Chapter 62
Ellie's POV
The Monday morning after Halloween, I arrived at Wilton Hall fifteen minutes early. My heart was doing that stupid flutter thing it had been doing since Saturday night—since I'd seen Jackson's eyes flash gold in the candlelight, since Thalia had practically screamed same kind at me.
He would tell me today. I was sure of it.
Jackson had always been the one to notice things first. When I'd shown up to rehearsal with a healing silver burn on my shoulder, he'd known immediately what it was. When I'd needed medical tape for my hand, he'd appeared with supplies before I could ask. When I'd been overwhelmed at the anniversary performance, he'd somehow sensed it and adjusted everything to protect me.
This would be the same. He'd seen my recognition on Halloween—I knew he had, from the way he'd gone rigid, from that flash of something in his eyes. He would bring it up. Carefully, privately, the way he always handled delicate things.
I paced the empty studio, practicing responses in my head. "I know what you are. I'm the same." Too blunt. "So... about Saturday night..." Too casual. "Your eyes—" Too direct.
The door opened. Jackson walked in carrying two coffees, exactly how we both liked them—him black, me vanilla latte with extra foam. He smiled when he saw me, but something about it didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Morning, early bird." He handed me my coffee. "Ready to tackle the lift sequence? I was thinking we could modify the transition in measure forty-three..."
He launched into choreography talk, pulling up the music on his phone, demonstrating an adjustment to the body roll entry. Professional. Focused. Not bringing up anything about Halloween.
I sipped my coffee and told myself to be patient. He probably wanted to wait until we were more warmed up. Until we'd settled into the rehearsal rhythm. He always had good timing for difficult conversations.
We ran through the opening sequence twice. Jackson's hands guided me through a complex turn, steadying my waist with the exact pressure I needed to maintain balance.
"Better," he said. "Your spotting is much stronger."
"Thanks." I hesitated as he stepped back. "Jackson, I wanted to—"
"Let's try the lift section next." He was already moving to the next starting position. "I think if you push off half a beat earlier, we'll get cleaner height."
The words I'd been forming dissolved. Okay. He wanted to focus on rehearsal first. That made sense. We had a lot to get through.
By the time we finished two hours later, I was sweat-soaked and breathing hard, and Jackson was checking his phone with that distracted expression that meant Dance Society business.
"Great session," he said, grabbing his water bottle. "Same time Wednesday?"
Wednesday. He was skipping tomorrow. And apparently today's entire rehearsal with no mention of—
"Sure," I heard myself say. "Wednesday works."
He flashed that smile again—warm on the surface, careful underneath—and left.
I stood alone in the studio, staring at my reflection in the wall mirror. My eyes looked more amber than usual in the fluorescent lights. Definitely not human-normal.
Maybe he didn't see anything, I thought. Maybe it was just the candlelight playing tricks, and I'm the one who's imagining things.
But Thalia stirred inside me, unconvinced. She'd felt the recognition. She knew.
Tuesday afternoon, I found myself in the Dance Society office delivering some paperwork for Professor Paulsen. Jackson sat at the main desk, laptop open, surrounded by file folders and what looked like budget spreadsheets.
"Ellie." He looked up, surprised. "What brings you here?"
I held up the folder. "Dropping off permission forms for the department."
"Oh, right. Just leave them on that table." He gestured vaguely, already turning back to his screen.
I set the folder down. Hesitated. This was an opening. Casual, private enough. He always made time for me when I needed to talk about something real.
"Jackson?" My voice came out smaller than I'd intended.
"Hmm?" He was scrolling through something, frowning at numbers.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Sure, shoot." Still looking at the laptop.
"About Saturday night—"
The office door swung open. Tyler Brown walked in, carrying a thick folder and wearing an apologetic expression.
"Jackson, sorry to interrupt—" He noticed me and smiled. "Oh hey, Ellie. Didn't know you were here."
"Just dropping off some forms," I said, already sensing where this was going.
Tyler turned back to Jackson. "The Martinez people just sent over the final details for the project on the outskirts of town. They need confirmation on the performance specs by end of day—staging dimensions, sound requirements, the whole technical package. I know you wanted to handle this personally, so..."
Jackson's expression shifted—not quite relief, but something close to it. "Right. Yeah, I need to go through those." He was already standing, reaching for the folder.
"Can it wait twenty minutes?" I heard myself ask, sharper than intended.
Both of them looked at me. Tyler seemed confused. Jackson's face did something complicated—guilt and regret and that careful guardedness.
"The Martinez project is time-sensitive," Jackson said slowly. "They're flying someone in tomorrow to discuss logistics, and if we don't have these specs ready—" He stopped, seeming to realize how hollow the excuse sounded. "I'm sorry, Ellie. Rain check?"
And just like that, he was moving toward the door with Tyler, already discussing staging platforms and audio systems.
I stood in the empty office, the unfinished question hanging in the air.
He's busy, I told myself firmly. The project is a real commitment. It's not about avoiding you.
But a small voice whispered: He always made time before.
Wednesday's rehearsal, I tried a different approach. Instead of waiting for the perfect moment, I decided to just... ask. Direct. Simple. Like adults having an honest conversation.
We were working on the final sequence when I forced myself to speak. "Jackson, I need to talk to you about something."