Chapter 63
Ellie's POV
"About the choreography?" He adjusted his grip on my waist for the preparatory lift. "We can modify anything that's not comfortable."
"No, not about dance." I pulled back slightly so he'd have to look at me. "About Halloween. At the bar. I saw—"
"One second." He stepped away to his phone, which was buzzing again. Frowned at the screen. "Sorry, I need to take this. It's about the Martinez project."
He moved to the corner of the studio, voice dropping to murmurs I couldn't quite hear even with enhanced senses. Something about scheduling, travel arrangements, venue requirements.
When he came back five minutes later, he launched immediately into the next section. "Let's run through the whole piece once before we call it. I want to see how the energy flows."
We danced. His hands were exactly where they needed to be, his timing impeccable. But there was something mechanical about it now, like he was executing steps rather than dancing with me.
Afterward, he said, "Good work today," and left before I could try again.
I lay in bed that night, staring at the ceiling while my roommates slept.
You're being ridiculous, I told myself. So what if he hasn't brought it up? Maybe he doesn't want to talk about it. Maybe he thinks YOU saw wrong. Maybe it's not his job to initiate every serious conversation you want to have.
The thought sat uncomfortably. Jackson had always been the proactive one in our—whatever this was. Friendship? Partnership? He'd pursued me for the dance collaboration. He'd intuitively known when I needed support.
But that didn't mean he could read my mind. And it definitely didn't mean he owed me explanations about his personal life just because I'd gotten curious.
We're not dating, I reminded myself firmly. We're dance partners. Maybe friends. That's it. He doesn't owe you his secrets.
Still. The way he'd looked at me on Halloween, that moment of shared recognition—that had been real. I was sure of it.
Wasn't I?
Friday, I showed up to rehearsal exactly on time. Not early. Not with hopeful expectations. Just... on time.
Jackson was already there, stretching. He'd brought coffee again—my vanilla latte, his black.
"Hey." He handed me the cup with that careful smile. "I know this week has been intense with my schedule. Thanks for being flexible."
"No problem." I took the coffee and started my warm-up stretches without meeting his eyes.
We ran through the piece. My technique was flawless—every turn spotted perfectly, every transition clean. But I kept my distance wherever the choreography allowed. Didn't lean into his support. Didn't let our eyes meet during the intimate moments.
"Ellie." He caught my arm when we finished. "Is something wrong?"
I looked at where his hand gripped my elbow. Felt the warmth of it, the slight tremor that might've been my imagination.
Tell him, urged Thalia. Ask him directly. Stop waiting.
But the words wouldn't come. Because what if I asked and he denied it? What if he confirmed it but was angry that I'd noticed? What if he told me it was none of my business, and then we couldn't even be friends anymore?
"I'm fine," I said. "Just a lot going on lately. Rehearsals, coursework, assignments piling up.""
"Ellie—"
"I should go." I pulled away gently but firmly. "See you tomorrow?"
I left before he could respond.
Saturday, my phone buzzed with a message.
Jackson: Can we talk? I know something's been off this week.
I stared at the text for a full minute. He wanted to talk. Finally. This was the opening I'd been waiting for.
But another part of me—the part that had spent five days watching him deflect and avoid—felt exhausted. Hurt. Now he wanted to talk, after I'd already started protecting myself from hoping?
Me: Sure. When?
Jackson: Tomorrow? After the Martinez ceremony performance, we can talk properly. Somewhere private, away from campus.
Martinez ceremony. The project we'd been preparing for all month. And suddenly it was the venue for the conversation he'd been avoiding all week.
Every instinct screamed that I should say no. That I should stop letting him control when and how we had difficult discussions. That I should demand answers now, not after another elaborate performance where I'd have to smile and dance and pretend everything was fine.
But Thalia was howling inside me, desperate and lonely and needing to know if we'd finally found someone like us.
Me: What time?
Jackson: 8:30 AM, main gate. Bring your performance outfit and overnight bag—it's formal, we'll be there most of the day. And Ellie... thank you. For giving me this chance to explain. I know I don't deserve it.
I stared at that last message for a long moment.
You're right. You don't.
But I didn't send it. Didn't reply at all.
Sunday morning, I stood at CVU's main entrance at 8:29 AM with my garment bag and overnight pack, wondering if I was making a massive mistake.
A black Cadillac Escalade pulled up to the curb. California plates: 7-MRZ-EST.
The driver—a man in his forties with military bearing—opened my door. "Good morning, Miss Green. Mr. Wilson is waiting inside."
Jackson sat in the back row, wearing a charcoal suit that made him look older, more remote. He reached for my bag as I slid in, his hand grazing mine.
"Morning."
"Morning."
I took in the leather seats, the subtle sandalwood scent, the small refrigerator, the obvious wealth. This wasn't Jackson's usual understated style. This was something else entirely.
He handed me a breakfast box—croissant, fruit, yogurt. "You probably skipped breakfast."
The casual thoughtfulness made my throat tight. Even now, even after a week of distance and deflection, he was still trying to take care of me.
"Thanks," I managed, but I couldn't make myself look at him.
The silence stretched between us, thick with everything unsaid. I felt him watching me, felt the weight of his guilt and my hurt pressing against each other in the enclosed space.
"Ellie." His voice was quiet, rough. "This week... I know I made everything worse. I kept waiting for the right moment, the right words. But I just ended up making you think I didn't care."