I’d come back on the show to let Valerie have one last moment in the spotlight before I put her away forever. I was starting to realize that it was already too late for her. I’d moved past the people I’d loved so dearly when my life was Valerie’s, and now they were just shadows in the memory of the girl I might have been. We had nothing in common. They didn’t want to have anything in common with me. That hurt.

I could channel the pain into my dancing. I forced a feral grin, wiping the sweat from my brow, and asked, “Can we do the pot-stirs again? I think I’m finally ready to hit them the way they’re supposed to be hit.”

Anders blanched. He was a tapper before anything else. The pace Marisol and I had been setting since the start of rehearsal was starting to wear on him.

Sadly, I wasn’t the only one who saw it. “No, no, no, you’ll break the poor boy,” said Marisol. “We’re going to take twenty. Get some fluids in you, maybe eat a thing, and then get back here. It’s time to start working.” She beamed before heading for the door at the back of the room. The two cameramen who’d been filming our rehearsal turned off their cameras. Twenty minutes for us meant twenty minutes for them. More importantly, it meant they had time to sneak a cigarette out behind the theater.

(Adrian hated smoking, and regularly reminded his dancers that cigarettes were tools of the devil—not that we needed much reminding, since our careers depended on having clear lungs and the ability to keep moving for hours without running out of air. This didn’t stop most of the crew from smoking, which made sense once I stopped to consider the fact that they had to work for Adrian all the time. I probably would have started smoking also, or at least drinking heavily, if that had been my lot in life.)

Anders waited until we were alone before giving me a sidelong look and saying, “Something’s up with you, and I want to know what it is.”

I blinked as guilelessly as I could manage. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Last time we were on this show, you were first in and last out any time there was a chance we were going to party. This time, I’ve barely seen you in the courtyard at all. The dancers from like, all the other seasons think you’re unfriendly and uppity. They think you think you’re too good for us, which is weird, because you didn’t used to be that way, and I know you haven’t been working.” Anders glared at me. “Everyone who knew you in New York says you vanished off the scene months ago. So what’s going on? What’s the deal with you?”

“There is no deal, Anders, honestly,” I said. “I just . . . I’ve been reevaluating my priorities since the show. I probably wouldn’t have come back at all, except that I missed everybody, and I knew I wouldn’t be taking a slot away from anyone else. I’m an All-Star. I earned this. So I came back to do it, but it’s made me realize that this isn’t what I want anymore. I’ve changed.”

“So what, you’re trying to screw me over? Some of us still want this, Val. Some of us would kill for this, and you’re willing to throw it away.” His glare intensified, and I realized what this was really about. I hadn’t danced well enough the week before. We were probably going to be in the bottom six, and we might be eliminated—and here I’d just admitted that dance was no longer my life.

“My grandmother was sick,” I said, as levelly as I could. “I’m sorry I didn’t dance as well as you wanted me to, but as long as I’m here, I’m here to win. I did not intentionally hurt your chances. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

“You were dancing for crap yesterday, too,” he said.

“My grandmother was still sick yesterday,” I replied. “I got the call that she was out of the woods last night, and I got my head back in the game. I don’t know what you want from me, Anders. I apologized. I’m doing better. We’re going to tango so well that we’ll set the stage on fire, and there’s no way the judges will send us home after that. Have a little faith in me, why don’t you. I got you to the finale last time.”

Anders’ eyes widened. My stomach sank. That had been the exact wrong thing for me to say.

“Is that what you think?” he asked, voice suddenly low and tight. “You carried me? Because I didn’t earn my place on the show by myself.”

“Anders, I didn’t—”

“No, you did. You’ve always been good about saying what you meant, even when you probably shouldn’t have. This was one of those ‘probably shouldn’t have’ times, in case you were wondering.” He shook his head. “I really thought we were friends.”