Page 111 of Igniting Sparks

They think he is below them, but they’re wrong. They’ll never measure up to a man like Braden Hammond.

“What if I want cake for dinner?” I ask, slipping an arm around his waist.

I have to maintain a happy façade, for all of them. My friends and the man I love deserve it.

Braden chuckles as we walk from the apartment toward the buffet table. “Why not? It’s a celebration, right?”

Sadly, I don’t feel much like celebrating anymore.

We arrive home a few hours later, my trusty stress headache still in tow.

“You want to watch a movie?” Braden asks from the kitchen.

“Actually, I think I’m going to dance for a bit.”

Braden glances at me over the fridge door, a smile breaking across his mouth. “Okay. I’ll start work on that back piece I’m doing this week, then. Have fun, beautiful.”

He means it, too—but what he doesn’t realize is that’s all my dancing will ever be from now on.

Fun.

Maybe that’s enough, right? I have a good life. Hell, I have the greatest boyfriend on the planet, and I have a decent job working with my best friend.

Braden covers all the bills and never asks for a dime.

To the outsider, it’s a perfect situation.

But to me, it’s another reminder that I’m not enough on my own. I rely on the kindness of my friends and family for support, and although they claim not to mind, I do.

Ori pays me well, but it’s still not a career. What am I going to do—be a barista and bookstore clerk forever? Rely on Braden’s salary for the rest of my days?

What if I’m not capable of making it on my own? I have friends who own homes and timeshares—people who are the same age as me, or younger. And they didn’t inherit the house; they bought it after landing a business job in the city.

But I majored in dance, which—combined with my injury—left me at a dead end.

I was on track for a professional career when I shattered my ankle. It happened before I had time to build a portfolio orany real performance credits, which means I have nothing to show for all the years I spent chasing that dream.

Bitsy knew her studio was my final foothold, and she exerted her control like a torture taskmaster. She could have given the studio to Vanessa, and I might not have known for years. But she chose to play a game with my heart, knowing full well the outcome.

Forthat, I hate her.

I slip on a leotard and pad into my in-home dance studio.

Scrolling through my playlist, I find music to fit my mood—a series of raw, gritty ballads about heartbreak and despair.

Perfect.

The first notes ring out, and I curl my toes into the floor, allowing the slow crescendo to reawaken the pain inside me.

I spiral down to the floor, twisting and reaching for anything that might keep me afloat. The chaos in my mind flows through my body as I move through my unscripted routine—a blur of tension and release, each breath pulling me tighter into the storm.

A sharp contraction clenches through my core, and I launch into a chassé, transitioning into a développé that slices the air before I pivot hard and melt back to the floor.

My movements become increasingly erratic, rolling through my spine into a fall and recovery that leaves me breathless. The dam has broken, and I’m not concerned with precision.

This is grief in motion.

I pant out ragged breaths, tangled between a sob and a scream, as sweat trickles down my spine.