for months, and I’ve always said no, but this time, I agreed. I’m going to go live with her in Belleville for the summer. She has this big landscaping project we’re going to work on, and...and she’s going to help me find someone to talk to online. Not just a psychiatrist. I want to try talking to some sort of counsellor, like you’ve been wishing I would. When I come back, I want to feel better. I might need longer to be totally better, and I don’t even know if that’s possible for me, but I want to try. I think you and I both need time to get in touch with ourselves.”

I feel about ready to pass out on the couch. My heart is racing, and my chest is so full it’s getting hard to breathe.

“Mom...” I whisper. “I...I mean...are you sure?”

She nods. “More sure than I’ve been of anything in a long time. I spent today on the phone with her making some arrangements while you were out. She’s driving up to get me next week.”

I sit up straighter. “Next week?”

“Yes, next Sunday.”

My chest fills up even more, my ribs expanding to hold everything in.

This is real.

I go from immobile to non-stop babbling over the course of a few seconds.

“Are you sure? This is so fast. You’ll really be okay somewhere new? You don’t have to leave. I can leave. We can talk about it more. I—”

“Kenzie.” She squeezes my hand to cut me off. “I’m sure, and I’ll be fine. This feels right.”

“Mom...” My voice breaks, and for what feels like the dozenth time today, my eyes start to burn. “I’ll miss you.”

She scooches close enough to lean in and press her forehead to mine. “I’ll miss you every day, Kenzie, but I promise when I get back, things will be different.”

She straightens up, and I turn away to swipe at my eyes. I don’t know how to trust this. I don’t even know if I can trust it, but she’s saying the words I’ve been craving for years.

“Oh, Zee-zee.” She runs a hand down my arm. “You’ll miss me for a week, and then you’ll realize how much you love having the place to yourself.”

She laughs, but I can’t bring myself to join in. I’m too busy trying not to sob again. I’m caught somewhere between shock, joy, and confusion.

“You even have my permission to throw a couple wild parties, but I’m sure you’ll be busy studying, you nerd. You’re still doing those summer classes, right?”

I stare down at my socked feet as apprehension loops itself around my lungs.

She doesn’t know I lost the scholarship. She doesn’t even seem to know it got awarded today. I can’t blame her; I’ve been trying not to bother her with anything since Chris’s overdose.

“Um, about that...I don’t know if I will be.”

I glance up and find her squinting at me. “What do you mean? You were so excited when you signed up for them, and the scholarship—oh god, Kenzie, the scholarship! Was that today?”

I stare down at the floor again as she brings her hand up to cover her mouth.

“I didn’t win.”

She reaches over to squeeze my knee. “Oh, Zee-zee...”

“I...I definitely can’t cover the summer tuition anymore, and I think I might have to take all of next year off to work.”

“No, no, no.” My mom shakes her head. “We can’t have that. You have your whole school plan all mapped out. You have for years. We’ll...we’ll figure something out.”

Her words don’t hold the same conviction as when she was talking about her summer plans; despite how foggy she’s been these past few months, she knows as well as I do there’s nothing to figure out.

We don’t have the money. It’s as simple as that.

“I could talk to my sister again. Maybe—”

“No.” Now it’s me shaking my head. “It’s not a big deal. I don’t know why I care so much. It’s only a year.”

For now. I know how easily expenses creep up, and if I give up one year, I might end up giving up two, and then more, and then wondering if it even makes sense to go back to school at all. That’s exactly what happened when Chris left trade school to save up more money.

I’ve worked so hard to get where I am. I’ve built up so much momentum, and it feels like ripping off my own arm to have to let it all go.

“Kenzie, sweetie.” She squeezes my knee again and chews on her lip for a moment, looking me over. “You give so much help, but you never take it. You never let anyone be there for you.”

The damn tears threaten to fall again.

“What if...” I start to ask in a small voice. “What if I do, and they don’t show up? What if I give up control and it’s a mistake? What if I lose way more than I had in the first place?”

She reaches over to brush some hair out of my face. “We’re not talking about money anymore, are we?”

I shake my head, the story forcing its way out of me. “Mom...there’s this girl, and she wants to help me. She...she’s the one who won the scholarship, and she wants me to have it, and she also wants...she wants to be there for me. I...I think I want that too, and I want to be there for her, but I don’t know how to let her do that. I never learned.”

My mom throws the pillow out of her lap and gets to her feet just to squat down in front of me and grab my hands.

“You and I both have a lot to learn, but if I can learn to get better, you can learn to do this. You have such a big heart, Kenzie. I know I’ve hurt you. I know I haven’t been there the way I should, but don’t let anything that’s happened with me, or your father, or Chris, or anyone else take that beautiful heart away from you.”

She’s about to cry too. She stares up at me with shining eyes and shakes my hands when I can’t answer. “You hear me, Zee-zee?”

I bob my head in a nod, and the corners of her mouth lift a little.

“Good. Something tells me this girl of yours sees your beautiful heart too, so how about you trust me to help you figure out what to do about that?”

“I...”

A dozen protests rear up in my mind, but I stop myself before I can give any of them a voice. It feels strange and scary and totally beyond my control, but I do what she says and keep my heart open.

“Okay.” I stroke my thumbs over hers. “That sounds really nice.”

CHAPTER 24

MOIRA

I look up from the map directions on my phone and spot the sign of the cafe I’m searching for jutting out above the crowded downtown sidewalk. This street runs along the edge of the Byward Market, and on a late April day with clear skies and a warm breeze that hints at summer, the whole area is crawling with tourists and locals alike.

I stop walking just outside the cafe. The wide front window has the place’s name etched on it in cracked gold letters and frames a long high-top table filled with customers sitting to chat or hunch over in their chairs to read from Kindles and newspapers. Artificial vines are draped in loops along the ceiling, and the overhead lights give off a soft glow.

It looks adorable in there. It also looks very, very busy. It wouldn’t have been my choice location to have this conversation, but then again, I wasn’t sure Kenzie and I would ever have another conversation at all.

I shift over to the inner edge of the sidewalk so I won’t be in anyone’s way and swipe away from the map on my screen to check my texts. I know I don’t have any; my notifications are empty, but I scroll through my conversations just to give me something to focus on while my heart starts pounding like a wild animal in my chest.

It’s been eight days since I stood onstage and won the scholarship—eight days since I watched Kenzie look me in the face and tell me she couldn’t trust me before she refused to look at me again.

I can still hear my footsteps echoing in the stairwell as I walked away from her, my whole body strained to catch some shout or whisper or even a quiet breath that would tell me she wanted me to come back, but there was nothing.

So I left, and for almost a week, I didn’t hear anything from her. I didn’t say anything to her. I looked at myself in the mirror after I’d cried over her on my floor again and said, ‘It’s over, Moira. It’s done.’

I acted like it was over. I spent hours poring over textbooks and pouring my heart into the studio. I kept my schedule packed from dawn to dusk. I powered through the rest of my university exams, and despite everything going on, I’m pretty sure I aced them.

During the day, I was an organized, focused, and confident version of me.

At night, I thought about her.

I thought about her running around a church kitchen, laughing and shrieking with a hose nozzle clutched in her hands. I thought about her dancing to Nickelback in my hallway. I thought about her kissing me in her Crocs against a row of lockers. I thought about her lying naked next to me on a pile of blankets in my favourite room in the world.

I thought about the pain on her face when she sat hunched and shaking in that stairwell.

I put some of that pain there. I put what I wanted ahead of what she was okay with. It was only for a moment, but it was enough.

Still, she hurt me too. She shut me out. She walked away. She gave up, even before I screwed up and said what I did onstage. She didn’t arrive at the competition to make things right.

She just came to let me go for good.

I lean against the strip of bricks between the cafe’s window and door, forcing myself to take a deep breath. I have an apology to make today, but so does Kenzie. I’m not going to be the girl who questions her own worth anymore.

I might have it wrong, but the choked emotion in Kenzie’s voice when she left me a voice message three days ago to ask if we could meet up to talk reached straight into my heart and told me she knows she needs to change too.

When I check my phone again, I find a few texts to keep me busy. They’re from a couple of the moms helping with my plan today.

Kenzie picked this cafe, but if things go well here, I have something to show her too.

A nervous flutter fills my chest as I type out a reply to say we’re right on schedule. If this all goes according to plan, this will be one of the greatest days of my life. If not, I’ll have wasted many people’s time and be absolutely devastated all over again.

No pressure.

“Moira. Hi.”

I glance up just after hitting send and spot Kenzie a couple metres away. For a moment, all my muscles go slack. I almost drop my phone.

She’s literally stunning, an electric zap that freezes the breath in my lungs and keeps me pinned in place. Her hair is loose, its usual shimmer and shine restored from the last time I saw her. She’s wearing a slouchy, dark blue sweater that hangs off one of her shoulders and a pair of boyfriend jeans that look like they’re professing love to her hips with every step.

When she gets closer, I see she’s done her lips and cheeks in soft pink. The warm tones make her deep brown eyes look lighter, like sunlight filtering through a clear mug of tea.

“Hi,” I say, my voice breathy.

The corners of her mouth lift, but there’s nothing smug about her hint of a grin. In fact, she looks more shy and tentative than I’ve ever seen her.

“You look...really good,” she says, her gaze flicking to the sidewalk and back up.

I’m in a pair of dark skinny jeans with a white v-neck and my army jacket on top. It’s nothing fancy, but it feels like me. I put on some of the few pieces of gold jewelry I own and spent way too long twisting the front section of my hair into a waterfall braid.

If this day works out like I’m hoping, a lot more people than Kenzie will be looking at me.

“Not so bad yourself,” I answer, doing a chin nod I hope comes across as suave.

It probably just makes me look like a broken bobblehead.

“Shall we?” Kenzie motions to the cafe, and the fluttering in my chest shifts down into my stomach. She steps over to hold the door for me and then follows me inside the noisy room.

This is happening.

It’s a struggle just to feel my feet on the floor as I move toward the line in front of the counter.

I hoped I’d be more cool, calm, and collected, but all the words I had planned for the day whooshed right out of me as soon as I saw her. I know my worth isn’t going to change if this conversation goes south, but that doesn’t stop my fingers from going numb and my tongue from getting heavy in my mouth.

“Actually, we’re going over here.”

I look away from where I’ve been staring blankly at the menu boards hanging from the ceiling and see Kenzie waving me over to a narrow hallway past a few packed tables and couches.

“To the...bathroom?” I ask.

She chuckles, and I’m relieved to hear her laugh sounds about as nervous as I feel.

“Uh, no. Not quite.”

We pass the door for the bathroom and head farther into what is clearly an employees-only area. I can hear the bustle and clanging of the staff in the kitchen.

“Are you giving me a backstage tour of this cafe?”

Kenzie’s laugh sounds a little more relaxed this time. “Again, not quite. We’re almost there.”

Instead of taking me to the kitchen, she opens a door leading off the side of the short hallway, and I peer past it to see a dimly lit staircase.

“Ah, so you’ve brought me here to murder me.”

She snorts and shakes her head as she stares up at the ceiling. “Oh, Moira.”

Even now, after everything we’ve been through and all the uncertainty ahead, my name on her lips still makes me feel like I could do anything.

“If I’m gonna die today, we better get it over with.”

I take the lead in climbing up the staircase. I pause once we’ve reached the top of the first flight, but Kenzie directs me to head all the way up to the top. We reach a door with what I think is daylight glimmering along its edges.

“Open it,” Kenzie says softly from behind me.

I blink a few times after opening the door, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the bright sun beaming down on the building’s flat rooftop. Once I can actually see what’s waiting for me, my hands fly up to cover my mouth. I look back and forth between Kenzie and the scene in front of us, whipping my head around so fast my neck muscles screech in complaint.

“Kenzie, is that...is that...?”

Her bottom lip is tugged between her teeth, and she’s watching me with shining eyes desperate to gauge my reaction.

“Moira...” She walks past me to stand by the two people sitting at the table set up a couple metres away. They both scramble to their feet, watching me with tentative smiles on their faces. “This is my mom, and this is my brother, Chris.”

I peel my hands away from my mouth, but my feet stay planted in the doorway.

“I’m, uh, Moira,” I say in a shaky voice.

The two of them laugh, and their smiles get even wider.

“Nice to meet you, Moira,” Kenzie’s mom says. “Call me Gillian.”

She doesn’t look much like Kenzie. Her hair is a short and wavy mouse brown peppered with grey and her features don’t have Kenzie’s sharp definition, but she’s got the same deep brown eyes and there’s something about her smile that makes it clear the two of them are family.

Chris waves at me before pushing his choppy, dyed black hair out of his eyes. “You can call me Chris, but most people call me Doctor Sly.”

Kenzie groans and elbows him in the ribs. “Literally no one calls you that.”

“I mean...” I fake a casual shrug as I step closer. “It’s never too late to reinvent yourself.”

Chris lifts his hand to snap a few times and then points at me. “I like her already.”

I chuckle and then shift my attention to Kenzie, and my words hit different when I see the mix of hope and nerves on her face.

We’ve reinvented ourselves these past few months. We’ve reinvented us. We’ve gone from lifelong rivals to lifelong rivals who sometimes make out to two people with the ability to both fill and break each other’s hearts.

Today might be the day we put them back together and fill them up again.

“May I, uh, ask what we’re doing on a roof?” I say. “I mean, it’s a lovely roof, but I’m still a bit confused by our location.”

“Well...” Kenzie looks down at the table set up with a white cloth, an insulated coffeepot, and a few white porcelain mugs. For the first time, I notice the platter in the middle stacked with brownies. I almost burst out laughing then and there. “I realized we never actually got to decide the winner of our brownie competition, and then I thought...I don’t want to compete with you anymore. I don’t want to fight or try to prove who’s better. I don’t...I don’t want to do anything to hide how much you mean to me ever again.”

My breath catches, and my heart starts to pound again. I see Chris flash her a covert thumbs-up. She sweeps her hand out to gesture at the brownies and clears her throat.

“So these are truce brownies. They’re also...promise brownies. They’re also apparently the best brownies in the entire Ottawa Valley. My mom is an old friend of the owner here, and when she called her to order the batch I was going to give you, they got to talking, and this whole...situation got set up.”

She looks around the rooftop, and I do the same, really taking it in for the first time. There are a bunch of cardboard boxes stacked by the door and a coffee can filled with cigarette butts, but the place has sweeping views of the Château Laurier hotel’s old-fashioned elegance on one side and the quaint shops and covered stalls of the Byward Market on the other.

“I wanted to make this moment special,” Kenzie continues, “but I also want you to know...my life isn’t made up of rooftop views and private dining. It’s not always picturesque. It’s messy and complicated, and I’ve got so much baggage to sort through, but still, it’s my life. It’s me. It’s all of me, not just the parts I think are good enough for people to see, and I want to lay it out for you. If you...if you want, then I want to invite you into it. That’s why Mom and Chris are here.”

She pauses to glance at the two of them, and I see the pride they feel for her. I see their love. Life has handed them more than it’s ever lain on my family, but that hasn’t stopped them from finding just as much love.

“I’m done feeling ashamed,” Kenzie says, her eyes back on me, “and I’m done believing in perfect. I’m done believing I can make anything perfect. I can’t, and it’s been driving me insane to try for so long. I’ve lost out on so much because of it, and I...I hurt you because of it.”

Her voice cracks, and my hands ache to reach for her, but I need to hear the rest.

“I wasn’t ready to believe you could be there for me. I wasn’t ready to give up control and let someone help for once in my goddamn life, but I’m changing.” She looks at Gillian and Chris again. “We are changing. Things are getting better for all of us, and I’m learning to trust that.”

She comes around the table and walks over to stand in front of me, close enough that I can make out the spray of freckles dusting her nose.

“I trust you, Moira. I know you were doing what you thought was the right thing, and I’m sorry I was so cold to you. I’m sorry I shut you out. I’m sorry I did what felt safe instead of what felt right. I was hurting so much...about everything. I still am, but I’m not going to use pain as an excuse to cut myself off again. It will be difficult. Really difficult. It will take time to let go of everything I’ve spent my whole life believing, but I’m ready to change, and if you...if you still feel anything for me, I was wondering if maybe someday you’d like to give this another chance.”

A warm breeze rustles our clothing, and I watch it toy with the ends of her hair. My heart feels about ready to burst through my ribs, too full of emotion for my body to contain it. I’ve had plenty of triumphs in my life. I’ve walked onstage to receive more medals than I can count, but none of them ever filled me up like this.

My hand shakes as I raise it to cup her cheek.

“I feel everything for you,” I murmur, my thumb stroking her smooth, warm skin. “And you know what? Screw someday. Let’s start right now.”

Her bottom lip trembles, and her eyes look big and wide enough to fall into.

I know if I did, she’d catch me. She’s ready now.

“WHAT DID SHE SAY?”

Kenzie turns at Chris’s shout and glares at him where he’s got his hands cupped around his mouth.

“Should I play the special song now, Zee-zee?” Gillian adds, waving her phone in the air and pointing at it.

Kenzie sighs and turns back to me, her cheeks going red.

I raise my eyebrows. “Zee-zee?”

She sighs. “I said I wasn’t ashamed, but damn, they’re really good at making me embarrassed.”

I stroke her face again. “I already like them so much. Thank you for letting me meet them. It means a lot.”

She nods. “It does for me too. I’ve never let someone in this much before.”

“Kenzie? Do I play the song?” Gillian calls.

Kenzie sighs and then shouts, “Go for it, Mom.”

I peer past Kenzie’s shoulder to watch as Gillian taps on her phone’s screen. “What exactly is this special song?”

Kenzie shrugs, blushing even harder. “I thought this moment might need a soundtrack. It’s stupid, but—”

She cuts herself off as the first few chords of Nickelback’s ‘Photograph’ drift through the air. I double over laughing as soon as I recognize it.

“Seriously?” Chris squawks. “Nickelback? This is your romantic song choice?”

“It’s an inside joke!” Kenzie yells back at him.

“It’s awful,” he says with a grimace. “You should have asked Doctor Sly for some help.”

Kenzie gives him the finger—which makes her mom gasp her name in a scandalized tone—before looking back at me.

She holds out her hand. “Would you like to come have some coffee and brownies with me and these imbeciles?”

I place my palm in hers, and a thrill shoots through my whole body.

“I would like nothing more.”

CHAPTER 25

KENZIE

I’ve finished my coffee and eaten way too many brownies when Moira pulls her phone out and grimaces at the screen.

“Oh, crap,” she mutters before I can ask what’s wrong. “We’re late.”

“Late?”

We’ve spent the past half hour sipping from our mugs and chatting with my mom and Chris. The whole thing feels surreal, like some sort of fanciful tea party from a fairytale version of my life, but it also feels right.

Moira is the right person. She’s someone worthy of the trust it took to bring her here, and I’m going to make sure she always knows it.

“Yeah,” she answers. “I, um, have a little something planned for you too.”

I squint. “What do you mean? I’m the one who—”

“I have some apologies and promises to make too,” she interrupts.

My mom and Chris are chatting on the other side of the table. They’re doing their best to pretend they’re busy watching something down on the street below us, but I can tell they’re both listening in.

I’m bursting with so much joy I don’t even mind. They helped make this day happen. They showed up for me.

“These promises are not being delivered in the form of brownies,” Moira continues, “but we, uh, kind of need to go. Like ASAP. Is that okay?”

“You need to go?” My mom turns back to face us in a very poor attempt at pretending she just happened to catch Moira’s last sentence.

“I’ve, um, got a surprise for Kenzie,” Moira answers, “and it’s a bit time sensitive, unfortunately. You two are welcome to come along.”

“That’s sweet,” my mom answers, “but you two probably want some time alone. We need to get back to the apartment anyway. My sister will be there in a couple hours, and Chris said he’d help me finish packing.”

The subject of my mom leaving to start her stay with her sister today came up as we were eating our brownies. The urge to change the subject and hide it all away from Moira was so strong I broke out in a sweat, but I stuck it out and let myself feel proud instead of panicked as I listened to my mom talk about taking care of herself.

He didn’t mention it, but Chris is doing better too. He’s moving into a new apartment next month, one without a bunch of housemates ready to pull him back into everything he’s working to pull himself out of. I wish he was in some sort of support program too, but that’s his choice to make, and as much as I love him, I’m not going to let myself feel responsible for his life.

We had a long and difficult conversation about what I will and won’t take from him from now on. There were a few moments when I thought he might storm out and never come back, but we reached an agreement, and his presence here today shows he’s serious about keeping it.

“I’ll see you before you leave, right?” I ask my mom.

She nods. “We’re heading out after supper.”

I get up to give her a hug, and since Chris seems intent on finishing off the brownies, Moira and I leave the two of them sitting there and head out of the cafe.

“You know you really didn’t have to prepare anything,” I say once we’re standing on the sidewalk. “I overreacted, and—”

Moira holds up a hand to stop me. “I want to do this. Even if I was trying to help, I didn’t do it right. I made you feel looked down on, and today I want to show you how looked up to you really are.”

She holds her hand out just like I did to her on the roof, and after a moment of staring at each other, I take it. As soon as she’s got a grip on my palm, she starts leading us up the sidewalk.

“Where exactly are we going?” I ask as we weave around groups of tourists taking pictures of the Château Laurier.

“You’ll see,” she sing-songs.

We walk up a couple blocks and then cross the street to get to a public staircase wedged between two modern, grey stone buildings.

I know this staircase. It leads up to the street Major’s Hill Park is on—the park I like to study in, the same park where Moira and I worked on our interview back in the fall. That was the night I first mentioned my mom to her, and never in a million years did I see us ending up where we are today.

We’re both panting a little when we reach the top of the stairs, but Moira doesn’t slow down. She’s practically dragging me up the road now.

“Are we going to the park?” I ask between huffs.

“Maaaaybe,” she drawls.

We speed-walk for half a block and then break out into a jog once we reach the iron fence running along the edge of the park. I can see people enjoying the warm weather through the gaps between the rails. There are picnics, Frisbee games, and reading sessions going on all across the sprawling lawns covered in bright green stems of fresh spring grass.

This is still one of my favourite places to study, and a stinging pang of regret hits when I realize I won’t have any studying to do here for a long time. There’s just no way for me to afford school anymore, not without the scholarship.

Even if Moira offers it to me again, I don’t know if I could take it now that I know where it came from.

“Almost there!” Moira crows, making a few people turn their heads as we speed through the park’s entrance.

I have no choice but to leave my morbid thoughts behind and get pulled into the whirl of her excitement as she drags me over to a picnic table in the middle of the park.

“This should be a good spot,” she mutters, seemingly to herself, as she motions for me to sit down and cranes her neck around to survey the park.

“So...are we going to sit here and wait for nightfall?” I ask. “I’m assuming you’ve organized an elaborate fireworks display that’s going to launch off Parliament Hill.”

I nod over at the green-roofed section of Canada’s parliament buildings that are visible past the tree line at the far edge of the park.

“Damn.” Moira smacks her palm to her forehead in an adorable gesture of feigned regret. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

She takes a seat beside me, sliding in close enough that our thighs are almost touching. My hand is braced on the bench between us, and she inches the tips of her fingers over her leg until they brush mine.

“Do you want to...?”

“Hold hands?” I finish for her.

She nods and drops her gaze to the ground. Her nervous smile is so cute I want to pull her down in the grass and make out in a way that would not be appropriate considering the number of families in the park today.

Hand holding seems like a good place to start.

“I’d love to.”

I twine my fingers with hers and inch my body closer, until her thigh brushes up against mine. I pull both our hands into my lap and stroke my thumb over her knuckles. The warm sun beats down on my shoulders, and I tip my face to the sky as I let my eyes fall closed.

Spring is here to stay, and so am I.

No matter what happens, I’m keeping my promises to her. I’m keeping my promises to myself.

When I tilt my chin back down, I find Moira drinking the sight of me in like I’m sunlight itself. Her lips are parted, and her green eyes glitter like gemstones in the light.

I start leaning in towards her, my lips parting too.

Then the wail of a set of bagpipes rings out, the piercing sound loud enough to fill the whole park. Startled, I rear back from Moira and glance around to find the source of the noise.

Way down at the far end of the park, I spot a piper in full Scottish regalia making her way towards us in a slow procession up the grass. Her red and green kilt flaps around her knees, her fingers a flurry of precise movement and her cheeks puffing out to fill the bag with air.

I look back at Moira, whose face is stretched in an excited grin now. I can feel her leg bouncing against mine as she drums her heels on the ground.

“Is that Georgie?” I ask. She’s still a little too far to be sure, but I’m pretty sure I recognize one of the regular pipers from SDOO events.

Moira shrugs, still beaming. “Maaaybe.”

I turn back to watch Georgie come even closer. People from all around the park are paying attention now, some of them smiling in appreciation and some of them grimacing in annoyance.

Bagpipes always have a pretty polarizing effect.

When Georgie is only a few metres away, the pipes still droning out the familiar tune of a Fling, I spot a group of people pointing at something behind our table while they chatter and clap.

I look over my shoulder and see a brunette kid in a bright red kilt and jacket has appeared out of nowhere and is now flying through the first step of the Highland Fling from her spot on one of the paths winding through the park.

Before I can turn back to ask Moira what’s going on, two more dancers step out from behind a wide tree trunk. They giggle and rush over to join the first girl, jumping into the dance and falling into perfect rhythm with one another. The contrasting colours of their jewel-tone outfits draw every eye in the park as their legs shoot out with mesmerizing precision.

“Moira, how—”

I don’t get the rest of my question out; when I finally pull my eyes away from the dancers, I realize more and more are appearing all over the park, standing up from their spots on blankets or running out from behind trees. A few of the older kids even get up on picnic tables to make the crowd gasp as they whirl through their turns on the wooden boards.

As I continue to stare, my mouth hanging open and my neck swivelling to take the whole scene in, I realize I recognize most of the dancers.

They’re RSA students. They’re my students.

A lump starts to form in my throat.

Most of the spectators in the park have started clapping along to the tune of the pipes. Georgie has played the Fling almost twice through now, and a few of the dancers break out of the traditional steps and use the travelling motion from the Reel to start making their way over to where Moira and I are sitting.

Soon, the whole group of what has to be close to thirty dancers have arranged themselves in two long rows facing our table. All I can do is gape and squeeze Moira’s hand as they dance the final step of the Fling in unison.

As the bagpipes squeal to a stop, Moira swings her legs over the bench to stand up, giving me a reassuring nod as she slides her hand out of my grip. She hurries over to stand at the end of the front row, facing me along with everyone else in the formation.

Together, they finish by propping their fists on their hips and dipping forward in a solemn bow.

My hands fly up to cover my mouth when I realize what this moment means, what it symbolizes.

All of them are bowing to me.

The lump in my throat swells even larger, and I’m frozen in place—except for my shoulders, which have started to tremble. I scan the smiling faces of the kids in front of me as they straighten back up. Even Georgie tips her head in respect and grins when I glance at her.

The park fills with applause and shouts of ‘Encore!’ but still, I can’t move. I should probably say something, but I can barely breathe.

I’ve spent almost my whole life searching for exactly this: an unconditional sense of belonging, of safety, of respect. I’ve strained to make every part of myself perfect and poised because I didn’t know how else to be worthy of acceptance.

Of love.

That’s what I see in all the dancers staring back at me. That’s what I see in the way Moira watches me with shining eyes.

This is my kilt-wearing, bagpipe-playing, bun-sporting family, and they love me whether I’m perfect or not. They’re here today to show me that, and the passion of their dance is enough to make the truth of this moment pour down into the very depths of my heart.

I can’t lose this.

The thought sends panic shooting through my body even as grateful tears start to blur my vision.

None of them know. None of them know what happened when I walked into Catherine’s office a few days ago and faced her for the first time since the competition.

A piercing wolf whistle so loud it pulls me out of my thoughts has me peering over at a bench across the park, where I can just make out Margaret Murray and Moira’s friend Lydia clapping and cheering along with the crowd. Moira follows my gaze and then shakes her head as she steps close enough to speak to me over the noise.

“They insisted on being here,” she says with a laugh.

My attempt at a smile must be even less convincing than it feels; Moira frowns and comes to stand at the end of the table, crouching down so we’re face to face.

“Are you okay?” she asks. “Is it too much? I can tell them to leave. I—”

I shake my head and rasp, “It’s perfect.”

It really is perfect. It’s the kind of moment I know I’ll be able to recall with flawless clarity for the rest of my entire life.

My tears start falling for real now, trailing a salty mix of joy and grief down my cheeks.

“I have something I want to say,” Moira adds, stretching her hand out to grip my knee, “if you want to hear it.”

I nod, since there’s no way I’ll be able to do any talking myself.

She straightens up and walks backwards to stand front and center of the rows of dancers. I see her shoulders rise and fall as she takes a deep breath.

“We’re here today,” she begins, looking around at the crowd of dancers’ parents and random onlookers that have come close enough to hear, “to honor a very special member of our community. You only have to see Kenzie Andrianakis dance for a few seconds to know she’s something special.”

Her gaze locks on mine as I’m swiping at my cheeks, fighting for composure I almost lose all over again when she continues.

“Kenzie is more than an incredible dancer, though. She’s a truly gifted teacher who brings out the best in her students and has helped so many of them achieve their goals and more. I mean, you have to be a pretty great coach to get all these students and their parents to give up their Sunday and fight for parking downtown.”

A laugh ripples through the crowd, and I let out a watery chuckle.

“That’s why everyone is here today.” Her voice turns solemn. “Not because I asked them to be, but because they wanted to give back to someone who has given them so much. Kenzie, you are such an inspiration. You are admired and respected by me and everyone here. You’ve changed lives. You’ve...you’ve changed my life.”

There are a few sighs and mutters of ‘Awww!’ as Moira’s voice catches and she has to stop and collect herself. My legs go weak, and I’m grateful I’m already sitting.

“So thank you, Miss Kenzie, for everything you’ve done, and everything you’ve yet to do. We love you.”

I press my hands over my mouth again and feel hot tears slide over my fingers as Georgie fills her pipes. Guided by Moira, the students all start moving in unison to perform the Tribute to JL McKenzie.

It’s my favourite dance. It’s the one I did to Nickelback while clutching a photo to my chest as Moira and I goofed around in her house.

I sit there crying and shaking, my eyes roaming over the kids I’ve taught these very steps to. I’ve known many of them and their parents for years.

They won’t realize it until Catherine makes the official announcement, but today, this dance is also a goodbye.

The drone of the bagpipes reverberates deep in my chest, every aching note a bittersweet one.

* * *

Somehow, I plaster enough of a smile on my face to get through the chatting and hugs that follow the performance. I shake hands and give high-fives. I chuckle and make small talk about end of year showcases and summer training camps.

I squeeze my hands into tight fists behind my back and take deep breaths each time the ache in my chest gets to be too much.

Lydia and Margaret are the last ones to leave. I lean into Margaret’s hug just a little too long, letting her warmth give me strength. She gives me a searching look when I pull back but doesn’t ask any questions.

Once Margaret has left, Lydia finishes up her conversation with Moira and pulls me into a hug too.

“You may just have the bestie seal of approval,” she says, stepping back to hold my shoulders at arm’s length, “but I’ll confirm at a later date.”

Moira hauls her off me. “Get out of here, you weirdo.”

When we’re finally alone again, I step back over to the picnic table and brace my hand on the top, turning away from Moira. My lungs ache from holding so much inside me, and I know I’m about to fall apart. Looking at her will only make it happen faster.

“Something’s wrong,” she says, the words a statement rather than a question. I hear her take a few steps closer and come to a stop just behind me. “I’m really sorry if this wasn’t the right move. I—”

“It was perfect,” I interject, hardly able to speak above a whisper. I squeeze my eyes shut to block out the sunlight. The glare feels harsh rather than comforting now. “I mean it. I...I can’t tell you how much it meant.”

She’s close enough now that I can hear her breathing, but I still don’t turn around. “So what’s wrong?”

“It’s just...I...”

My throat is threatening to close up and choke me. I curl my fingers and dig my nails into the weathered wood of the table’s boards.

“I don’t think I can tell you here,” I get out. “I want to tell you. I do. I will. Just...can we go somewhere?”

Gently, like I’m a pair of delicate wings that might snap in her hands, she grips my upper arm and spins me around to face her. “Of course. Come on.”

She slides her hand down to intertwine with mine again, and that’s how we walk out of the park. She doesn’t let go until we reach the now familiar green station wagon where it’s parked two blocks away.

“My mum took the other car today, thank god,” she says as she digs around in her jacket pocket for the keys.

We drive for about fifteen minutes, the silence between us heavy but somehow comforting as I stare out the windows to watch the tall buildings shrink and the streets widen until I recognize where we’re heading.

“This okay?” Moira asks when we turn onto the street that leads to the Murray School of Highland Dance. “Seems kind of like...our thing.”

I watch the corner of her mouth lift and reach over to rest my hand on her thigh. “I like that we have a thing.”

She blushes, and the rosy tinge of her cheeks reminds me that no matter what else happens, today is still a very good day.

After she’s parked and we’ve gotten out of the car, I reach up to rub my hands along my arms. The sun is starting to set now, and the temperature is dropping quickly.

I pull my phone out while Moira’s busy getting the studio door open and text my mom to make sure I’ll still have time to see her off tonight. She sends a thumbs-up emoji, and another choking wave of emotion hits.

I’ll need to say goodbye to my mom today too.

We step into the studio, the entryway dim in the fading light, and I busy myself with taking my shoes off. The Murray School feels familiar now—not in the same way the rooms and halls of RSA feel like home to me, but still, I have memories here now too.

I set my shoes down on a rack and lean against the front desk to watch Moira unlacing her flower-patterned Doc Martens as her hair falls into her face.

She places her shoes next to mine and holds out her hand. “Come on.”

Without saying anything else, we climb the stairs up to her favourite room.

It’s my favourite room in this place too. It might even be one of my favourite rooms in the whole city, and as we make our way down the hall towards its door, I remember what Margaret said when she showed up to take care of me at RSA.

If you ever need somewhere to dance, there’s plenty of room at the Murray School.

The ache in my chest starts building back up when I realize I do need somewhere to dance. My home is gone. I’ve gained so much today, but nothing can take the place of that loss.

Moira swings the studio’s door open and guides me inside, a gasp slipping out of her mouth when she gets a look at the room.

“I forgot you’d never seen the sun hit the stained glass before.” She blinks at me, a beam of rosy light from the windows painting half her face pink and settling into the strands of her hair. “What do you think?”

I let go of her hand to step to the centre of the room, spreading my arms as I turn in a few slow circles. The semi-circles of stained glass above the main windows are gleaming like massive rubies, and the whole room is streaked in shifting shades of red and pink that bounce between the mirrored walls. I feel like we’re inside the heart of some huge, glowing stone, insulated and protected, surrounded by a humming, gentle power.

“I think it’s magical,” I breathe.

Then I burst into tears.

“Kenzie!” Moira flies across the room to hold me, and I sag in her arms. “Hey. Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Catherine fired me,” I choke out, unable to hold it in for a second longer. “Or I quit. I don’t even know what happened. I wanted to talk to her, to figure things out, but...but she didn’t want that, and then we were both shouting, and it was awful, and we both said some pretty terrible things, and...and...”

I lose my breath, my words dissolving into gasps. Moira guides me down to sit on the floor. She pulls my head onto her shoulder and strokes my hair until I can speak again.

“It’s over,” I say, the words flat and final. “That whole part of my life, it’s...over. She’s going to make the announcement that I’m no longer teaching at the academy in a few days, and even if she did somehow take me back, I don’t know if I could do it. She...she’s not good for me, and it fucking hurts to know it because I know she’s hurting too, but she’s not ready to change, and I am.”

Moira slides her hand down to rub my back as I take a deep and shuddering breath. “That sounds so tough. I wish I could make it easier. I’m...I’m really proud of you, you know.”

I take another deep breath. I can smell a trace of flowery shampoo in her hair, and underneath it, there’s the sweet scent of her skin.

That’s familiar now too. She’s becoming so familiar.

She’s becoming something I can count on.

“Why?” I ask.

“Because you’re putting yourself first and being so strong and brave about it. I can tell how hard it is for you. I can tell how hard it is for you to even tell me any of this, and how hard it was for you to let me in like you did on the roof today. I see you, Kenzie, and it makes me so proud.”

I twist my head to press a kiss to her shoulder, just above the collar of her shirt. “I’m proud of you too, you know.”

She grips my waist and repeats my question. “Why?”

“Because I see how much you believe in yourself. I see you putting yourself first too. I see what a difference you make in the world, and I see you noticing that too. You made today happen. You brought all those people together, even if they were there for me. You’re a leader, and it’s wild to think you could have ever believed the life you lead is too small. You’re powerful, Moira, and you don’t need to change your goals or dreams for that to be true.”

She presses her lips to my temple and holds them there for a few seconds.

“I finally believe that,” she says against my skin, “and you helped me get there.”

I straighten up so I can look her in the eye. “I want to do this, you know. You and me.”

She holds my waist even tighter. “Oh?”

I nod. “Yes. I might not have a job or a plan for school or any idea what the hell is going on with the rest of my life, but I know exactly what I want when it comes to you.”

She leans her face a little closer to mine and murmurs, “And what’s that?”

I don’t hold back. I don’t weigh the consequences. I don’t keep myself under control.

“I want to date you. For real. I want to be girlfriends.”

She blinks at me for so long my stomach starts tying itself in knots.

“If you want,” I add. “I know it’s fast, but—”

Before I can finish my sentence, she throws her arms around my neck and tackles me. We crash to the floor before her lips find mine. I wrap my legs around her waist and pull her to me as tight as I can, pouring everything I have into the kiss. The taste of her overwhelms me, and for a few long moments, I forget everything else.

“So that’s a yes?” I gasp when she finally lets us come up for air.

We’re both panting as we push ourselves up to sit beside each other. The hunger in her hooded eyes has me ready to push her right back down.

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” she says with a smirk that makes my thighs twitch.

I reach for her, but she takes my hands off her shoulders and brings them both to her lap, wrapping her palms around mine.

“Wait. Before we do anything else, I need to say something.”

My heart pounds against my ribs. “Yes?”

She stares down at our joined hands. “I promise I’m only going to say this once, and then I’ll drop it forever if you want me to. I just want you to hear it and take it alongside everything else you’ve heard from me today. I want you to know it comes from a place of respect.”

I squint. “Um, okay? I can do that.”

She blows out a breath and looks up at me. “You’re going to change so many lives as a social worker. I think there are a lot of people who really need someone like you, and they need you soon. You deserve to pursue your dream. You deserve everything you want because you want it all for the right reasons. So I’m going to say this again, the way I should have said it the first time. If you’ll accept it, the scholarship is yours. I’m not even convinced I want to finish university, and it would make me happier than almost anything in the world to see you go after what you want without interruption. This isn’t a pity offer. I truly believe you deserve it. You worked just as hard as I did to win, and I hope you know you have all my respect when I say I think you should have it.”

I know she’s telling the truth. I can see it painting her face like the glow from the stained glass, but a thousand protests still shove their way to the front of my thoughts, blocking out and beating down the parts of me that want to say yes.

I didn’t really win.

I don’t need help.

I have to do this on my own.

I don’t want Catherine’s money.

That last one screams out above all the rest.

“There’s something you should know.” I stare into Moira’s confused face for a moment before I continue. “The scholarship...the nine thousand dollars...it was Catherine. She made the donation. She didn’t want me to leave school either, and she was sure I’d win the competition. I guess that really backfired on her.”

I let out a bitter laugh, but Moira’s expression just gets more confused.

“If she wanted to help you, why didn’t she just give you the money?”

My laugh peters out. “Because Catherine and I...we both have some fucked up ideas about what being strong means, about staying in control and handling everything on your own. I wouldn’t have taken money from her for nothing. I wouldn’t have even taken that much as a loan from her, and she knew it.”

“Kenzie...” She squeezes my hands. “God knows I’m not Catherine’s biggest fan, but...but if she gave you that money, it wouldn’t be for nothing. You two have a...a bond. A relationship. When you care about someone like that, you care for them too.”

I don’t know if we have a bond anymore. I don’t even know if she’ll ever speak to me again. I’m angry at Catherine, and so hurt the pain is like a cruel blade still shoved in my back, but no matter what her motivations were or how fucked up her methods got, there was a time when she wanted me to have that money. Moira is right.

Catherine wanted to help me, and I am so tired of doing everything without help.

“There’s so much telling me to say no to that money,” I murmur.

I watch Moira’s face fall before she steels herself and nods. “Okay. I get it. I won’t bring it up again.”

I squeeze her hands. “I’m not done.”

“Oh?” Her eyes widen.

“I told you it would take me some time to change, but I don’t want to make you wait for everything. I don’t want to wait for everything, so...”

I pause and take a deep breath, watching Moira watch me.

Maybe this doesn’t have to be complicated. Maybe I can let it all go and let someone in.

“I accept,” I finish.

Moira’s mouth drops open, and I can’t help chuckling at the way she’s gaping at me like a goldfish.

“Thank you, Moira. Really.” I make myself get serious again. “This means so much.”

“It does for me too.”

She brings my hands up to her mouth and kisses my knuckles. The gesture is so tender it makes my chest get tight and keeps any panic threatening to rise up inside me at bay.

I’m safe. I’m going to be okay.

“You know,” she says between kisses, “you’re always welcome here, in the studio. Always. I’ll get you a key and everything.”

I laugh. “That’s pretty much exactly what your mom said, although she didn’t go so far as to offer me a key.”

Moira freezes. “You talked to my mom?”

Blood thumps in my ears. I figured Margaret would have mentioned it to her.

“Um, yeah. She...she came and found me after the competition. Catherine hadn’t officially fired me then, but your mom still said I was welcome here.”

Moira sighs and raises her eyes to the ceiling. “I am gonna need to speak with that woman.”

“It was really nice,” I rush to assure her. “Really. She wasn’t trying to interfere with you and me. She just...she was looking out for me when I really needed someone.”

Moira sighs again. “She is pretty great, and since now I know she agrees, there’s no question about it. I’m going to get a key made for you. I know how much it means to have a place to dance.”

“Moira—”

“Nuh-uh.” She holds up a finger. “You get to decide about everything else, but I’m giving you this whether you want it or not.”

I swallow down the urge to fight her on it and nod. “Thank you. Your trust means a lot, especially when we’ve already used this studio for...many things besides dancing.”

Her eyes darken at the suggestion in my tone, and she lets go of one of my hands to tuck a piece of hair behind my ear before sliding her fingers down to brush my neck. “That we have.”

I start to lean in, but just before my eyes close, I see her head jerk back as her face lights up with another realization.

“Yes, Moira?” I ask, faking annoyance.

She grins. “It’s kinda hot when you act like you still hate me.”

I nudge her leg with my knee. “It’s kind of hot when you try to annoy me.”

“I have something important to say!” she protests.

I heave a dramatic sigh. “Go on, then.”

“You don’t have to think too hard about this just yet.” Her voice gets serious, and she sits up straight. “But I’m sure my mum would totally hire you if you wanted to work here.”

My breath catches. “Moira—”

She holds up one of her fingers again. “I just wanted to put it out there. You can think about it later. We’ve already been through a lot today, and I don’t know about you, but right now, I’m kind of done with talking.”

I let the worry and questions go. I set all my plans and protests free. They dissolve into the garnet glow of the room, leaving only me and her behind.

“You read my mind,” I whisper.

Then I pull my girlfriend back down onto the floor and kiss her without a care in the world.

CHAPTER 26

MOIRA

ONE YEAR LATER

“You’re playing with fire, Miss Andrianakis,” I murmur against Kenzie’s lips. “I’m gonna mess both our hair up if you keep kissing me like that, and we don’t have time to get ready all over again.”

“Lies,” she says, her hot breath making my heart beat even faster. “You can do a highland bun in like two minutes, and I can do them even faster.”

I wrap my hand around her wrist where she’s reaching over my shoulder to brace herself against the hotel room desk in front of me. She’s just finished putting my hair up in a bun while I sit facing the mirror above the desk. Her own hair is wound up in a bun I did for her with a big tartan bow tied around the base.

She really fought me on the bow, but when I told her it helps our students find us in the crowd when they’re feeling nervous, she relented.

I don’t even know if that’s true. I just thought she’d look adorable with a bow on.

“Is that a challenge?” I ask, giving her wrist a squeeze.

She pulls back to stare down at me with hooded eyes. “We do love our challenges, you and I.”

That’s all it takes. I spring up from my seat in the chair and whirl around to crush my mouth to hers. We land in a tangle of limbs on the queen size bed behind her.

She moans into my mouth when I slide my thigh between both of hers, pressing against her as her hips buck up to meet me. I run the tip of my tongue along her lips and brace my hands against the soft, tartan-patterned blanket stretched out over the comforter.

Of course it’s a tartan blanket. Being this close to the site of the biggest highland games in Scotland has encouraged the bed and breakfast we’re staying in to take the Scottish decor up to level one thousand. We’re here to support two Murray School students who’ve made it to the world championships this year. There were little packets of shortbread cookies on the pillows when we arrived last night, and hanging above the bed is a truly hideous oil painting of a bagpipe player perched on a windswept hill in the rain. The proportions are all off, and the bagpipes look like some sort of alien species attaching itself to the man’s body to suck the life out of him.

I try not to look at the painting when I shift us further up the bed, but the piper’s bulbous eyes draw mine up to meet them like the painting is possessed.

“Kenzie,” I whisper, “he’s watching us.”

She snorts. “Oh my god, Moira. I told you last night we could move it, and you said no.”

“If we move it, he might get angry and haunt us.”

She slides her arms around my waist after I’ve lowered myself back down on top of her. “I’ll protect you from the demon piper.”

I settle my head on her chest and listen to the steady rhythm of her breathing.

“I know you will,” I murmur.

It’s been over a year since the day we sat on the floor of Studio B and she asked me to be her girlfriend. Sometimes it feels like we’ve been dating forever, and sometimes I still feel a jolt of surprise when I wake up beside her and realize I really am in an amazing relationship with a girl I spent most of my life swearing I hated.

All I feel for her now is love—a love that’s somehow steady and sure but still elated and wild. She can thrill me with just a look, and she can calm me with a simple touch. Loving Kenzie feels like spinning through the steps of an intricate dance I have memorized but still manage to be surprised by each time I let go and throw my whole heart into the movement.

That’s where she meets me. Every time, she finds me there, and we share this dance as partners and equals.

Equals who still really like to mess with each other sometimes.

“You suuure we’re gonna have time to fix our hair?” I drawl as I inch my fingers up under the edge of her t-shirt. “I won’t gloat if you want to just go ahead and admit I’m faster than you.”

She scoffs, and before I can brace to retaliate, she flips us over in one fluid motion and lands with her legs straddling my thighs. She straightens up to balance on her knees, and I have a moment to appreciate the sight of her towering over me as she reaches up to push back a few wisps of hair that have already escaped her bun.

The motion makes her tits strain against her white shirt and lifts the edge enough for me to see a sliver of her lily white stomach.

My throat goes dry, and my hands twitch with the need to touch her.

She’s got her personalized Murray School of Highland Dance windbreaker hanging open on top, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. The little embroidered swath of Murray tartan above the jacket’s front pocket makes the whole ensemble even sexier; I love seeing her in my family’s colours.

Kenzie took all of last summer to decide whether or not she wanted to accept the teaching job my mum offered her for the fall. At first I was frustrated with her taking so long, but I came around and realized it was a way smarter decision to think it through.

We needed time to build a foundation for things between us before we intertwined our lives that much, and Kenzie needed time to make peace with the changes in her own life.

I think part of her might have spent the summer holding out hope Catherine would soften. In a way, she did—she voided Kenzie’s non-compete clause so she could keep teaching highland somewhere else, which, coming from Catherine, was an act of extreme reconciliation in and of itself—but the two of them weren’t able to salvage any of the good parts of a relationship that still causes Kenzie pain to this day.

Things have mellowed a little over the course of the year. Catherine doesn’t shoot constant daggers at us at SDOO events, and Kenzie doesn’t lose as much sleep about the way things ended. They even nod at each other from across the room at competitions sometimes.

Maybe one day Catherine really will accept the invitation to talk things over that Kenzie left her with. For both their sakes, I hope she does, but in the meantime, I’m proud my girlfriend is putting herself first.

“You always gloat.” Kenzie leans back down and brings her lips to my ear. The throaty sound of her murmur pulls me back into the present, and when she traces the shell of my ear with her tongue, I shiver and close my eyes.

“You do too,” I argue, my voice too breathy to have any bite to it.

She retaliates with another kiss. This one is scorching, burning through my veins like wildfire that has me clawing at her clothes and writhing under her body. She cups my jaw with one hand, tilting my head back to take full control of my mouth.

I moan when her thumb slides down to brush over my throat.

“Moira, Moira, Moira,” she whispers against my lips, her mocking tone somehow so sexy it makes my thighs tense. “You’d give me anything, wouldn’t you?”

I arch my neck in answer. There’s no point denying what we both know is true.

Her thumb works its way down to trace my collarbones and the hollow at the base of my throat. I shiver. Kenzie chuckles against my mouth and then dips her whole hand under the neck of my shirt and into one of the cups of my bra, finding my hard nipple.

“Come on, Moira,” she taunts. “Don’t make this too easy.”

It’s just enough of a dare to pull me out of my daze and make me bat my eyes open. I find her smirking at me, and before she can brace for it, I push on her shoulders and raise us both up so I can settle myself in her lap with my legs wrapped around her waist.

I don’t worry about being too big or too heavy. I know she loves my body, and I know she loves the way I love my body too.

We kiss with our chests pressed together, our hands seeking any bare skin they can find. She clasps hers around the back of my neck and pulls me even closer before sliding her fingers up to dig them into my pinned up hair.

I’m so caught up in what her tongue’s doing inside my mouth it takes me a few seconds to realize what her hands are up to.

“Hey!” I yelp after pulling my head back. “You’re messing it up on purpose!”

She shrugs and gives me a grin that can only be described as devilish.

“We didn’t establish any rules for this competition,” she says, “and besides, you look super hot with your hair all messed up.”

She tugs on a lock that’s fallen loose at the back of my head, and the sharp spike of the sensation makes me pull my lip between my teeth.

“Well, so do you,” I counter before kissing her with a fury and burying my fingers in her hair too.

We can only keep it up for a few seconds before we both burst out laughing.

“God, we’re ridiculous,” I pant, leaning over to rest my forehead on her shoulder.

“The demon piper certainly thinks so.”

I pretend to shudder. “He’s still watching us, isn’t he?”

She adds a spooky tone to her voice. “He’s always watching us.”

“Well, good.” I straighten back up and climb off her lap. “He can judge who fixes their hair the fastest.”

I leap off the bed, ignoring Kenzie’s shouts of protest as I sweep my arm over the desk to gather up all the hair supplies and then sprint to the bathroom.

“No rules, remember?” I shriek.

I drop the pile of bobby pins, brushes, and bottles clutched in my arms down on the counter and tear the remnants of my bun loose. Kenzie comes storming in a half-second later and glowers at me as she does the same thing.

We stand side by side in the tiny bathroom, most of which is taken up by an old-fashioned claw foot tub I plan to make good use of with her tonight. The mirror in front of us is just big enough to hold both our reflections in its gilded frame.

“I’m gonna win!” I shout as I rake a brush through my hair and then gather it all up in an elastic on top of my head like I’ve done a few thousand times before.

“No fucking way,” Kenzie mumbles around the bobby pins she’s holding between her lips as she smoothes down the back of her head.

We’re both a whirl of well-practiced movements for the next couple minutes. Kenzie grabs one of the bottles of hairspray just before I’m about to wrap my hand around it and douses her bun in a few sprays.

“DONE!” she bellows, slamming the bottle back down on the counter for emphasis.

“Nuh-uh!” I shout. “You didn’t do your bow!”

She balks as I reach for my strip of tartan ribbon and wrap it around the base of my bun. “The bow isn’t part of it!”

“Today it is.” I tie the final knot in place and smirk at her. “I win.”

She puts her hands on her hips. “I did not agree to these terms.”

“Too bad for you.” I shrug. “I’m the winner.”

“You’re a little shit is what you are.” She glares at me, but it only takes a second before her face cracks into a grin. “Come here.”

She reaches for my arm and pulls me to her, planting a gentle peck on my lips. It’s innocent and tender, but I can still feel the warmth of her mouth travel through my whole body.

“You’re gonna let me redo your bow, right?” I ask once she steps back.

She sighs. “You’re not going to let me out of this hotel room until I do, right?”

I shake my head and beam at her. “Now you’re catching on.”

* * *

A couple hours later, Kenzie and I are holding hands and making our way over to one of the main dance stages at the games. I’ve been to a few highland games in Canada, but nothing compares to this. This is the mecca of traditional Scottish sporting events. People from all around the world turn up to watch bulky dudes in kilts toss tree trunks around, listen to bagpipe troupes battle it out for awards, buy cheesy souvenirs, eat every kind of haggis-themed snack the human race can come up with, and of course, see the biggest and best highland dance competition in the world.

Since we’ve got two students from the Murray School competing here this year, my whole family decided to make a vacation of it and fly over to support the girls. It took a little convincing, but Kenzie eventually got on board and accepted a plane ticket as an early birthday present from all of us.

We only have a few days before we fly back; Kenzie is taking summer courses again this year, and I’ve got a day camp to run at the studio. I’ve decided to finish my Bachelor of Education, but my mum is letting me take on more responsibilities at the studio as I prepare to formally start a position as a co-director once I graduate.

We come to a stop once we reach the rows of seats facing the covered stage. I scan the crowd for a glimpse of my parents, and when I glance back at Kenzie, I find her grinning.

“What?” I ask.

“I just saw a medic walk by. It brought back some memories.”

I glare at her. “Do not make another mole hole joke.”

My entire family has been spending this trip harking back to the demise of my dance career, brought about by the ankle I broke in a stupid mole hole at these very games.

She lifts her hand in protest. “I wasn’t going to. I was just thinking...”

She trails off, but she doesn’t need to explain. I know exactly what she’s thinking about.

“When you saw me in the stretcher,” I say, both of us still locked in place even though the crowd has to weave around us, “there was this look on your face...”

She pins me with her gaze, those bottomless brown eyes ready to swallow me up, and I see it again, that exact same look, the one I catch her watching me with every now and then. That day in this field all those years ago was the very first time I ever caught a glimpse of it.

“I knew,” she murmurs. “I didn’t really understand what I knew, but I saw you were hurt, and I just...I knew. I knew you meant way more to me than I was ready to admit back then.”

I squeeze her hand. “I did too.”

The seats are almost totally full now, and a rowdy group of teenage boys nearly knocks us off our feet as they sprint past to grab a row for themselves. The spell between Kenzie and I breaks, and I scan the audience again, spotting my mum waving at us after a couple moments of searching. We make our way over to join her, my dad, and my siblings.

“I hope it doesn’t rain,” my mum says from her spot beside me once we’re settled. She’s decked out in full Murray School swag just like us, complete with her famous ghillie-shaped earrings.

The sky is a typical gloomy Scottish grey, and the air is a little chilly even though it’s the middle of July, but that hasn’t stopped the event from being packed with people. Chatter fills the air, almost loud enough to block out the drone of the piper warming up beside the stage. Yesterday was rainy too, and I can smell the tang of muddy grass trampled by thousands of feet.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” my dad adds from beside my mum. “With all this mud, people are going to have to be extra careful of the mole holes, right, Moira?”

I groan. “You really had to bring that up? Again?”

My mum wags a finger at him to scold him, but he ignores her as he reaches forward to extend his long, strong arm and give Kenzie a high-five.

“Good one, right?” he asks her.

She chuckles. “Pretty good.”

Even though they’re making fun of me, it still makes my chest get all warm and tight to see Kenzie bonding with my family.

I’ve gotten to know her family better too. Last summer, we had weekly dinners and Netflix binges with Chris at Kenzie’s apartment. He’s busier now—the full time job he landed with a landscaping company has him pretty tired out—but we still see him from time to time.

Kenzie’s mom ended up extending her stay with her sister and moved back home just in time for Christmas. Her mental health has had some ups and downs since then, but her and Kenzie’s bond is stronger than ever, and I know no matter what, they’re going to figure things out.

“Oh, here they come!” My mum points at the stage, where a line of girls in velvet jackets with competitor numbers pinned to their kilts are filing into formation.

The first dance of the day is the Fling, and we all cheer and clap for Hailey, one of the students we’re supporting today.

The bagpipes begin, and the dancers bow in unison before rising up on the balls of their feet and then shooting their legs out with startling precision to begin the first step of the dance. These are some of the best dancers in the world, and it shows. Even I can’t take my eyes off the flare of their kilts as they propel themselves higher in the air than should be humanly possible.

They’re onto the third step when I feel Kenzie reach for my hand. I thread my fingers through hers as she leans closer, both of us still watching the stage.

“That used to be us,” she says, just loud enough for me to hear.

“Yeah,” I agree. “So much has changed.”

She chuckles. “Thank god.”

I squeeze her hand and rest my head on her shoulder as the first flecks of rain drop from the sky to land on my cheek.

* * *

Thank you so much for reading The Devil Wears Tartan! I hope Moira and Kenzie’s story made you laugh, cry, and swoon (preferably in that order).

I’d love to share some more of my characters with you! I have a FREE queer novella available to download when you join Club Katia on my website www.katiarose.com. Stop and Stare is an NBLW friends-to-lovers rom-com you’ll love if you enjoyed The Devil Wears Tartan. Keep reading for a sample of the first few chapters!

SAVE AN INDIE

Thank you so much for picking up a copy of The Devil Wears Tartan! It means the world to me to have you as a reader.

Fun Fact: The Devil Wears Tartan is an indie book, meaning it was published independently by the author. Indie publishing is an awesome thing that allows more writers to get their work out into the world and more readers to find the kind of books they love.

Here’s how you can help ensure your fave indie authors are able to serve up new stories for years to come:

Step one: obtain indie books in a legal manner. Step two: take a minute to drop a quick review. Reviews are the LIFE BLOOD of an indie author, and just typing a simple “I liked it!” is it all it takes to straight up SAVE AN AUTHOR’S CAREER (which means more books for you!)

On behalf of all indies, THANK YOU for your support!

-Katia

UP NEXT

STOP AND STARE

This queer friends-to-lovers novella is available as a free download on Katia Rose’s website!

Sometimes love is in the last place you look.

Iz Sanchez has looked for love just about everywhere. Granted, life as a gender non-conforming jock at a small coastal university does not exactly present a wealth of opportunity, but that hasn’t stopped Iz from seizing the day.

So far their quest to find Miss Right has only resulted in heartbreak and way too many awkward run-ins with exes at the campus sports bar, but at the end of the day, Iz can always count on their friends, their glorious collection of designer sneakers, and their steadfast belief that love is out there somewhere to get them back in the game.

What they didn’t expect was to have their world turned upside down by a champagne-fueled New Year’s kiss with the girl who’s been their best friend since toddlerhood.

Marina Townsend has always known she and her best friend Iz were made to be more than friends. She’s spent years waiting for the right moment to come along and make Iz see it too.

That moment shows up at the stroke of midnight, but instead of pulling them together, the kiss only seems to push them apart. Now that a lifelong friendship is on the line, Iz can’t stop thinking about the times love has left them burned. They’ll need to figure their heart out—and soon—because Marina is done waiting for Iz to realize what she’s known all along:

Sometimes love comes looking for you.

Read on for an excerpt!

CHAPTER 1

IZ

“Should we poke it with something?”

Paulina’s fingers dig into my shoulders where she’s trying to hide all six foot one of herself behind me. She’s whispering like the raccoon might lunge at us with its fangs bared at any minute.

“Maybe we should throw a rock,” I answer.

“No! Don’t throw a rock at it!” She raises her voice and then yelps and goes back to whispering when the raccoon pauses the little feast he’s having and looks at us. “He’s too cute.”

“If he’s cute, why are you hiding behind me?”

“Because he might have rabies!”

I’m not an expert, but I don’t think the pudgy raccoon chilling on our house’s front steps is showing any signs of rabies. He’s propped on his back feet as he munches his way through the contents of a shredded trash bag. He seems to have dragged it out of the knocked-over garbage bin lying next to me and Paulina on the sidewalk.

“Well I’m glad to know you’re okay with me getting rabies before you.”

“I have longer legs!” she protests. “If you get bit first, I can get help faster.”

I burst out laughing at all the ways that doesn’t make sense, which makes the raccoon look at us again, which makes Paulina scream, which makes me laugh even more as I shift around under her death grip and pull my phone out of my jacket pocket.

“What are you doing?” she asks.

“Calling Jane.” I dial the number of one of our other two housemates and press the phone to my ear. “If she’s in the house, maybe she can bang some pots and pans or something and scare it.”

Paulina and I have been standing here in the freezing February weather for at least ten minutes. We found the front door blocked by our furry visitor after walking home from campus together. The raccoon hasn’t responded to clapping, yelling, or stomping. The only thing it’s done besides eat is hiss at us whenever we try to get any closer.

“Yo Jane,” I say when the call connects, “you in the Babe Cave?”

It’s our official name for the cramped and creaky little row house we rent a few blocks away from the UNS campus—so official we even have it printed on the welcome mat the raccoon is currently using as a dinner table.

“I am. Why?” she asks.

“Because there’s a giant, super cute raccoon blocking the door, and it wants to kill us!” Paulina shouts beside my ear.

I wince. “Yeah. That.”

“JUMPING JESUS!” Jane bellows, making me wince again. Her Nova Scotian accent roars to life like it always does when she gets angry.

Our fourth roommate, Hope, always says Jane has the spirit of a little old fisherman’s wife trapped inside her twenty year-old body, and I kind of believe it. I don’t know any other person in their twenties who says things like ‘Jumping Jesus,’ but then again, Jane is the only east coast native in our friend group. The rest of us are transplants who came to Halifax for university.

“I knew we had raccoons! I just knew it!” she continues. “I knew those little buggers would go after the garbage. We’re going to have to secure the bin.”

“Uh, right, yeah, but in the meantime, do you have any suggestions? We’re kind of stuck outside.”

I can feel the tips of my ears going numb. I started growing out my shaved head a few months ago, but my shaggy little excuse for a pixie cut isn’t enough to give me any warmth.

“Oh I have many suggestions for that little bugger,” Jane mutters in a voice so menacing it almost makes me gulp before she ends the call.

A second later, the door swings back to reveal Jane in a pair of sweatpants with a faded red UNS v-neck on top. Her brown hair is falling out of a messy bun on the very top of her head, her eyes blazing with vengeance as she glares down at the raccoon with a broom clutched in her hands.

I can see the whole ‘angry fisherman’s wife’ thing in moments like this.

“Git!” she hollers, stepping forward until her slipper-clad feet are just a few inches from the raccoon. “Git away now! Shoo! Go on! Git, you little bugger! Look at this mess you made!”

The raccoon shuffles away from her but doesn’t leave the steps. It’s clutching an empty pudding cup, and it looks straight at Jane as it slowly licks a clump of congealed chocolate off the plastic.

Jane sucks in a breath and narrows her eyes. “How dare you! This is my home! You have no business darkening my door with your insolence.”

She uses the broom to try scooting the raccoon off the steps. It drops the pudding cup and turns to hiss at her. Paulina’s fingers dig into my shoulders so tight I’m going to end up with bruises, and even I can feel my blood pressure rising as the raccoon tenses up like it’s about to spring.

Instead of moving away, Jane drops into a crouch. My mouth falls open when she twists her face into a sneer and hisses right back.

The raccoon scrambles off the steps and lopes along the sidewalk before disappearing into a gap between two houses down the road.

Jane straightens up, brushes off her sweatpants, and beams at us. “Hey, guys!”

I blink at her. I’m sure Paulina is doing the same thing behind me.

Jane uses the broom to beckon us forward. “Well, come on in!”

“Uh, Jane,” I say as I start making my way up the snow-dusted path through the little patch of dead grass we call a front lawn, “did you just hiss at a raccoon?”

She shrugs. “If I know anything about raccoons, it’s that you’ve got to show them who’s boss.”

“You scare me sometimes, Jane,” Paulina says as I reach the bottom of the steps. “In a good way. Usually.”

She shrugs again. “I’ll take that. Now let’s get this trash cleaned up before he brings his little friends back with him.”

By the time we get everything sorted out and prop a brick on top of the garbage bin to keep anything from scrambling inside, my ears are stinging and my fingers are going numb. I rub my hands together as I step inside and kick off my shoes. Jane has one of her candles going, making the whole house smell like vanilla and something spicy I can’t place.

“What’s the candle of the day, Jane?” I ask as she heads to the living room and flops down on the worn out, royal blue couch she has covered in textbooks, papers, and a dozen highlighters in a rainbow of colours.

“Vanilla bourbon,” she answers in a dreamy voice, pausing to take a huge inhale and close her eyes as she smiles to herself.

Jane really likes candles.

“Do we have actual bourbon?” Paulina asks, stepping past me to claim an armchair. She sits sideways and drapes her model-length legs over one of the edges before running a hand through her long blonde hair. “I could use a drink.”

There was a very brief time when I thought I might have a crush on Paulina back in first year. She’s pretty enough to be some kind of Polish beauty queen, but she’s also a complete dork in the cutest way possible. She’s always tripping over stuff, and she has a knack for picking up hobbies she’s not actually good at it but stays devoted to nonetheless. The collection of pots and planters coated with snow in our yard are a remnant of her annual failed attempt to grow vegetables.

I realized pretty fast that crushing on Paulina was pointless and that all we had were friendship vibes anyway. She, Jane, Hope, and I are all on the UNS lacrosse team, and the four of us got really close during first year. That combined with the team’s ‘don’t date your teammates’ code was enough to make me set my sights on other horizons.

The code wasn’t enough to stop the sparks from flying between Hope and our former team captain, Becca. The drama of the century unfolded over the course of the lacrosse season last semester, and the two of them are campus’s cutest couple now.

“Is Hope home?” I ask.

Jane nods and glances up at the ceiling. “Her and Becca are watching a movie.”

Right on cue, the rhythmic thumping of a headboard against the wall filters down from the second floor.

Paulina laughs. “They always think they’re sooooo quiet.”

I chuckle too. “Dios mío. I have to go up to my room now. I always feel like I have to be extra loud and, like, make my presence known to them, or else I don’t know what I’ll end up hearing.”

“Good luck with that, Izzo,” Jane says.

I give the two of them a salute and turn to head up there. The stairs help me out by firing off their usual series of deafening creaks as I get to the second floor. I hear some giggling and shushing coming from Hope’s room as I walk up the hallway to mine.

It’s past five and dark enough now that I reach for my light switch. The overhead lamp highlights how badly I need to tidy up. Textbooks are stacked in piles on the floor, desk, and bedside table, and clothes are spilling out of my laundry bin like a waterfall of button-downs and UNS sweaters. The walls are covered in a random selection of lacrosse team photos, pride flags, and the paintings and knickknacks from Colombia my dad always gets me on his trips back home.

The only part of the room that actually looks organized is the shoe rack under the window housing my collection of Jordans. My friends always make fun of me for being a lacrosse player who collects basketball shoes, but they just don’t understand the glory and thrill of slipping a sick pair of vintage Jordans out of the box and trying them on.

I don’t even wear some of the shoes; they’re too divine to touch the humble soil of the earth. The rack has one shelf for Outside Shoes and one shelf for what I call Trophy Shoes—another thing my friends love to make fun of.

“But we don’t need them,” I whisper to the Jordans, smiling to myself like I always do when I gaze upon their multi-hued majesty. “They are not worthy of you anyway.”

I might be a little obsessed.

After dropping my book-filled Jansport onto the floor next to a basket of laundry I’ve been meaning to put away for a week, I grab my laptop off my desk and settle onto my bed to get ready for my weekly video call with my best friend Marina.

I have about five minutes to spare, so I slip some headphones on and blast a little Kendrick, sinking into the sound and letting the day of lectures and note-taking roll off me. Even though I’m always busier during the first semester of the year when I’m balancing schoolwork and the lacrosse season, second semester seems to hit harder without the distraction of focusing on the Lobsters.

Apparently the founders of our school decided naming a coastal city’s team after the mighty king of crustaceans was cool and not ridiculously stereotypical.

My professors weren’t lying when they said third year was going to be tough. It’s almost been enough to make me question why I decided to major in something as intense as chemistry—almost. I love chemistry even more than I love all the pick-up lines I get from being a chem major.

Let me tell you something about chemists. We like to do it on the table, periodically.

They’re never good pick-up lines, but they’re surprisingly effective.

The beep beep sound of an incoming call filters through my headphones, interrupting Kendrick’s lyrical genius, which is way more sophisticated than my pick-up lines. I pause the song and press the accept button. Marina’s face fills my laptop screen a second later.

She beams at me, just like she always does when we start our calls. Marina has the prettiest damn smile in the world, and seeing her freckled face and big brown eyes feels like home. I could pick her out of any smile line-up in the world. That cute little gap between her front teeth is a dead giveaway.

“Hey, bestie,” she greets me.

“Hey, bestie,” I answer, shifting so I can lay on my side to face the camera. “How’s it going?”

She sighs and flops backward on her couch, holding her phone above her face. Her long brown hair fans out around her like a halo. “It’s going. Is it just me, or is third year turning out to be one giant kick in the ass?”

“I was just thinking the same thing. My chem courses are turning the fuck up this year.”

“Poli sci isn’t any better. Now I actually look forward to writing three thousand word essays about movies for my minor. It’s like a soothing break. Isn’t that crazy?”

I shake my head and laugh. “You’re the only person I know who would find a three thousand word film studies essay soothing.”

“Sometimes it’s nice to think about stories instead of diplomacy and governance.”

I make my eyebrows jump up and down. “You mean it’s nice to look at Audrey Hepburn.”

Marina’s lifelong obsession with Audey Hepburn is legendary. She’s seen every single Audrey Hepburn film at least four times, and she’s probably watched her favourite, Roman Holiday, enough to break world records. Even her phone background is a picture of Audrey Hepburn, although her lock screen is reserved for a photo of the two of us.

It’s been the same one for years: an old timey, throwaway camera shot of me and Marina as kids with eyes turned demonically red by the glare. We’re sitting in a laundry basket for reasons totally unknown. Marina is wearing a green turtleneck, and I’m behind her in a baseball cap with my arms wrapped around her and my cheek pressed to hers. Our faces are blurry from laughing so hard.

“We’re studying the turn of the millennium!” she protests. “We just watched The Matrix.”

“And did you sit there picturing Audrey Hepburn in a black leather trench coat?”

She wrinkles her nose and glares at me. “Do not mock Miss Audrey Hepburn. It is her god-given right to be placed on a pedestal by all of human kind. You need to respect that.”

“Next thing I know you’re going to be telling me Audrey Hepburn was some kind of prophet.”

“I mean, if you think about it, she was kind of—”

She cuts herself off to glare at me again when I start laughing so hard I snort.

“I see you cannot take this conversation seriously. I won’t say any more.” She sits up and makes a show of inspecting the nails of her free hand.

I do my best to stop chuckling. “Aww, come on Marina. You know you’re just too cute to handle when you’re talking about Miss Audrey Hepburn. I love it.”

She glances up from her nails, and something flashes in her eyes. My heart starts slamming against my chest in a frantic rhythm, and for a few seconds, I can’t do anything except lay there blinking at her while I try to remember how to breathe.

Shit shit shit.

This has been happening more and more lately: the silence after a flirty comment I only meant as a joke. I don’t know exactly when these awkward moments started, but I didn’t make things any better by deciding to be the perfecto idiota of the century on New Year’s Eve.

We were both back in Toronto for the holidays, and we decided to go to a friend of a friend’s house party together. We didn’t know anyone else there, but it didn’t matter. We had the time of our lives downing champagne and dancing like the weirdos we are while everyone wondered what the hell we were doing there. She just looked so fucking pretty in her black lacy shirt and jeans with sparkly makeup glittering around her eyes. She looked more than pretty; she looked hot.

The more I thought about it, the more champagne I drank to try and stop thinking about it, but of course that plan backfired.

And then midnight hit.

It was one sloppy, drunken peck on the lips I spent the rest of the night apologizing for, but even now, I’m way too aware of Marina’s bottom lip dropping open as she stares at me. I want to bite it. I want to pull my best friend’s bottom lip between my teeth and thread my hands into her hair.

It’s fucked up. All of it is so fucked up, and I promised myself I’d stop. I promised myself I’d be more careful. There’s a place for Marina in my life, and that place is not under me.

No matter how good it feels to think about that.

Mierda.

I shake my head to clear away the pictures taking shape. It’s like there’s a fog drifting into my brain, obscuring what Marina means to me and turning her into something else, something soft and hot and hungry for me.

Something dangerous.

Marina has always been my safe place. I’ve always been hers. I don’t want any danger here. I don’t exactly have the best track record with things working out between me and the girls I’m into. Marina is supposed to be the person I can count on to be there when things go wrong, not the person things go wrong with.

“Iz?”

My head is spinning so much the screen in front of me has gone out of focus. I fix my attention on Marina again. She still staring at me with her mouth open just a bit, her eyes wide and searching.

“Sorry. Uh, just tired,” I say after giving my head a final shake. My voice comes out all hoarse, and I have to clear my throat. “So many classes today.”

“Right. Yeah.” She glances down at her bedspread for a second and then back at me.

Double mierda.

She’s gotta be pissed. She probably thinks I’m coming onto her. It doesn’t help that she’s sitting there in a v-neck shirt that shows off the perfect sliver of cleavage. She really does have the most amazing, curvy body. It’s meant so much to see her discover that too, especially after how hard she was on herself in high school.

“So, um, how were your classes?” she asks.

“Uh...” I try to pull myself back to the present and scan my brain for any traces of how the day went. It’s a struggle. “Well, uh...oh! Actually something good happened. One of my profs got my pronouns right!”

Her whole face lights up as she grins at me, and all the tension fades for a moment. We’re back to what we’ve always been: two friends who look out for each other no matter what.

This is how it’s supposed to be, and I really need to get a handle on the part of my brain that’s trying harder and harder to fuck it up.

“Iz, that’s amazing! I’m so happy for you.”

I grin right back at her. “Yeah, I was so shocked. I didn’t think he’d remember. Most of them never do. He was going around talking to all the groups in the lab, and when he said something about me to our group, he called me they!”

Marina does a fist pump. “Hooray for they!”

I laugh and join in the fist pumping. “It felt really good. Honestly, I feel like the longer my hair gets, the harder I have to work to like, prove I’m non-binary or something. It’s like if I’m not glaringly androgynous, it doesn’t count for people.”

Marina nods. “That’s really shitty. People are so obsessed with gendering everything. I swear, if you put a long blonde wig on top of a lamp, everyone would be like, ‘Ah yes, it is a sexy girl lamp now.’ It’s crazy.”

I burst out laughing. “Okay, sexy girl lamp is definitely going to be my next Halloween costume.”

Marina doubles over, the phone shaking in her hand as she cackles. “I need to see that. If we were doing a costume party for your birthday, I would demand you do it then.”

“That would be a very memorable way to turn twenty-one.” I nod like I’m considering it. “By the way, what are you guys doing for my birthday?”

Marina is coming to visit for the occasion next week. She and my roommates have been doing an annoyingly good job of keeping the ‘secret theme’ of the party they’re planning a mystery to me.

Marina winks, and I do my best to ignore the way it makes my pulse kick up again as she speaks in a teasing tone. “Now, now, Iz, you know I can’t tell you that.”

“Come onnnn,” I whine. “I promised to show up at the airport with your favourite Davy Jones pizza. I can retract that promise.”

She shakes her head and grins. “Nah, you love me too much for that.”

I raise an eyebrow to challenge her but give up after a couple seconds.

“Ugh, you’re right. I do.”

That’s the thing: I do love her. I love her more than anyone, and I’d be an idiot to let myself lose that.

CHAPTER 2

MARINA

“What are you smiling about?”

My roommate, Alexis, throws a look at me as she heads through the living room on her way to get a snack in the kitchen. I’ve just put down my phone after ending my weekly call with Iz, and her question makes me realize I’m still grinning at the black screen like Iz’s face is going to pop up any second and add in one last joke.

“I was just talking to Iz,” I answer. I move my phone from the couch to the coffee table and pick up the cross-stitch I was working on before the call.

“Of courseeeee,” Alexis drawls around the mouthful of chips she’s just shoved in her face while standing in front of the open cupboard, contemplating her other food options.

She’s clearly settled in for the night, with her famous raggedy bunny slippers on under her sweatpants and an equally raggedy white crop top with the words ‘Band Geek’ printed on it in peeling purple letters.

We’re not exactly a ‘party hard’ kind of house. Most nights, we can be found doing exactly this: me sitting on the couch doing a cross stitch with Netflix on and Alexis wandering out of her room in search of food after a long session of oboe practice. Sometimes we even get really wild and watch an Audrey Hepburn movie together while splitting a bottle of wine.

“You tell them you’re in love with them yet?”

I almost drop my needle in the middle of threading it through the next square in my embroidery hoop. “Alexis!”

“What?” She wanders over with the chip bag in hand, the giant pile of brown curls pulled into a messy bun on top of her head bouncing as she plops down on the couch next to me. “You are going to tell them, right?”

Alexis is one of the most direct people I know, which comes in handy sometimes, but also makes sharing secrets with her an extreme risk. I wouldn’t have told her about New Year’s Eve if I had anyone else to tell, but seeing as my go-to sounding board for any kind of confession—AKA Iz—was the reason for that confession, I ended up going into a rambling story about the kiss during one of our roomie wine and Audrey nights a few weeks ago.

It only took about one sentence from me for her to declare she always knew I was in love with Iz. I didn’t even use the word ‘love’ myself, but she’s been ordering me to march up to Iz and tell them ever since. I had to pry my laptop out of her hands to keep her from buying me a plane ticket that very night.

Hence the extreme risk of telling her any secrets.

“No, Alexis, I’m not going to call up my best friend of almost twenty years and say I’m in love with them with absolutely no warning, especially when I’m not even sure that’s how I feel, and extra especially when I have no idea if that’s how they feel.”

She rolls her eyes and points at the hoop in my hands, coming dangerously close to sprinkling chip dust on the white fabric. “Marina, level with me here. You are literally embroidering a picture of the two of you holding hands. You’re in love, girl.”

I pause and look at the blocked out design I’m only a few rows away from finishing. I’m not great at making my own cross-stitch patterns, but I’m proud of how this one turned out. It’s at least discernibly me and Iz, their red button-down and matching Jordans a contrast to the green sundress I’m wearing. It’s based on a photo of us from a couple summers ago. I still need to do the threaded details like the shoelaces and facial expressions, and then the whole thing will come to life.

“What?” I demand. “It’s their birthday present. It’s cute. Friends make each other stuff like this.”

Alexis raises her eyebrows and downs another handful of chips, not even bothering to argue.

I can’t blame her. If I’m honest with myself, I can admit this cross stitch is the gayest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

If I’m even more honest with myself, I can admit there’s no way Iz and I are just friends anymore—or at least, they’re not just a friend to me.

Being with Iz feels like being myself. We just fit. When we’re together, I feel like I’m wrapped up in my favourite blanket, the one that’s worn and soft in all the right places and always smells like warm laundry.

That’s what loving someone is supposed to feel like. I’ve dated a bit since I started college, but it always comes back to that: nobody feels like Iz. Nobody makes me feel that same crazy combination of safe and electrified that zings through me every time they look at me a certain way.

That’s the thing: I know they look at me a certain way. I’ve seen it happen again and again. Ever since we left high school, there have been these moments during our visits and our calls where things between us shift. The silence stretches on a little too long. We get caught up in each other’s eyes and then look away, both of us breathing hard. The looming sensation that something is about to happen hangs so thick in the air it gets hard to breathe at all.

But nothing ever does happen. It’s always the same, just like tonight on the call when they called me cute. I know friends call each other cute all the time. We’ve been calling each other cute since we were kids, but just friends don’t go quiet and stare at each other the way we did after that.

I felt it then: the weight of something hanging between us. I was so sure of it I couldn’t move. I couldn’t force out the words I wanted to say.

Do you really think I’m cute, Iz?

I don’t know what they would have said, but I needed to find out. It’s become clearer and clearer there’s something here besides friendship.

Of course that scared me when I realized it. Of course it kept me up at night. Of course it made me feel crazy and terrified of putting one of the most important things in my life at risk, but when Iz leaned in at midnight during the New Year’s Eve party we went to in Toronto a few weeks ago, it finally clicked: not going after this—whatever this is—would be even scarier than risking it all.

Just one sloppy, champagne-fueled peck on the lips made the whole night explode into shimmering shades of colour I’d never seen before. Iz went bright red and apologized a second later, but I didn’t want an apology.

I wanted more.

Alexis keeps sitting there crunching on her chips like the embodiment of the sassiest side of my subconscious, and after completing a few more squares of the cross-stitch, I give in and sigh.

“Look, even if I was completely ready to tell Iz, I couldn’t. They’d freak the fuck out.”

“Um, I don’t think so.” Alexis shakes her head. “I’ve seen you guys together when they’ve visited here. They’re clearly head over heels for you.”

My pulse picks up at the thought of it, and I’m glad Alexis can’t hear the way my heart is clanging against my ribcage.

“Even if that were true, it’s...it’s not that simple.”

“What’s not simple about it?” She shrugs. “Seems pretty simple to me. You like each other, so tell each other.”

Now it’s me shaking my head. “Iz...has a hard time trusting other people’s feelings. They have a hard time trusting their own feelings. I don’t think it would ever be a matter of just telling each other and taking it from there.”

I know that better than anyone. I was there for Iz through their first heartbreak. I’ve been there for them through every heartbreak since. If the thought of letting our friendship shift into something more makes me nervous, that’s nothing compared to the utter terror I can imagine Iz feeling.

“So, what, you’re gonna bottle it all up forever because it might be hard for them? Is that fair to you?”

“I...” The needle goes still in my hands again, halfway through finishing the final corner of one of Iz’s shoes. “Look, this is all still so new for me. I only started seriously thinking about it as a possibility at New Year’s. We’re talking about the person I’ve been best friends with since we were toddlers. Can we just leave it at that for tonight?”

“Of course, yeah.” She sets the chip bag down on the table and spreads her hands in surrender. “Sorry if I pushed too hard on this. You know I just want to see you happy.”

“Hmm.” I glance over at the TV sitting on a cheap IKEA stand across the room. “You know what would make me happy?”

“What?”

“If you went and put on Roman Holiday for us to watch.”

She drops her head back and groans. “Seriously? Roman Holiday again? How many times have you seen that movie?”

“It’s my favourite!” I protest. “And you said you wanted to make me happy.”

“Ugh, fine.” She keeps grumbling to herself as she heads over to get my favourite Audrey Hepburn movie of all time going.

It’s my favourite movie of all time, period. I’ve stopped counting how many times I’ve seen it, and I still manage to find something new to love every time I watch Miss Audrey zip around Rome on a moped as the runaway Princess Ann.

When we were kids, Iz and I used to play our own make-believe version of the movie all the time. I’d be Princess Ann, of course, and Iz would pull me around the yard in a wagon that was supposed to be our getaway vehicle. We’d imagine there were paparazzi and royal officials hiding out in the bushes trying to catch us, and we’d wedge the wagon behind the shed in my parent’s yard to get ‘undercover.’ Sometimes we’d sit back there for hours, sharing snacks we’d packed beforehand and talking about what an amazing life we could have together in Rome if we managed to escape.

“Hey, Marina,” Alexis says after settling herself back on the couch once the opening credits begin to play, “I know I’m already pushing it, but just...maybe when you’re in Halifax for Iz’s birthday—”

“Alexis,” I warn.

“Okay, okay.” She waves her hands in the air. “Like I said, I just want to see you happy.”

I watch the black and white images of 1950s Rome on the screen, still thinking about Iz and I in that wagon, their hand in mine as they dropped their squeaky kid’s voice into a fake baritone and told me they’d show me the world, and I nod.

I just want to see us happy too.

CHAPTER 3

MARINA

There’s one part of flying that always makes me feel like I’m going to puke. I’m fine for the takeoff. I’m fine for the landing. I’m fine for the part where we’re cruising through the air. Not even turbulence sets off my stomach, but if I look out the window and see the plane is turning and doing that tilty thing where the ground is at a crazy angle and the sky has gone sideways, I start dry-heaving right on cue.

The lady next to me refused to switch and take the window seat, even after I told her I’m not great with flying. I can see her out of the corner of my eye, leaning forward so she can stare past me and out the round little window giving us a view of the sickening funhouse trip outside.

If you wanted to look out the window, why the hell wouldn’t you sit next to it?

I bite my lip to keep from asking out loud and start rubbing little circles onto my stomach in an attempt to calm it down.

Almost there. Almost there, and then you’ll see Iz.

I picture them standing in the arrivals area, and I feel the corners of my mouth lift. I haven’t seen Iz in person since New Year’s. We’ve gone way longer without a visit during our years of university, but that doesn’t make it any easier to spend time apart from the person I grew up seeing nearly every day.

The fact that we kissed the last time I saw them and haven’t talked about it since is, however, adding a few flips to my stomach’s routine.

“Attendants, please...”

The rest of what the captain says over the speakers is too garbled for me to make out over the supposed-to-be-soothing nature sounds I have streaming through my headphones, but I look to the front of the plane and see the two flight attendants strapping themselves into their pull-down seats.

I risk a glance out the window and see the plane is parallel with the ground again. My shoulders unclench, and I sag against my seat. My stomach does one final somersault and then relaxes into merciful stillness. I pull my headphones out of my ears and watch Nova Scotia get closer and closer beneath us.

Everything is coated in white like a fine sugar dusting, and the sky is a silvery grey. We pass over streets lined with homes that look like tiny dollhouses from up here. They get bigger and bigger until we’re finally zooming over the airport and gliding down onto the tarmac.

The plane is small enough that the landing makes my teeth chatter as I’m jostled around in my seat, but now that we’re no longer in danger of the horizon shifting at vomit-inducing angles, my stomach is only tightening with excitement.

No matter what else we have going on, I’ll always be eager for that first hug from Iz. I whip my seatbelt off as soon as the little light telling us to wear them switches off. I pull my shoulder bag out from under the seat in front of me and wiggle into my coat, doing my best not to smack the lady next to me in the face with my flailing arms, even if part of me thinks she deserves it. Then I sit there bouncing my heels up and down as I wait for the plane to empty.

I’m almost excited enough I don’t feel the familiar wave of apprehension hit as I get into the aisle and reach up to grab my suitcase—almost.

I can still hear those old jeering voices in my head telling me everyone is watching and laughing at the fat girl filling the aisle. I resist the urge to tug my shirt down where it’s creeping up over the edge of my jeans and focus on getting a hold of my bag’s handle.

You are allowed to be here. There’s nothing wrong with you.

I repeat my mantra in my head as I start wheeling the bag up the aisle. I used to try telling myself no one was laughing or staring, but that didn’t work out so great on the occasions when I’d look around and find people were laughing or staring.

The truth is, there’ll always be someone ready to get offended by the size of my thighs or the roll of skin that forms over the waistband of pretty much every pair of pants I own, since most companies are still bad at making comfy jeans for curvy girls. If I focus on what other people think, I’m always going to find a reason to feel bad, so now I focus on myself. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t, but most days, I’m pretty damn proud to be me.

I wave to the flight attendants and say thank you as I pass by. The Halifax airport is tiny, and it only takes me a couple minutes of speed-walking before I’m at the door to the arrivals area. I burst through and find it busier than I expected. My first scan of the people standing around in puffy winter coats and snow boots doesn’t bring any sign of Iz, but as I’m wheeling my suitcase over to a bench and pulling out my phone to text them, I hear that familiar voice calling my name.

“Yo, Mariiiiiina!”

They sing it out loud enough to make a few heads turn, rolling the r just like their dad always does. A second later, Iz clears the crowd, and a smile so big it makes my cheeks ache takes over my face.

They’re wearing an oversized green army jacket over one of those crazy button-downs they’re always finding in the dollar bin at the thrift store. This one is dark blue with a pattern of tiny oranges that matches their citrus-coloured Jordans.

I wouldn’t exactly call Iz on-trend, but they always manage to look very fucking stylish.

Their hair is in the fluffy, haphazard stage of growing out a buzz cut, and the length has a cute puppy dog effect. I can’t help reaching up to ruffle it as they charge the few feet of distance left between us and fling themself into my arms.

“You’re so fluffy!” I say as I pull them closer.

The two of us laugh and stand there wrapped up in each other, swaying to the generic lobby music pumping through the speakers. I take a deep breath in and let out a humming sigh. Iz makes the same sound.

“I’m soooo happy you’re here!” they gush. “How has it only been a month and a half? I feel like I haven’t seen you in so long.”

“You’re right.” I drop my hands to their shoulders and step back. “Let me gaze upon your glorious face.”

They do an exaggerated fashion model pout and twist their head around so I can see all the angles. I laugh and call them a dumby dumb dumb—our favourite made-up insult from when we were kids—but even as I grab my suitcase and start following them out of the terminal, I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks.

Iz is hot. I don’t know how six weeks made such a difference, but if I thought it was hard to ignore what their little smirk does to me during Christmas break, that’s nothing compared to how distracting it is now. My whole body feels warm, and despite the fact that I’ve ruffled their hair more times than I can count, I can’t get over how it felt to have it between my fingers with their body pressed to mine.

The bustle of the airport keeps us quiet until we’re outside waiting for a bus into the city. Iz nudges a pebble along the pavement with the toe of their shoe before looking up to speak to me.

“Sorry about your pizza. The delivery guy didn’t come in time, but it will be waiting when we get there, if my roommates don’t eat it all first.”

I blink. “Pizza?”

The concept rings a bell, but I’m still too busy recovering from the hug-induced haze to remember why I’m supposed to want pizza.

Iz chuckles and does that smirk again. It does not help with the haze-clearing.

“Remember?” they prompt. “I was supposed to bring you pizza when I picked you up. You specifically requested the chicken option from Halifax’s most finest purveyor of cheesy delights: Davy Jones Pizza.”

I blink again. “Ohhhh right. Wow, yeah, you really dropped the ball, Iz. I should turn around and get on a flight back right now.”

I try to hide how much my head is spinning by making a show out of pretending to be offended. I turn to face the doors behind us and flick my hair over my shoulder before starting to wheel my suitcase away. Iz is laughing at me, and the sound almost cracks my fake glare to make me laugh too. I keep the charade going, and I’m about to reach for the door when I feel their hand clamp around my wrist.

My breath catches in my throat. Iz starts to say something teasing, but when I look back over my shoulder at them, their voice trails off into silence. I see their eyes get wide, and I know I’m not imagining it when their gaze drops to my lips for just a second before fixing on their fingers wrapped tight around my arm.

I look down too. The cuff of my jacket leaves just enough of my skin exposed for me to feel the warmth of their hand. The heat blooming from that one point of contact is enough to make my breath catch a second time.

It’s like I can already see it playing out: Iz’s thumb brushing over the paper-thin skin above my veins, me shivering and saying their name like it’s something between a question and permission, the tense second of hesitation before they’d pull me closer, the feeling of their hot breath on my lips just before I’d finally get to find out what they taste like.

Our sloppy peck of a kiss at New Year’s didn’t give me a chance to do that. I’ve spent way too many nights since wondering what Iz would taste like, how they’d sound and move. It all feels so wrong and weird and thrilling and right. It’s everything all at once, and I can’t make any sense of it, but I don’t think I want to.

I just want them. I want them to want me.

“Iz...”

My voice is so low I doubt they can hear me over the rush of cars and buses pulling up to the airport, but their eyes flick to mine, and they don’t drop my hand.

I force myself to take a breath. “Iz, we—”

“That’s our ride!”

A bus pulls up to the curb beside us, the brakes squeaking as the door pops open. Iz whips their head around and releases my wrist, facing away from me as they fish around in their pockets for bus tickets.

“I know I have extra ones for you somewhere...” they mumble as they pat down their coat.

Their voice sounds even—too even, like nothing happened at all. They don’t look at me until they’ve found the tickets and stepped up to the bus, and when they glance back my way, they’ve got that typical Iz grin on.

And I, typically, have to stand there wondering if I imagined everything that just happened.

“You all right?” they ask.

I take a step forward and nod, even though my stomach has started doing flips again. If things between Iz and I keep shifting this quickly, I’m going to spend the whole trip nauseous.

* * *

Stomach problems or not, I can’t resist the call of Davy Jones pizza as the scent of gooey cheese, tangy barbeque chicken, and grilled red onion hits my nose. I’ve already had two giant pieces, but I go in for a third. Davy Jones really is a miracle. I don’t know what I’m going to do if Iz moves away after university and I don’t have an excuse to come to Halifax anymore.

Hope, one of Iz’s housemates, raises the slice she’s just taken out of the pepperoni and cheese box and holds it in the air like a substitute champagne flute. “Welcome to the Babe Cave, Marina! Let’s do a pizza toast!”

We’re crowded into the townhouse’s little living room with all of Iz’s three housemates. Pizza boxes are covering the whole top of the coffee table, and there’s a pop playlist pumping out of a speaker set while the pink string lights in the front window cast a soft glow over us all.

The bond the four of them have going on is so cute it almost makes me jealous. I love living with Alexis, but we don’t compare to the way Iz and their friends are all joined at the hip like a gang of besties in some idealized teen movie about what it’s like to move away for college. Iz always has some crazy story about what they’ve all been up to, whether it’s pranking their lacrosse team or shutting down a campus bar during one of their legendary nights out.

I rarely do anything more exciting than go to an art house screening with people from my film studies classes, but FOMO aside, I’m happy Iz has these girls. They’ve been there for them through everything I couldn’t be more than a face on a screen for: their coming out as non-binary in second year, all the heartbreaks they’ve experienced with girls on campus, and the mundane stuff like pulling all-nighters before exams or figuring out class schedules. Iz and I tell each other everything over video, but that only goes so far when you’re struggling. It helps to know these girls will always fight for Iz—almost as hard as I will.

“PIZZA TOAST!” Iz shouts, grabbing a fresh slice to hold it up like Hope.

“What exactly is a pizza toast?” I ask, dragging my attention away from the adorable flecks of tomato sauce stuck to Iz’s cheek and focusing back on the discussion.

“First you gotta put your pizza in the air,” Hope instructs me as she uses her free hand to adjust her glasses.

Hope is one of those girls who always looks effortlessly cool—truly effortlessly, like really did just wake up like that. The ends of her hair are dyed in a teal ombre, a sleeve tattoo covers one of her arms, and even though I’ve never seen her wear anything except UNS Lobsters merch and sweatpants, she looks like she’s just as ready to walk into an underground music festival as she is to show up at lacrosse practice.

I know she’s closest with Jane, but when her and Iz get going, they’re the wild ones of the group. The three of us went out one time two summers ago and ended up attempting to drunkenly skinny dip in the harbor at three in the morning—or at least, Iz and Hope tried to skinny dip. I stood on the dock and yelled at them while they leaned over the side and splashed me. We very narrowly avoided being caught by the police.

Whatever it is, a pizza toast at least sounds like it won’t break any laws.

“Jane! Paulina! You too!” Hope orders. “We are toasting to Marina’s safe arrival and to a flawless party for Iz this weekend.”

“And the theme is...?” Iz pipes up, doing their best to trick us into spilling the secret.

Hope wags her finger at them. “Nuh-uh. It’s a surprise. You’ll find out on Saturday.”

“But it’s Thursday,” they whine. “That’s so far away.”

“How do you say ‘too bad’ in Spanish?” Hope asks.

“Like this.” Iz flips her off. Jane and Paulina burst out laughing while Hope sticks out her tongue.

“Whatever. Let’s do this toast. Pizzas up, ladies and distinguished non-binary humans!”

Everyone leans forward to hold their slices in the air over the coffee table.

“To Iz and Marina!” Hope shouts.

Then they all slam their pieces of pizza together.

“Oh my god, no!” I shriek. “No way!”

Iz elbows me from their spot beside me on the couch. “You have to do it, Marina! It’s a pizza toast.”

“It’s good luck!” Jane adds.

Jane is usually the mom-type of the group, and even she’s in on this grossness.

“I don’t want to waste this delicious pizza,” I protest.

They’re all still holding their slices together in a gooey mass.

“Oh, you won’t waste it,” Iz explains. “You have to eat it after. Otherwise it’s bad luck.”

“You guys are crazy.”

“Oh, we know. Now put your pizza up.” Iz laughs and pats me on the thigh.

It’s just a brief touch, a couple inches above my knee, but it’s enough to make me want to squeeze my legs together. I don’t want anyone to spot the heat creeping up my neck, so I give in and slap my pizza to the slice pile. I wince as a glob of cheese drops onto the table.

“Atta girl!” Jane woops, her Nova Scotian accent coming out in full force.

“To Iz and Marina!” Hope shouts again, and we all echo the toast.

I glance at Iz as I pull my slice away and nibble a little bite. I am not convinced about this whole pizza toast thing, but I can’t ignore how good ‘Iz and Marina’ sound together.

I just wish I knew Iz heard it too.

Grab your free copy on www.katiarose.com!

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First and foremost, I want to thank you, dear reader, for coming along on this journey into the world of kilts and bagpipes. This story brought me so much joy to write, and I hope it’s brightened your day to read it. I’m thirteen books into my career, and I’m still astounded to know there are people who fill their precious reading hours with my words. I’m honored to share my stories with each and every one of you.

Secondly, I need to thank my highland dance teachers and all the other students and staff who made my years in ghillies one of my favourite parts of growing up. You may never read this, but I hope you all feel in your hearts what a difference you made in my life.

To my fantastic team of beta readers (namely, Kirsten, Maggie, Renee, and Lucy): thank you from the bottom of my heart for all your wise insight, your helpful suggestions, and your often entertaining reactions. This book wouldn’t be what it is without you.

To the ARC readers and bloggers helping to get this story off the ground: I’ll never have enough thanks to give you for what you do. Your support is what allows authors to get their words into the world, and it’s not a gift we take lightly. Quite simply, you are amazing.

To my fellow indie romance authors, especially the queer writers who have been so supportive and welcoming of my entry into this genre: you rock. Keep being one of the best groups of humans ever.

To the friends and family who have supported my path to being a full time author: thanks for often having more faith in me than I had in myself (and for not reading my books if we are related). It means so much to know you have my back.

To my leetle frogg: I couldn’t have got here without you. You make me feel like I can do anything just by being yourself.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Katia Rose is not much of a Pina Colada person, but she does like getting caught in the rain. She loves to write romances that make her readers laugh, cry, and swoon (preferably in that order). She’s rarely found without a cup of tea nearby, and she’s more than a little obsessed with tiny plants. Katia is proudly bisexual and has a passion for writing about love in all its forms.

www.katiarose.com

Facebook

Twitter

Instagram

CLUB KATIA

Club Katia is a community that comes together to celebrate the awesomeness of romance novels and the people who read them. Joining also scores you some freebies to read!

Membership includes special updates, sneak peeks, access to Club Katia Exclusives (a collection of content available especially to members) and the opportunity to interact with fellow members in the Club Katia Facebook Group.

Joining is super easy and the club would love to have you! Visit www.katiarose.com/club-katia to get in on the good stuff.

ALSO BY KATIA ROSE

The Barflies Series

A series of dramadies centred on the lives and loves of the staff at a Montreal dive bar. Each novel can be read as a standalone.

The Bar Next Door

Glass Half Full

One For the Road

When the Lights Come On

The Sherbrooke Station Quartet

A series of steamy rock star dramedies that follow the rise of an alternative rock band in Montreal. All four volumes can be read as standalones.

Your Rhythm

Your Echo

Your Sound

Your Chorus

Standalone Novels

The Devil Wears Tartan

Moira and Kenzie are former highland dance champions and lifelong enemies, but a fight for a college scholarship might just change everything. A new adult romance.

This Used to Be Easier

Meg didn’t plan to spend the summer stuck back in her home town. She definitely didn’t plan to spend it dodging her old teenage crush. A small town new adult romance.

Stop and Stare

Falling for your best friend isn’t usually the plan, but Iz and Marina are running with it. A queer novella available exclusively to Club Katia members. Visit Katia’s website to grab your copy.

Catch and Cradle

Becca and Hope just broke their biggest rule: don’t fall in love with your teammate. A new adult sports romance.

Thigh Highs

Modelling lingerie for her arch-nemesis was not on Christina’s to-do list. Then again, nether was he. An enemies-to-lovers romantic comedy.

Latte Girl

Hot coffee is a regular fixture in Hailey Warren’s life. Hot guys? Not so much. A caffeine-fuelled romantic comedy.