that there are schools in L.A. too. I mean, because that would be crazy, right? Beau wouldn’t uproot his whole life for me, and even if he would, it could be disastrous. We haven’t known each other all that long.
Except it feels like I need to know him for the rest of my life.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
BEAU
I’m in love with Iris Adams.
I look at myself in the trailer’s mirror and know that’s the only explanation. No other way would I consent to letting someone film me dancing in this getup. A half-dozen other guys are in here changing too, but none of their costumes are this flashy.
If I thought for even a second that being in this movie would give me any street cred with my students, I was dead wrong. This black, Western-retro dress shirt alone is going to ruin my hard-nose reputation.
And I don’t care.
Okay, maybe I care a little. I swear, I look like I’ve just walked out of Cavender’s. If only the shirt didn’t have the red embroidered flowers down the chest, on the collar, and across my shoulders. I could handle the pearl snaps and white piping, but jeez, these flowers.
I step out of the trailer, and the wardrobe assistant who greeted me ten minutes ago is standing there—holding a black, felt cowboy hat in her hands.
“You look great!”
I can’t take my eyes off that hat. I’ve never worn a cowboy hat in my life. “You do know that Cajuns don’t dress like this, right?”
She flits up to me, moving at hummingbird speed and settles the hat on my head. “All that matters is that you look great.” She steps back, assessing the fit of the hat, and tilts the brim up just slightly. It smells and feels expensive. “And you look great! Let’s go. We have to get you to the Performance Center.”
I shouldn’t have been, but I was surprised to learn that Iris’s studio has rented out Vermilionville to film this scene. The tourist attraction and cultural center is modeled after an eighteenth century Cajun village, and the Performance Center hosts local musicians and Cajun dancing on the regular. The building—outfitted with rough wood floors and a vaulted ceiling with exposed cypress beams—looks like a giant barn where early Cajuns might have held a fais do do where they’d play music, dance, and sing well into the night while children slept in the hay. The only things they wouldn’t have had back in the day are the large wooden stage and the air conditioning.
But when I follow my guide inside, the space has been transformed. Giant spotlights hang from metal scaffolding along the back wall, techs holding boom mics edge the perimeter, and dining tables covered in red-checkered tablecloths frame the dance floor.
I haven’t even seen Iris yet. She was in makeup when I arrived. And, yes, I’m wearing makeup too. But unlike the cowboy hat, I can’t say I’ve never worn it. Almost every ballet performance I was in growing up required it.
Yeah, my middle school years sucked.
But dancing and fighting aren’t mutually exclusive. Nonc taught me that. Core strength, balance, and focus come in handy when some douche shoves you against the wall and calls you a fag. Nonc also taught me how to punch. I guess he learned the hard way as a dancer too.
It’s probably the outfit that has me remembering those days. But all thoughts of fighting flee when Iris walks in.
She’s metamorphosed into Raven Blackwood, and I’m so glad I’ve been watching her show because it’s surreal to see her like this. But I’m grinning like a fool because she’s decked out, and she’s owning it.
Iris struts up to me in high heeled black boots, a ruby red dress that clings to her every curve, and a black cloak billowing behind her.
She aims straight for me, her smile as big as the sky. Her hazel eyes are eating me up. “You look incredible.”
“I look like a tool,” I mutter, but if anything my smile has grown.
“You do not,” she says, swatting me on the arm, and it’s that moment I realize that the red of her dress perfectly matches the flowers on my shirt. On camera, it’ll look like we’re a matched pair.
We go together.
Maybe the shirt’s not so bad.
“I’m sorry.” Iris rubs her hand on the spot where she smacked me. (For the record, it didn’t hurt at all.) “I should be thanking you. I’d be a nervous wreck if you hadn’t taken the part.” Her gaze softens