course, my bags from the hotel.”
“Fine. But only if you don’t try filling up the back of my truck with all your fancy luggage.”
Selena’s gaze hovered to the left, and I saw Dima walk by the lobby with a group of girls. Her eyes darkened, and she whipped her head back with a shrug and a tiny smile. “I’ll have the bellman bring it all down, and you’ll see for yourself.”
“Never mind the bellman. Just give me your room number, and I’ll go get it.”
Selena’s mouth opened, but she didn’t answer me.
“What, Selena? Are you on some secret celebrity floor? Do I need a special key?”
“No. It’s not that. Are you sure you don’t want me to call the bellman?”
I frowned. “Why do I need some other guy to grab stuff I can carry myself?”
Selena lit up and smiled. “I know. It’s just…never mind. It’s room 632.”
I fondled my new keys. “I need to run home and pack. I’ll meet you at your hotel room in two hours.”
I walked Selena back to the hotel and watched as she went into the elevator. She waved goodbye.
I left the hotel, climbed into my truck, and turned the stereo on. Caressing the leather steering wheel, I flicked on the headlights, roared the engine.
I would enjoy this gift for the season and could sell it for my buddy’s family.
But that was the easy part.
I had no desire to spend eight hours holed up in a steel box with the woman who broke my heart.
Selena
Bret would be knocking on my door any second. I tossed my clothes into my suitcase. The drive from San Diego to Marin would be nine hours, at least. Would he want to drive all night? Stay at my house in LA? It was already dark out.
Dima was still downstairs, probably flirting with his fans. I debated texting him that I had to leave but decided to write a note instead.
Dima,
Benny said I have to take off to San Francisco tonight to meet my celebrity. I’ll call you tomorrow.
Love,
Selena
I chose to omit that Bret would be driving me. It shouldn’t matter to Dima. And it wasn’t like I had a choice. Crazy as it seemed at first, I was already starting to look forward to it. Some days, I lived at the airport. I was constantly in the air—traveling to train with my celebrities, jetting off to be interviewed on talk shows, hopping on flights for competitions. How exhausting. A nice, slow drive did sound like a welcome change of pace.
Ten years ago, I wouldn’t have thought I’d still be competing at age twenty-eight. Back then, ballroom dancing was relegated to the once-yearly televised competition on PBS. There were no weekly celebrity television shows. Though the show gave me the financial security I needed to support my family and my competition career, its demands definitely interfered with the practicing and coaching that we needed to win Blackpool. I had imagined that by this point in my life, I’d have already won my coveted title, be retired, and settled down with a husband and kids. Maybe I’d be running a small dance studio like Bret’s mom. But I’d pushed that dream aside for now.
Despite all the insanity with Dima, slipping out of my three-inch suede Latin heels and walking off the dance floor was not an option, not yet. I loved my life and wasn’t ready to hang up my ball gown, even though I desperately wanted to start a family. A pulsating samba, a rhythmic cha-cha, a melodic rumba, a confrontational paso doble, a frolicking jive—my body couldn’t just stop with it all. Some girls found the mink fur eyelashes, the fake tan, the hair extensions—all of it—heavy. But not me. And when the music died, life was always a little less bright, waiting for the next turn on the sprung hardwood floor.
I had already scrubbed off all of my makeup, stripped off my costume, and washed the glitter out of my hair. Would Bret like the soft terry eggplant-colored designer sweats I usually saved for traveling? No. I folded the suit with care, slipping it into my suitcase. Instead, I reached for a simple white cotton t-shirt and a pair of worn, tight jeans.
I pulled my hair back into a ponytail and perched myself on the edge of my bed but couldn’t relax. I grabbed a magazine and flipped through it, all the while staring at the alarm clock. Bret was never late.
A strong rap at the door disrupted the