The Dance We Remember (Love and Other Dreams #4)

Chapter 27

Aurora

I feel the gaze of our competitors all over my body. Anxiously, I adjust my tight, glittering dress and check the straps. Last, my hands move down to my belly.

The roundness is so minimal that I can hardly feel it, but I look around nervously. Do the other couples waiting in the darkness beside the dance floor know I'm pregnant? Maybe they can even tell by looking at me?

It doesn't matter, Aurora , I remind myself, breathing shakily. Maxime stands beside me, his gaze fixed forward, his fists clenched. Every single muscle in his body is tense.

We did well in the tournament in Bordeaux, but this is on a whole different level.

This is the French Championship!

The ballroom's grandstand has thirty rows of seats. In the front, prominent politicians and national actors are seated. I recognize the actress from Amélie among them. The speaker, who is now preparing the audience for the upcoming jive, is also familiar.

On the opposite side, Madame Durand and Cyrille Perret are caught in the spotlight of the dance floor. The expression on the face of our manager fluctuates between panic and hope, while our sponsor appears composed and detached. For him, this is not an emotional matter; it's all about business. If we don't deliver, we're out. It's that simple.

Now, of all times, nausea rises inside me. I press my hand against my mouth and swallow hard against the acid rising in my esophagus.

More than usual, I was careful today not to eat anything that could cause me problems. Not too much, nothing spicy, only in small quantities. I also prepared water bottles. If I get dehydrated, dizziness will come quickly, and that cannot happen today.

Maxime steps closer to me. "Are you alright?" he asks, concerned. "You look pale."

I nod, perhaps too emphatically.

He tilts his head. "We don't have to do this if you don't feel well…"

"It's just nerves. Nothing more," I assure.

He seems relieved, and that's a good thing. Nobody benefits from him worrying. We are here to win the championship; dancing is all that matters now.

The jive is the last dance of this qualifying round. After this, the decision will be made about which six couples will compete in the finals. Maxime and I need to be one of them.

We have to be!

So much depends on the next few minutes.

Another wave of nausea overwhelms me.

I breathe heavily through my nose and turn away, taking a few steps to walk. But it doesn't help. On the contrary, now my stomach tightens.

No, no, no. Please not now!

He reaches for my hand. "You look so pale. This isn't…"

"Don't worry, everything is fine." I try to smile.

At that moment, the announcement is made.

"Here we go," I say, leading him onto the dance floor.

This final qualifying round is performed as a group dance. Maxime and I have to stand out among the other nine couples to impress the judges. And that's already tough enough when you have the dance floor all to yourself.

"Let's do it," Maxime whispers as we take our dancing position.

Instead of replying, I nod briefly. On one hand, because of my level of nausea, it's better not to open my mouth, and on the other hand, so that both of us can focus.

The jive is the most demanding dance of all. Its fast and dynamic movements resemble rock 'n' roll. Right now, I can only think of one way to muster enough energy for the next seventy seconds.

I imagine my mother's face. I see her warm eyes, the nose with the tiny bump, and the dark hair cascading in wild waves over her shoulders. I feel her rough hands on my cheek, worn from working in the olive grove. And I smell her scent of dry earth and orange blossoms.

For you, Mama , I whisper in my mind. In my imagination, her lips turn up. Her cheeks glow rosy, and fine lines extend from the corners of her eyes to her temples.

A heartbeat later, lively music starts playing. Maxime's grip tightens.

I lift my head, looking directly into the faces of the judges. Despite the never-ending abdominal cramps, I know I’m ready. Because I want to be ready.

Maxime and I will leave all eleven judges sitting in front of us breathless with our jive. And my mother will beam with pride.

Here we go.

The most important dance of my life begins.

On one, I stretch out; on two, I swing my hips to the side. Three, shifting my weight to the left side; four, the hips follow. We dance in synchronized movements toward the judges.

The rhythm of the music is faster than I feared. After a few seconds, my heart rate soars. I maintain the radiant smile they want to see. It has to appear effortless, as if dancing is pure joy and has nothing to do with exertion.

Maxime lets go of my hand, and we separate to dance in a semicircle. I nearly collide with couple number three on my way, as I am so preoccupied with controlling my nausea, but I manage to avoid it. We come back together, and Maxime's gaze flickers to me. For a moment, he lets me see the worry in his eyes.

He shouldn't be worried. He needs to concentrate! I respond with a warning glance and stop a yard away from him.

The music picks up pace. I swing my arms, lift my knee, and kick my leg.

Again, to the other side.

Slightly bend forward. And back.

My muscles feel stiff, and my feet are as heavy as if trapped in lead shoes.

Nevertheless, I keep fighting.

Don't give up, Aurora. You can manage these few seconds!

I keep repeating these words to myself, but my stomach cramps more and more. When Maxime reaches for my hand again, signaling the turn, I wish I could crouch down and curl my upper body forward so that I look like a small sparkling package.

Fire shoots up my esophagus.

The turn feels different from usual.

Soft.

The ballroom, with all the elegantly dressed couples and the intensely scented floral decorations, seems somehow distorted. The music becomes muffled.

I can’t keep my smile up any longer. A loud groan escapes my mouth.

Suddenly, a searing pain shoots through my middle.

Oh. My. God.

I can no longer keep myself on my feet. Like a marionette whose strings are suddenly released, I collapse on the dance floor.

Everything comes to a halt.

The smile on my mother's face vanishes. Her features turn gray and dissolve rapidly.

No!

Stay with me!

My plea remains unsuccessful.

Whimpering, I curl up on the floor.

This is the end. We have failed.

And it's all my fault.

"Aurora!" Maxime's sweat-drenched face hovers over me. His eyes are supernaturally wide, and he cups my cheeks in his hands. "You're bleeding!"