Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 115577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115577 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 578(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
I held up my casted hand, which made them both frown.
“It’s okay,” I promised them on a laugh. “It’s not like it’s news to me. I’ve known since I made the team that this would just be a pit stop.” I sighed, looking down at my drink. “I’ve had a lot of those in my life. I’m used to it.”
“What do you mean by that?” Darcy asked.
“I just mean this is my life.” I shrugged. “I am an Aimless Amy. I don’t love anything that makes a lot of money or has career stability, and I refuse to do something I hate just to make ends meet, so I drift from place to place, from job to job, just… figuring it out as I go. And I don’t mean to say this like it’s a bad thing because it’s not. I prefer it, usually. I just…” My mouth pulled to the side as I thought. “I don’t know. I guess I’m kind of feeling like for the first time in my life… it might be nice to stay somewhere for a while. To plant some roots.”
“Does Seattle feel like a place you could do that?” Marcus asked.
“Yes.” I said it instantly, with a blooming smile on my face and my heart stuttering a beat. “I’ve always loved Seattle, ever since I visited when I was younger. I love the weather, the city vibes, the people, the culture.”
The fact that Braden is here.
My throat was tight when I continued. “But… I don’t know what I’ll do when my time with the team is up.”
“That could be years,” Marcus pointed out.
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
On the tip of my tongue was another confession — how my mind had been spinning since Braden asked me a question I’d never considered.
What if you taught?
I was embarrassed by how excited I’d been at the prospect, at how thoughts of owning my own studio and giving dancers a safe place to explore movement had me lying awake in bed at night. I’d started a secret folder on my computer, compiling a list of studio spaces for rent in Seattle along with a vision board of what it could look like if I ever got the guts to do it.
But it was more than that. I had money from my parents to get me started, sure. I could get a studio and make it pretty and hold classes and hire instructors to help.
But did I have what it took to be a role model for young women?
Did I have anything to offer?
That was the part I wasn’t so sure of.
Because for all the jokes I made, for all the ways I laughed off my life like it was one big adventure — one long, glamorous, chaotic little detour — the truth was, there had always been a reason I kept moving.
And it wasn’t just because I liked it.
It was because if I never stayed anywhere too long, I never had to find out whether or not I was actually capable of building a life that lasted.
If I kept things light, spontaneous, unserious, then no one could look at me too closely and realize I was just making it up as I went. No one could ask me what the long-term plan was, or where I saw myself in five years, or what exactly I was doing with all the potential my parents had poured money and hope and expectation into my whole life.
I’d spent most of my twenties bouncing from one thing to the next while everyone around me seemed to be… becoming someone.
And maybe I’d hidden inside that version of myself for so long that I’d almost convinced myself she was enough.
The girl who was fun.
Easy.
Untethered.
Impossible to pin down because she liked it that way.
But lately, that version of me felt less like freedom and more like a really pretty disguise.
Because the truth was, I didn’t feel fearless the way Darcy had said.
I felt behind.
I felt uncertain.
I felt like a daughter my parents had to explain.
My chest tightened before I could stop it, and suddenly, I was back on the sidelines three weeks ago — spotting my mom and dad in the stands, my heart lifting so fast it hurt. And then later, in that sterile hospital room, still high on adrenaline and pain and humiliation, watching the expressions on their faces as the doctor talked.
Concern.
Sympathy.
That soft, careful kind of disappointment people wore when they were trying not to make you feel worse.
And more than anything… pity.
Like this was exactly the kind of thing they expected from me.
Of course, Emily got hurt.
Of course, Emily’s little passion project blew up in her face.
Of course, Emily was almost thirty and still chasing glitter and halftime lights and a paycheck that could barely cover rent.
I swallowed hard, hating the truth of it all.