Break

His eyes dart to hers and he looks uncomfortable.

Tayla looks away from me and I feel a tinge of irritation. I don’t want her to avoid me. She’d fuckin’ put me in a box and didn’t think about me once for eight years. There’s no way I’m gonna let her do that now I’m here in her face. I fought to get here, and I’ll rightfully keep my place no matter what psychodrama these bluebloods want to cry and scream over.

I lean over, my lips hovering near her ear, my fingers brushing her hair. “Based on the way you performed tonight, deep down, it seems you still prefer the street to solid gold.” I glance over at Lancelot, making sure he sees us. “You can pretend to want the bougie shit, but you know you’ll always crave what’s real.”

“Get your hands off my girlfriend,” Lancelot demands.

But it’s his hands Tayla slaps away, not mine.

“She’s never been yours, bro.” I lock eyes with her, “She’ll always be mine.”

Fire burns in her eyes as she finally slaps my hand away. “I don’t belong to you or anyone else.”

“Right. Yes, you’re right. You aren’t mine. But you want to be. Can I say that?” I smile, watching the pink blush creep up her skin.

Honesty is refreshing.

Katerina approaches with her megawatt fake smile, her features pulled tight—no doubt from a recent facelift. Her diamonds glitter in the light, but I can see the cracks beginning to show.

“It was so lovely of you to come, Dashiell,” she says.

“Oh, my pleasure, Katerina. You’ll be seeing a lot of me from here on out.” I drop her hand without kissing it and then deliberately, slowly, kiss the back of Sam’s palm. “Can I take you home?” I ask her in a low voice.

“No. I’m fine. I came here with Lance. He can drive me,” she says curtly. Sam is measuring her tone around her mother. She probably doesn’t want to give her any reason to suspect that we’re more than dance partners. Nor does she want them to know we’re living under the same roof.

Lance gloats like he’s just won first place on Dance Props.

“Stop by if you want. We might order Dim Sum. Or, fuck…maybe pizza,” I tell her.

Lance looks confused. Katerina’s permanently lifted brow has lowered in consternation at the idea of her daughter consuming calories. These people are fucking nuts. I ought to grab Sam and run, get her the fuck out of here. But Sam didn’t save me when I was surrounded, stranded, left without options.

I wave to my mom, who looks like she’s searching for me, probably weary of these sycophants and their endless hobnobbing.

“Ma, we’re out,” I tell her with a salute. I see her shoulders fall in relief as she nears our group. She grabs her gown in her fist and lifts the front out of the way of her feet.

Lizzy Stewart is as gracious as always and fawns over Sam, Katerina, and is even kind to Lance. I’ve turned my back when I hear her offer Sam a ride. Katerina and Lance will find out soon enough.

“Mom, let’s go,” I tell her without looking at Sam.

Back at the apartment, Mom abandons her heels after she steps in the door. I drape my tie and jacket over the back of the couch and unbutton my dress shirt as we make our way to the kitchen. Most people my age would go straight to their room and slam the door, but it’s always been Mom and me. We’re good at keeping one another company.

“You were a star, Dash. And Sam has gotten even more gorgeous. I see how you look at her,” she says.

“Please, Mom. Come on,” I tell her as I guzzle down a Pellegrino from the fridge.

“I guess we know how the other half live now. Not quite as exciting as the televised awards show,” she muses as she digs through the double-doored fridge pulling out leftovers.

“Right. The other half that left us as good as dead now wants a piece of us.”

She frowns at my assessment. “Dash, it’s not that bad.”

“A diamond tennis bracelet is just another way of saying ‘let them eat cake,’” I tell her. “I’m beat. I’m going to sleep.”

Mom nods, but concern lingers on her face.

“I’m over it. I promise. So get over it, too,” I tell her softly.

I take a minute to breathe in our surroundings. We fought for so long to get off the streets that once upon a time, a shitty hotel room with burn stains on the rug and duvet was a special haven the few times we could afford it. We’ve come a long way.

I still have nightmares where someone’s lifting our filthy backpacks from underneath us while we sleep. We’re hell-bent on protecting their measly contents. Mom and I fight like dogs in the dirt to recover our few precious items: a rusted disposable razor, a zip lock bag containing our important documents, clean socks, a sheet, a candle…and a diamond tennis bracelet.