When Aunt T realized dancing was more than just a hobby, she had the spare room in the basement converted into the perfect workout space. The walls were lined with mirrors, the carpet replaced with hard wood. She added a stereo system, had a barre installed, bought a treadmill for cardio, and rubber mats for yoga. And she was front and center at every recital, wearing her sparkly t-shirt with my face on it. For a long time, mom and Tyler were right beside her, waving cheesy signs that ensured I crushed the competition.

Haunted by memories of days long past, I pressed play on my favorite hip-hop mix, and danced with my favorite ghost. He was taller than he used to be; two full-sleeves and one ear filled with hoops. His hair was longer too, brown waves falling in vivid green eyes. And he had all the right moves. Tyler wasn't interested in dancing until I dragged him to the studio. His mom taught us to be the best, which was why the only person Tyler couldn't out-dance was me.

An entire Doja Cat album passed before I emerged from the basement, tired and sweaty. In the shower, basking under waves of warmth, I decided to break the years' long tradition of being terrified of Tyler's dad. Mr. Moore wore a mask in public. Today it slipped. But would he actually risk his son's career just to teach me a lesson? And was I willing to drop a dime on Tyler's dad? I grew up with the Moore's: I babysat their daughter, celebrated birthdays, and was with them on every family vacation. I couldn't betray them, even if every time I closed my eyes I saw Mr. Moore's bloody face, and remembered the way Aleksandr smiled at the closet like he knew we were hiding.

Towel wrapped around my head, I took a heavy seat at my vanity, blotting toner half-heartedly against my skin. Normally I felt at peace in the peach-painted walls of my room. They were plastered with pictures of friends and family, the shelves lined with trophies from dance and gymnastics. There were lamps and candles to brighten the room, and purple string lights dangling down one wall. The bed, fitted with pink and olive bedsheets, was covered in matching pillows, where Bernard, my favorite teddy bear, lived his days in comfort. Tyler used to sprawl on those same pillows, munching popcorn while I sat at the computer desk in the corner, translating his English paper into actual English. He wasn't famous back then, and we didn't act like total strangers.

My phone buzzed. I picked it up from the vanity and checked the notification: an update from Twitter.

Party at my place the message read, followed by a stream of emojis. Tyler was tagged; underneath was a boomerang video of him kissing his ex on the cheek. As the most popular girl at Harbor Village High, Robin Easton was his by default. She was even entitled to that rose in her hair, which I just knew was from Tyler's bouquet. My blood was simmering but using Tyler to clout-chase wasn't the lowest Robin could sink. She was also known for stealing boyfriends, fooling adults, and crushing souls under the heels of her Aquazzura pumps. It was Friday night. As the only senior not getting faded at Robin's party, I had officially replaced the school mascot as lowest on the social totem pole.

My fingers itched to dial Tyler's number, just to see if his old one still worked. Who knew how long he was back in town? And he must have reached out for a reason... I chewed my thumb, debating. If the only reason I called him was because I didn't like seeing him with Robin, what kind of person did that make me?

My phone rang. I picked it up, frowning at the unfamiliar number on the screen. Was it Tyler?

"Hi. I mean—hello?"

"Is Aaliyah Preston on the line?" I didn't know anyone from Australia. That impatient clip in her tone ruffled my feathers.

"Yep, I would say my neck is definitely on the line." I switched the phone to my other ear, busy with unwrapping a Twizzler from the candy jar on my vanity.

"I'm Astrid Martin, Tyler Moore's manager," she coldly replied. "We met. I'm currently standing in the middle of his empty room. I think he's switched hotels. He was supposed to be on a flight back to New York twenty minutes ago. But of course, that would require compliance on his part, and common, bloody, sense."

"He has issues with authority. In eighth grade, Tyler locked our art teacher in the supply closet until she cried." I nibbled the Twizzler. "You're his manager—why would Tyler leave without telling you?"

"Because he knew I would stop him. Tell me where he is and I'll write a check with your name on it. Better yet—convince him to come back to New York and I'll add another zero."

I took a seat on the edge of my bed, lip between my teeth, wondering just how many zeroes Astrid had. Tyler would kill me... "What makes you think I know where Tyler is?"

"You're the first number on his emergency contact list. And in his very first interview he refers to you as his best friend. Unless that's changed?"

I sighed and bit a large chunk of candy. "It's your job to protect Tyler, right?"

"I'm his nanny, his chef, and his parole officer. Now where is he?"

"Fine. I'll tell you where Tyler is... if you promise to keep an eye on his dad. Mr. Moore is stealing from his son."

"I'm not surprised. I won't ask how you know this, but I'll handle it." Astrid exhaled. "And should Tyler run into any further trouble—"

"No worries, Poppins. I've got your back."

***

The Easton family manor had a decorative pool, a fountain, a garden, and a circular driveway—and that was just the front yard. I pressed the doorbell and stepped back, gazing in envy at the elegant porch, bathed in moonlight. Robin's parents were hot-shot lawyers who moved from California when we were in the sixth grade. We used to be friends. Now she threw parties and forgot to invite me.

Robin opened the door with her usual, crafty grin. Robin stepped out on the porch, adjusting the oversized jean jacket draped across her shoulders. Half of the brunette waves cascading down her back were gathered in a messy topknot decorated with a rose. Her blue, upturned eyes narrowed the second she saw me. Robin was devastatingly gorgeous, the kind of pretty that made you self-conscious. The olive skin under her no-make-up makeup was flawless, not a blemish in sight, just the fake beauty mark at the corner of her lip. Her skinny jeans and grey, cropped t-shirt were offset by gold rings and necklaces. Arms folded, one velvet ankle-boot balanced on its toe, Robin scoffed at the loser on her doorstep.

"Well, this is awkward. For you, not for me."

"I know you're having a thing. I just wanna talk to Tyler."

"Sorry, sweetie, no-can-do." She batted those naturally long lashes, lifting her arm in a helpless shrug. "Tyler's pretty upset. I don't think he wants to see you."

"Is that what he said?"

"Basically," she replied, twirling her hair around her finger. "I promise I'm not doing this to be a bitch. I just want Tyler to have a fun night. He told me what happened at the Maison, how he invited you over and you walked right past him—"

"It's not what he thinks. And if I could just talk to him, maybe I could explain—"

"Look, Aaliyah, Tyler's not going back to New York any time soon. If it was really a misunderstanding like you claim, then you have plenty of time to beg his forgiveness. Why don't you go home and deep-condition?"

"My hair is perfect. And who's gonna stop me from crashing your dumb party?"

Robin's smile widened. "Security!"

Two angry giants in suits and sunglasses poured through the door. Arms crossed, the stood guard behind Robin like they were secret service.

I sighed. "Damnit."

"It's nothing personal, Aaliyah. I just don't want Tyler to get hurt again."

"Right. Because you've always had his best interest, Robin. I hope the two of you have a really good night."

"Oh, he definitely will."

I turned on my heel, inhaling through my nose as I walked away, trying not to think about the two of them alone in her gauzy bedroom.

I walked through the manor gates; they closed behind me with a definitive clang. Feeling stupid and embarrassed, I took the sidewalk to the silver Honda parked on the side of the empty road. Digging in my purse for my keys, I slowed, narrowing my eyes against the white glare of the LED headlights approaching. Were they slowing down, or was I just paranoid? Knowing it was dark and I was alone on a quiet road, I quickly unlocked the driver's side, hopped in the seat and locked the doors. Both hands on the steering wheel, I breathed a sigh of relief when their red taillights faded in the distance.

I couldn't see through the windows, but I knew whoever it was behind those blank, tinted windows, they were looking at me too...

***