Chapter 8: Heels & Heatwaves
The dance studio was a pressure cooker. Miami heat pressed against the giant windows, but inside, the AC was cranked to near-arctic, doing battle with the body heat of two dozen moving people. The air tasted like electrolytes and ambition.
Anaijiah found her spot near the back, unrolling her thin mat. She could feel the eyes. Some curious, some assessing. The rooftop fallout had rippled through the Stream House periphery. She kept her gaze on her own reflection in the mirror, adjusting the gold belly chain that rested against her skin. She wore a simple black sports bra and high-waisted shorts that showed off the phoenix on her thigh, its colors vibrant even under the studio’s neon tube lights.
Nevaieh was across the room, leaning against the sound booth with Kayla. She was here in a professional capacity—this choreography session was for a potential brand collab with an activewear line. Her presence was a low hum in Anaijiah’s awareness, a steadying point in the chaos.
The choreographer, Nicole, was a legend. Compact, muscular, with eyes that missed nothing. She clapped her hands, the sharp sound cutting through the chatter. “Listen up! We’re building in sections. This isn’t a TikTok tutorial. It’s athletic, it’s precise, it’s got swagger. If you can’t count and isolate, the door’s right there.” Her voice was warm but carried no nonsense. “We start with the foundation. Eight-count intro, watch my feet.”
The music kicked in—a deep, rolling bassline from a Chris Brown remix. Nicole broke it down. Step, slide, hip roll, sharp pop of the shoulder. The group mirrored her, a wave of uncoordinated movement. Anaijiah let the rhythm sink into her bones. This was her language. The isolation, the control, the release. It was the same discipline as holding a difficult tattoo pose for hours, finding the grace in the burn.
She focused on her own reflection, syncing her breath with the counts. Her hips found the groove effortlessly, a smooth, undulating roll that made the belly chain shimmer. The marine life on her arm seemed to ripple with the motion. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Nevaieh watching, her water bottle paused halfway to her lips.
They ran the sequence again. And again. Sweat beaded at Anaijiah’s hairline. The room became a symphony of stomping feet and sharp exhales. Nicole weaved through the dancers, correcting a hand position here, pushing a hip lower there. She stopped behind Anaijiah, watching for a full eight-count.
“Good,” Nicole said, the word quiet, just for her. “You’re hitting the pocket. Don’t lose the tension on the slide.”
The validation was a jolt of pure caffeine. Anaijiah nodded, locking her focus tighter.
They learned the next sequence, a faster series of locks and pops. Some dancers fell behind, frustration tightening their faces. Brooklyn was near the front, her movements aggressive but slightly ahead of the beat, fighting the music instead of riding it. Every time she stumbled, her gaze would flick to the mirror, seeking Nevaieh’s reaction. Nevaieh’s attention was a spotlight fixed elsewhere.
An hour bled by. The full routine was coming together, a demanding three-minute beast. Nicole called for a run-through from the top. “Give me energy! This is the performance, not rehearsal!”
The music slammed through the speakers. Anaijiah forgot about the eyes, the politics, the unspoken rules. There was only the sequence. The explosive jump into a low squat, the fluid body wave, the sharp staccato head isolations. She hit every mark, her energy pouring out through her fingertips, her expression shifting from intense concentration to a pure, unadulterated joy. This was hers. Uncontestable.
She caught Nevaieh’s reflection. She was standing straight now, arms crossed. The proud, possessive set of her jaw was unmistakable. It fueled Anaijiah further. She rolled through a complex footwork pattern, her gold nose ring catching the light with every turn.
The final section was a partnered segment, though they were dancing it solo for now—a series of leans and catches that implied another body. Anaijiah imagined the connection, the off-axis trust. She dropped her weight back into a deep, suspended lunge, one arm arcing over her head as if being pulled up by an invisible force. She held it for a breath, muscles trembling with the effort, before snapping upright for the closing pose.
The music cut.
Silence, except for the heavy breathing of two dozen exhausted dancers.
Nicole stood in the center of the room, hands on her hips. Her critical gaze swept over them, a general surveying her troops. It landed on Anaijiah and stopped.
“Okay,” Nicole said, nodding slowly. She walked toward the sound system, her steps echoing in the quiet. She stopped the track, rewound it a few beats, and let the final, sinuous instrumental loop fill the space.
She turned back to the group. “The final choreography needs a leading solo. Right after the partnered sequence, before the full-group finale. Eight bars. Something that tells a story of release.” Her eyes were sharp, analytical, scanning the faces slick with sweat. They paused on a couple of the usual standouts, the dancers with the biggest followings. Then they settled, firmly, on Anaijiah.
“You,” Nicole said, pointing a finger. “The one with the phoenix. What’s your name?”
“Anaijiah.” Her voice was steady, though her heart was trying to escape her ribs.
“Anaijiah. I saw you in that last lunge. You were feeling it. You weren’t just doing the steps.” Nicole crossed her arms. “I need a freestyle. Right now. This eight bars. Show me the end of the story. Show me the release.”
A collective inhale seemed to suck the air from the room. This wasn’t just a nod. This was a cannonball into the deep end. Leading solo. In a major collab.
Anaijiah saw Brooklyn’s reflection go rigid, her mouth a thin, bitter line. She saw Nayah grinning, giving her a frantic thumbs-up. She saw Kayla nudge Nevaieh with an elbow.
But most importantly, she saw Nevaieh herself. She had put her water bottle down. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the edge of the sound booth. Her expression was unreadable, a mask of intense focus, but the tension in her forearms was a live wire. This was a different kind of test.
Nicole nodded to the guy at the sound board. “Hit it.”
The eight-bar loop started. A stripped-down, percussive section, all skittering hi-hats and a moody, melodic synth line. It was a blank canvas.
Anaijiah closed her eyes for a second. Release. The word echoed. Release from what? The pressure? The expectation? The stupid, clinging doubts that Brooklyn had tried to paste onto her? The fear of being just an interlude?
She thought of the rooftop. The feeling of handing the bullet back. The clean, sharp clarity afterward.
She opened her eyes.
She didn’t start with a bang. She started with a contraction, folding in on herself, arms wrapped around her torso as if holding the last of the old tension. Then, with a slow, uncoiling grace, she began to move. It wasn’t the sharp hits of the routine. It was liquid. Undulating spine rolls that made the roses on her back bloom in the mirror. A deliberate, aching extension of a leg, the peacock on her thigh coming to life. She used the whole space, a slow turn, her head lolling back as if finally feeling the sun.
The story was in her face. Not joy, not yet. It was relief. It was a weight dissolving. She transitioned into a slow, grounded floor work, one hand tracing the polished wood like she was remembering it for the first time. Then, as the synth line began to climb, she rose.
The climb was everything. A powerful, controlled ascension from the floor, muscle by muscle, until she was standing tall. She didn’t jump. She soared on the inside. Her arms lifted, not in victory, but in surrender to the new space around her. The final bar hit. She brought her hands slowly down, crossing them over her chest, over her heartbeat, and bowed her head. A full, complete stop.
The loop ended.
The silence was absolute.
Nicole’s lips curved into a real, broad smile. “Yes.” She clapped once, a sharp, decisive sound. “That’s it. That’s the story. Clean it up, hone it. That’s your solo.”
A few people clapped. Kayla whooped. Nayah jumped up and down.
Brooklyn turned and walked straight out of the studio, the door swinging shut behind her with a soft click.
Anaijiah’s lungs burned. She looked to the sound booth.
Nevaieh was gone.
A spike of cold fear cut through the adrenaline. Had it been too much? Was this the part where the light, as Brooklyn said, moved on to a new, less complicated muse?
She mumbled her thanks to Nicole, grabbed her towel, and pushed through the studio door into the cooler hallway. She heard footsteps around the corner, near the water fountain.
Nevaieh was there, leaning against the wall, head down, one hand braced against the concrete block.
“Hey,” Anaijiah said, her voice tentative.
Nevaieh looked up. Her eyes were red-rimmed. Not with tears, but with a fierce, overwhelming emotion she was visibly struggling to contain. “Don’t,” she said, her voice rough. “Don’t say a word.”
She pushed off the wall and closed the distance between them in two strides. Her hands came up, cradling Anaijiah’s face, her thumbs smearing away sweat and the ghost of studio makeup. Her gaze was a physical touch, roaming over Anaijiah’s features as if she was seeing her for the first time, or the last.
“That,” Nevaieh breathed, her voice cracking on the word. “What you just did in there. That was… private. And you gave it to a room full of strangers.” She shook her head, awe and a kind of anguish warring in her expression. “It was the most beautiful fucking thing I’ve ever seen. And it killed me.”
“Killed you?” Anaijiah whispered, confusion knotting her stomach.
“Because I want to hoard it. I want to be the only one who ever sees that. That version of you. That raw… art.” She let out a shuddering breath, her forehead finally dropping to rest against Anaijiah’s. “And I also wanted to scream at everyone to look, to really see, because they have no idea. No idea who you are. What you contain.”
She pulled back, her grip firm on Anaijiah’s shoulders. “You terrified me in there. In the best way. You don’t need a spotlight. You are the spotlight. And I…” She swallowed hard. “I just need to be sure I’m brave enough to stand in it with you. Not in front of it. Not hiding in the shadows of it. In it.”
It was a confession more vulnerable than any ‘I love you’ could ever be. It was the fear of the artist, not the player. The fear of being outshone, of becoming secondary to the craft. It was real.
Anaijiah reached up, covering Nevaieh’s hands with her own. She could still feel the tremble in them. “You’re not standing in my spotlight,” she said, her voice low and sure. “You’re the one who handed me the battery pack. Remember? You’re the reason the light turned on.”
Nevaieh closed her eyes, a wave of relief visibly washing through her. When she opened them, the conflict was clearing, replaced by a deep, resonant certainty. “Fuck,” she murmured, a faint, real smile finally touching her lips. “When did you get so wise?”
“Around the same time you got so scared.” Anaijiah kissed her, a soft press of lips that tasted of salt and promise. “It’s just a dance, Nev.”
“It’s never just anything with you.” Nevaieh wrapped her arms around her, holding her close in the quiet, empty hallway. The bass from the studio was a distant throb. “And I wouldn’t want it any other way. Come on. Let’s get out of here before Nicole tries to sign you to a world tour.”
As they walked out, hands linked, Anaijiah felt the solo solidify inside her, not as a point of separation, but as another thread, strong and bright, weaving them together. The studio mirrors had shown her reflection, but Nevaieh’s eyes had shown her her future. And for the first time, she believed they were looking at the same thing.
And for the first time, she believed they were looking at the same thing. The humid Miami night air hit them like a damp towel as they pushed through the glass doors of the studio complex, a shocking contrast to the sterile, cooled sweat of the rehearsal space. Nevaieh’s hand found hers instantly, fingers lacing together with a possessive squeeze that felt more like an anchor than a chain.
“I need a shower that scours skin,” Nevaieh declared, pulling her toward the waiting black SUV idling at the curb. “I feel like I’ve been baptised in other people’s ambition and cheap perfume.”
Anaijiah laughed, the sound loose and effortless as she slid across the cool leather seats. “Your pores are probably screaming.” The door thudded shut, sealing them in a quiet, dark capsule. The city lights streamed by the tinted windows in silent, neon ribbons.
The car pulled into traffic. Anaijiah leaned her head back, closing her eyes, feeling every muscle sing a chorus of pleasant exhaustion. The solo lived inside her ribs now, a living, breathing thing. Nevaieh’s phone buzzed once, then again, but she ignored it, instead tracing the line of Anaijiah’s jaw with a single, reverent knuckle.
“You quiet?” Nevaieh asked, her voice soft in the dark.
“Just full,” Anaijiah murmured, not opening her eyes. “In a good way. Like after a ten-hour session on a perfect piece. That same buzz in my hands.” She flexed her fingers in the dim light. “But it’s in my whole body now.”
Nevaieh hummed in understanding. Her phone buzzed a third time, insistent. She growled and fished it from her pocket. “It’s Kayla. Probably a debrief on the brand deal.” She thumbed the screen, the blue light washing over her face. She scanned the message, her expression shifting from annoyance to focused interest.
Before she could speak, Anaijiah’s own phone chimed in her bag. A different, sharper tone. A direct message.
“Probably Nayah, blowing up my phone with video snippets she took,” Anaijiah said, rummaging for it. Her fingers closed around the sleek device. The screen glowed, illuminating the phoenix on her thigh. The notification was not from Nayah.
It was from nicole_offthebeat.
Nevaieh, watching her face, went still. “What?”
Anaijiah unlocked the phone. She read the message. Then she read it again. The words didn’t change.
nicole_offthebeat: That wasn’t just a solo. That was a statement. I’m putting together a tour. 6 months. Europe, Asia, a curated stint back here. Not a backing dancer. A featured artist. My second lead. Collaborative creative input. The pay is… significant. The exposure is real. This is a deal you get once. Tell me you’re interested before I lose my nerve and offer it to someone more predictable.
The air left the car. The world outside the window blurred into meaningless color. Six months. A tour. Featured artist. Her skin prickled, hot then cold. The buzz in her body spiked, a frantic voltage. This was the dream she’d never let herself articulate, the one that felt too arrogant to even whisper.
“Ana?” Nevaieh’s voice was careful, a probe in the sudden silence.
Wordlessly, Anaijiah turned the phone, showing her the screen. Nevaieh took it, her eyes scanning the message quickly. Anaijiah watched her face, braced for the subtle tightening, the quiet calculation, the unspoken worry about distance and time and diverging paths.
Nevaieh’s lips moved slightly as she read the final line. She handed the phone back. She leaned back against the headrest, staring at the roof of the car. A long, slow breath escaped her.
“Okay,” Nevaieh said, the word solid and final.
“Okay?” Anaijiah’s voice was a thread.
Nevaieh turned her head, her eyes catching the passing streetlights. They were clear, certain, and utterly fearless. “You have to do it.”
The simplicity of it was a shock. “Nev, it’s six months. It’s… it’s everything.”
“I know what it is,” Nevaieh interrupted, her tone leaving no room for argument. “I just watched you in that studio. You came alive in a way that’s different from the tattoo chair. It’s not better. It’s another part of the same engine.” She reached over, tapping Anaijiah’s sternum with a firm finger. “This thing in you needs to run. On every cylinder.”
She took Anaijiah’s hand again, her grip warm and sure. “The ink is permanent. It waits. This?” She gestured at the phone. “This is a lightning strike. You don’t hide from it. You channel it.”
Anaijiah felt a tremor start deep inside, a seismic shift of possibility. “What about… us? What about the House, the collabs, your stuff?”
Nevaieh shrugged, a slow, confident roll of her shoulders. “I’ve got stuff. I can work from anywhere. And ‘us’…” She brought Anaijiah’s knuckles to her lips, kissing them. “We’re not a location. We’re not a schedule. We survived a rooftop orchestrated by a reality TV villain. I think we can handle some airport goodbyes and shitty Wi-Fi on video calls.”
A laugh bubbled out of Anaijiah, part disbelief, part dizzying elation. “You’re serious.”
“Deadly.” Nevaieh’s smile was a flash of white in the dark. “I meant what I said in the hallway. I want to stand in the light with you. Even if that light’s on a stage in Berlin or Tokyo.” Her expression softened, a rare, unguarded tenderness replacing the certainty. “Besides, watching you from the wings? Knowing you’re out there owning it? That’s its own kind of thrill.”
The car slowed, turning into the sweeping driveway of The Chamberlain. The hotel loomed, a pyramid of quiet luxury. The decision hovered in the space between them, immense and glittering.
Anaijiah looked at the message again, then at Nevaieh. At the woman who saw her, all of her, and instead of building a box around her, kept handing her bigger canvases. Bigger stages.
“So I just… say yes?” Anaijiah whispered, the magnitude of it settling on her shoulders, not as a weight, but as a mantle.
Nevaieh leaned in, her breath a warm whisper against Anaijiah’s ear. “You say, ‘Tell me where to sign.’ Then you come upstairs, and we start figuring out how to make a world tour look good on you.” She pulled back, her eyes gleaming with shared excitement. “And I get to be the disgustingly proud girlfriend bragging to everyone who will listen.”
The car door was opened by a valet. The humid night wrapped around them once more. Anaijiah stepped out, her legs steady, the future a wide-open road stretching out from beneath her feet. She typed a single, definitive word into her phone.
Yes.
The ‘send’ button glowed under her thumb for a second before the message vanished, delivered into the digital ether. A contract with the universe. The elevator ride up was a silent, grinning conspiracy. Nevaieh kept stealing glances at her, shaking her head in disbelief. “Featured artist,” she muttered, as if trying the title on for size. “Sounds badass. You’re gonna need a rider. I’m thinking green M&Ms and a very specific brand of ginger tea.”
“I’ll demand a personal tattoo station backstage,” Anaijiah played along, the giddiness making her lightheaded. “For touch-ups.”
“Demand a physio. And a chef. Actually, just put me on the rider. ‘One emotionally invested girlfriend, required for ego maintenance and post-show… debriefs.’” Nevaieh’s smirk was all heat as the doors opened.
The sound of laughter and a familiar, bass-heavy playlist pulled them toward the open doors of the main bungalow’s patio deck. The private space was smaller than the main rooftop, a cozy nest of woven furniture and floating pool lights overlooking the glittering downtown grid. Nayah, Kayla, and a few other Stream House affiliates were scattered around, the air rich with the scent of cigar smoke and grilled pineapple from a small fire pit.
“There she is!” Nayah crowed, launching herself off a daybed. She engulfed Anaijiah in a hug that smelled like coconut rum. “Nicole just texted the group thread! A tour? A tour! I’m manifesting this for you so hard my crystals are overheating!”
Kayla approached with a more measured smile, offering a glass of champagne. “Serious congrats, Ana. You earned that in there. It was undeniable.” Her eyes flicked to Nevaieh, a silent communication passing between them. We’ll handle the logistics.
“Thanks,” Anaijiah said, accepting the glass. The bubbles felt like possibility on her tongue. She let herself sink into a low-slung chair, the adrenaline finally ebbing into a warm, satisfied hum. Nevaieh perched on the wide arm, her hand coming to rest on the back of Anaijiah’s neck, fingers idly tracing the hairline there.
Brooklyn was standing by the railing, her back to the group, staring out at the city. She’d changed into a sheer kaftan, her silhouette sharp against the lights. She didn’t turn when they arrived.
The conversation flowed around Anaijiah—talk of visas, of potential set designers Nicole liked, of the brutal schedule of a touring show. She contributed, but mostly she floated, anchored by Nevaieh’s touch. She watched the pool lights make rippling blue patterns on the deck.
“It’s a fast life,” a voice cut through the chatter. Brooklyn had turned. She held a glass of dark liquor, swirling it slowly. Her smile was a thin, practiced curve. “One minute you’re the fresh face, the new inspiration. The next…” She took a sip, her eyes fixed on Anaijiah. “You’re just another body on a bus, missing things. Important things.”
The patio’s mood dipped. Nayah’s laugh died. Kayla shifted in her seat.
“Missing what, Brook?” Nevaieh’s voice was calm, but the hand on Anaijiah’s neck went still.
“Oh, you know. Stability. Roots.” Brooklyn waved her glass vaguely. “The people who really matter. But then, I guess some of us are used to that absence already, aren’t we?” Her gaze locked onto Anaijiah’s, glittering with a malice so precise it felt surgical. “Must be in the blood. Like mother, like daughter, skipping out early.”
The world did not slow down. It shattered.
The words were not a slap but a vacuum, sucking all sound, all light, all air from the space around Anaijiah. The gentle hum of the pool filter, the distant traffic, the chatter—all gone. She felt the cold shock of the champagne glass in her hand, the only real sensation as her body turned to stone.
Nevaieh was on her feet. The movement was a blur, a tectonic shift. “What did you just say?” The question was a low, vibrating thing, more animal than human.
Brooklyn had the gall to look innocently puzzled. “I just meant, with her mother passing so young. It’s tragic. It shapes a person, makes them… transient. Always looking for the next thing, because what’s the point of putting down roots, right?” She took another leisurely sip. “It’s a pattern. I’ve seen it.”
Anaijiah’s mother had died when she was sixteen. The long, ugly fight against the cancer that had started in her ovaries was not a secret, but it was a sacred, quiet geography inside her. A landscape of hospital quiet and her mother’s fading voice and the specific, cruel smell of disinfectant that still made her stomach lurch. It was hers. Brooklyn had mined for it, found the deepest fault line, and dropped a bomb into the chasm.
Transient. Skipping out.
Anaijiah stood. The glass in her hand was trembling. She set it down on the side table with a precise, quiet click. The action felt distant, performed by someone else.
She walked toward Brooklyn. The space between them felt infinite and yet she crossed it in three strides. She could see the faint triumph in Brooklyn’s eyes, the satisfaction of having finally drawn real blood, of having found the one weapon that couldn’t be parried with a witty comeback.
Anaijiah stopped a foot away. She could smell Brooklyn’s perfume, the same cloying jasmine from the rooftop. She searched Brooklyn’s face, not for remorse, but for the source. The jealousy was a rotten, pulsing thing. It wasn’t even about Nevaieh anymore. It was about the solo. The spotlight. The un-earned thing, in Brooklyn’s eyes, that Anaijiah had taken.
“You,” Anaijiah said, her voice surprisingly steady, a flat plane of ice, “are a small, empty room.”
Brooklyn’s smirk faltered.
“You have nothing in you that isn’t a reflection of what you want from someone else. You saw a wound you thought was weak. You thought it would make me crumple.” Anaijiah took a half-step closer, and Brooklyn, against her own will, leaned back. “My mother fought for eight years. She held on for every second she could get with me. You don’t get to speak her name. You don’t get to touch her memory with your filthy, desperate hands.”
She didn’t raise her voice. The quiet fury in it was more terrifying than any scream.
“You are nothing to me,” Anaijiah continued, each word a nail. “You are background noise. A bad smell in a hallway. After tonight, you will never be in my space again. You will never speak to me. If you see me, you will walk the other way. Do you understand the silence I am giving you? It’s forever.”
She turned. Nevaieh was there, a storm contained in human form, her chest heaving, her eyes pure black fury. She was looking at Brooklyn like she was deciding on the method, not the outcome.
“Neva,” Anaijiah said, reaching for her hand. It was clenched into a white-knuckled fist. She pried the fingers open and laced hers through them. “Don’t. She’s not worth the energy it takes to hate her.”
She pulled Nevaieh, who was vibrating with unleashed violence, back a step. Then she looked past her, to Kayla. Kayla’s face was pale with shock, but her eyes were clear and hard.
“She goes,” Anaijiah said, not a request, a simple fact. “Now. Or I do, and the tour deal goes with me, and I make sure every interview for the next six months is about the toxicity you nurture here.”
Kayla nodded once, sharply. “Done.” She stood, turning a professional, icy gaze on Brooklyn. “Let’s go. Pack your things. I’ll call you a car to the airport.”
The rest was a muffled chaos—Brooklyn’s sputtered protests, Nayah’s shocked gasp, the swift, efficient way Kayla moved to herd her out. Anaijiah didn’t watch. She tugged Nevaieh’s hand, leading her not inside, but down the secluded set of stairs to their own bungalow’s tiny, private slice of patio.
The door clicked shut above them, muting the world.
Nevaieh was shaking. “I will ruin her,” she snarled, the words tearing from her throat. “I will take every brand deal, every connection, every fucking Instagram follower. I will bury her.”
“No.” Anaijiah turned, framing Nevaieh’s face with her hands. They were both trembling. “That’s what she wants. A war. A connection. To live in your head. She gets nothing. Not even your anger.” She saw the tears of rage standing in Nevaieh’s eyes. “My mother was not a weapon. She was… she is love. And that bitch doesn’t get to touch that. Your fury doesn’t get to touch that either. It’s too pure for her.”
The fight slowly drained from Nevaieh’s muscles, replaced by a devastating helplessness. “She hurt you,” she whispered, the sound broken.
“Yes.” Anaijiah let out a shaky breath, finally allowing the pain to surface now that they were alone. It was a vast, cold ache, an old scar ripped open. “But you heard me. I gave her the only thing she deserves. Absolute nothingness.”
Nevaieh pulled her into a crushing embrace, her arms like steel bands. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I brought you into this.”
“You brought me into you,” Anaijiah corrected, her voice muffled against Nevaieh’s shoulder. “The rest is just noise. This just proves it.” She held on tighter. “I need you to be okay. I need you to not carry this for me.”
They stood there for a long time, in the dark, by the still water. The victory of the studio, the thrill of the tour, it was all still there, but it was real now. It was rooted in a world that contained both unimaginable beauty and bottomless cruelty. It had weight.
Finally, Nevaieh pulled back, wiping roughly at her own eyes. “Okay,” she breathed. “Okay.” She kissed Anaijiah’s forehead, then her lips, a soft, sealing promise. “Then we move forward. We pack. We get you ready for your tour.”
She managed a shaky, determined smile. “And we never, ever speak her name again.”