My eyes beg me not to open them the next morning. I regret not taking my makeup off when I got home last night because now my eyelashes are sticky and stuck together. I hear my alarm wailing in the distance and I use my hand to fondle my nightstand while searching for my phone.

It's 10 a.m. I have to log on to class in two hours and I am supposed to meet Stella for Barre and boba in a half hour. When she hit me up yesterday to join her for class, I thought I could use it as motivation to get me out of bed. Being back here is supposed to be my fresh start. Focus on my health, my mind and my goals. But right now, my bed, a book and some coffee sound more appealing. I feel my phone buzz in my hand and pry my eyes open to read the text.

Stella: I'll be there in fifteen. Don't forget socks.

I moan loudly and dramatically as I drop my phone next to me and wonder if I can use school or my depression as an excuse to get out of the early Barre class. I feel my phone buzz again and snatch it up.

Stella: You're not bailing. See you in fourteen mins.

Damn. She knows me so well. I find the strength to flip my legs over and haul myself off the futon. When Steve said he had a room that he Airbnb's, I figured it would come with at least a full-sized bed. The studio is smaller than it looked in the pictures and I hadn't realized the red IKEA futon shoved next to the kitchenette was the bed. It only takes me three steps to get from my "bed" to the bathroom and it surprisingly only takes me eight minutes to get presentable. I tie a cotton long sleeve around my waist, covered in Under Armor leggings and I have a sliver of midriff showing under my sports bra. My brain whispers "Fappy" to my bare skin and I shake the thought away quickly. Blake had made me feel self-conscious for the last few months of our relationship, so it's the first time I have wandered out of the house even slightly exposed.

I hear Stella's honk right at ten-fifteen and swipe my water bottle off my nightstand. It takes me a few seconds to get the door locked and I try to remember to tell Steve that the lock sticks. I know I'm in a studio behind the main house, but I still don't trust leaving anything unlocked. I am a New Yorker at heart, but I am also okay with being out of the frosty spring weather. 

I see Stella's massive black sunglasses taking up half of her pretty face through the windshield and she spits her gum onto the street as I pull my door open.

"Hey ho," she tells me as I drop into the passenger seat of her BMW and I yank my seatbelt across me. "Were you totally gonna bail on me?" Once I am buckled in, I look to her and answer, "Yeah. I was. Last night was exhausting. I didn't get home until two." She pulls out of the driveway as she says, "God, we need to find you a new place. This area is sketch." She grimaces as she looks at the houses around her and adds, "I didn't realize it was this bad."

I drop my water bottle at my feet as I reply, "Yeah well, beggars can't be choosers. And Steve is letting me stay there for cheap."

"People pay to stay in that box?" She asks in shock and I forgot how out of touch Stella can be. She's originally from Scottsdale, but I met her in my Principles of Finance class my first year at ASU. She does freelance marketing in Phoenix now, lives in a fancy townhouse near Roosevelt Row, and sets her own hours. Steve's neighborhood probably does look like the sticks compared to where she hangs around.

"Hopefully, I am only there a couple of weeks. My savings were drained while I was off living a dream life and now coming up with first and last for an apartment has been a bitch."

"If Kinsey wasn't in town, I would have totally let you stay in my guest room," she tells me sincerely and she was the first person I had asked to crash with when I found out I was returning back home. She told me her sister was visiting for spring break, which forced me to reach out to Maggie, which led me to her friend Steve. Moving back home with my parents in Tucson would have been worse than working with Jack again, so I never even entertained the idea.

"I know, it's no big deal. Honestly, the worst part is not having a kitchen to bake in." I tell her as she turns onto the street that leads to the Barre studio.

"Come bake at my place! I can help you with your channel."

"Really? Thanks. I haven't posted anything in weeks. Baking is supposed to be therapeutic and I was going to do this whole post on break-up brownies, but I just looked pathetic."

"Hey, baking is what you are good at. Darling little sugar cookies that put smiles on people's faces is your talent. Don't let him take that from you," she says as she points a finger at me. Her ferocity and marketing skills are what launched my baking YouTube channel and then she started an Instagram and TikTok account for me, Lucybakes, all dedicated to my cookies and cakes. I love her for it and her support is what pushed me to want to open my own bakery. 

"Besides, it's pointless for you to be taking all these business classes just to put what you are actually going to use them for on the back burner. I am happy Maggie gave you a job, but I hope you can focus more on getting your website up and deciding on what you can bake and ship out. You may have been in New York, frolicking about with Blake, but I have been here working on making you a successful business owner." She smirks at me and I place a grateful hand on her forearm.

"You have been great at keeping my brand alive while I had my head stuck up Blake's ass. LucyBakes will come online again, I just need inspiration. And a bigger kitchen."

"It better, it's time to put your energy back into your baking." She slides her glasses up her perfect slope of a nose and then asks, "So...how was Jack?" I had wondered how long into the car ride until she would bring him up. I frown at her and she smiles, "Oh no, that bad?"

"A bachelorette party came in and practically yanked him out from behind the bar. They were all pawing at him and I'm sure he went home with one of them," I tell her, the annoyance I felt last night is apparently still simmering. Stella bringing her Yeti tumbler up to her lips to sip her coffee reminds me of Ashleigh's weird offer of grabbing coffee this week. I bring my phone up to text her as Stella says, "It's not news that Jack is hot. If I saw him as a bartender, I'd try and take him home too."

"You did try and take him home, Stella. At one of Hannah's parties," I remind her, and she smiles her mischievous smile at me.

"But once I realized he was your Jack, I laid off. And he didn't come on to me either, remember?"

"Yes, once he realized you were my Stella."

"Was it awkward seeing your long-lost crush again, though?" She jokingly asks, and I think about the evening overall and then glance at her.

"I think I was so anxious that I just kind of avoided him all night. There was a moment where I felt like everything was normal and then I remembered he told me that I was so desperate for my parent's approval that I'd move across the country with a fuckwit just to please them and was like nah, fuck him."

"You do want to fuck him," Stella teases.

"I did, and he never wanted to fuck me. Remember?"

"I don't get why you just never went for it. It's been years, Lucy. Years since you first told me you had a crush on a bartender at work. I mean, I get he doesn't date co-workers and he is a serial cheater and has never had a serious relationship, but if he were my co-worker, I'd quit just to see where it went." She pulls into a parking space with four minutes to spare. 

As I climb out of her seat, I reply, "Yeah, but see, he would go for you. It would be pointless for me to quit. We worked together for three years, and he never once made a move. Pretty sure I know where I stand with him."

I watch as a five-foot-eight blonde goddess emerges from the driver's seat, and I'm convinced Jack would've tossed his rule out the window if Stella had come to work at Mag's. She's tall, blonde, and perfectly proportioned with the help of a little plastic. She's wealthy, witty, and has no trouble getting any guy she wants.

When she found out I used to be a ballet dancer, she begged me to go to barre classes with her after our finance class. I was reluctant to even see a ballet bar again, but once I got over that hurdle, I felt like I could've taught the class.

It became our routine three days a week, and we quickly became friends outside of class. I shoved my distaste for ballet to the back of my mind as it turned into something relaxing to do with my new best friend.

I love her to pieces. She's the only person who's ever made me enjoy anything about dancing again.

"You've always had some excuse when it comes to him," she tells me.

She's also one of the only friends who knows I've been secretly in love with Jack for the past three years and the one who's always encouraged me to just put myself out there. But I'm not as brave or flirtatious as she is. The idea of throwing myself at Jack absolutely mortifies me.

"No, he's just always had some girl's bed to slide out of," I say, my voice thick with disdain. "That, and I think you're forgetting the whole cheater cheater part. I just broke off an engagement because of cheating. I'm not about to start fawning over the biggest cheater in Arizona."

"Maybe it's time to just ask Jack outright why he is commitment phob? Just put yourself out there with him," Stella says as she tugs the door to the studio open. "What do you have to lose at this point?" 

"A lot, actually. Mag's is a saving grace and I can't fuck that up over Jack. That and it's pointless to put myself out there with someone who has zero interest in serious relationships. I already know I couldn't do casual with Jack." 

"So you really have no interest in Jack anymore? That ship has sailed? No more oogling him from afar?" I give her a side-eye as  I hand my pass over to the receptionist.

"It's impossible not to oogle him, Stella. His eyes are so blue they literally shine against his tan face. And every shirt seems to fit his arms and chest perfectly. Don't get me started on his calves." The receptionist smiles once my ID pops up on the screen.

"Lucy! Long time no see. Glad to have you back!" She beams and I want to frown at her, but I stay friendly. I follow Stella into the studio and we quickly remove our flip-flops and slide on our grippy socks. I did miss this. I enjoy seeing a ballet bar now that my entire future no longer rests on it.

"Oh god, it feels like I never left," I moan and she takes my water bottle to save us a spot at the bar.

"I'm going to see if you say that when we start leg lefts," she replies with a smirk. As I settle into my spot, I look to the full-length mirror across from me and start analyzing my body. I'm used to staring at my insecurities in rooms covered in mirrors.  Steve's place only has a little dinky bathroom mirror, so it's weird to see my lower half. 

I used to have the perfect dancer's body—thin but lean. My calves looked jacked during relevés, and now there's hardly any definition. I'm still thin, but I notice my face is fuller. My long legs aren't nearly as toned as they were during training, and my arms are basically noodles. Still, I wouldn't say I'm getting fappy, like Blake said.

I wish he had never uttered that word. Now it lingers in my mind every time I look at myself.

He warned me that my love of baking and lack of working out would catch up to me and not to get fappy (fat and happy) while living our new life in New York. It was a flippant comment, but it's burned into my memory.

Then he suggested I take up dance again, or even consider teaching. The thought of doing ballet in New York, of stepping back into that world, nearly gave me a full-blown panic attack.

I tug my waistband a little higher, trying to hide the tiny pooch I picked up after the move. Just thinking of the word fappy still stings, and I dart my gaze away from my torso.

"Ready to sweat?" Stella asks me as she uses her fingers to pull her hair into a high ponytail. The class is starting to fill up, and I'm glad I decided to get out of bed this morning, something I wasn't able to do for days after I found the thong.

"Yep! Gotta get my ballet body back," I tell her, and I watch her lift her perfectly threaded eyebrow before she replies, "Back? Girl, you've always been fit. You might be slim, but I bet you could throw me across the room."

"Stella, you weigh like a hundred pounds, so that's not saying much," I mutter back to her with a light laugh. She takes a spot next to me at the bar and then says, "Hey, I know that asshole fucked with your head, but you're still hot alright? Don't do the whole self-conscious thing. You're one of the last completely natural, pretty people that I know, don't let a man shake you." I look to her in the mirror, and I am about to tell her about my research into getting implants when the instructor waltzes in and all conversations fall silent.