Weeks have gone by since Enzo's funeral, and I'm still not used to being without him. My family thought it was too soon for me to move into his apartment and be without their support, but there is something slightly comforting being amongst his things. I have a new obsession of going into the closet and smelling his dress shirts. Especially the collar where it captured the scent of his aftershave. When I get out of the shower, I spritz myself with his cologne just so I can smell like him for the rest of the day. It's such a familiar scent and one I loved to inhale anytime we kissed.

Every morning, I fix myself coffee using his fancy espresso machine, and then stand in front of the wall of windows, the same way he used to. There is so much of Enzo that still feels very much alive when I'm here. Like a set of lungs breathing his memory for me. 

I miss him.

So very much.

Today I'm heading to the audition Dominic set up, and I'm wearing one of Enzo's T-shirts over my leotard for good luck. It's an old concert tee from the 90s that is thin from years of being washed and even has a few small holes. I like the coziness of how old it is. There are so many articles of clothing I never got to see him wear. I even found an old costume in the back of the closet from a party Enzo must have gone to, and I would have killed to see him dressed as Freddy Krueger.

The day is sunny, but there's a chill in the air as I wait for Charlie on the sidewalk to pick me up. He insisted on staying on as my driver, and I think part of it is because he misses Enzo, but the other part is because Enzo paid him well. With the inheritance he left me, I can afford to keep Charlie employed. Plus, I wouldn't trust anyone else to take me places, and after getting attacked twice, I don't like public transportation or driving anywhere alone. Anika says I have trauma and should talk to a therapist, but I'm not ready to unpack the emotional bags of losing the love of my life.

Not to mention, I've been too depressed and too sick to my stomach. I throw up almost every morning, and I've even gone down a dress size because I don't have much of an appetite. How can I when my heart is shattered?

"Apologies for making you wait," Charlie says, and runs to the other side of the car to open my door.

"It's fine, and you really don't have to open my door."

"Of course, I do! It's what Enzo would want."

"Really, it's ok. From now on, I can open my door." I smile and slide inside the town car. 

Charlie rushes back to the driver's side and hops inside. "Alright. Where to?"

I rattle off the ballet company's name and address so he can type the GPS into the navigation system. When he finds it, he looks at my reflection in the rearview mirror and grins. 

"I think you're going to nail this audition, Ma'am." 

"Thanks, Charlie. I just hope I can keep my breakfast down."

"Nervous stomach?" He steers the car into traffic.

"Something like that."

On a good day, it takes about thirty minutes to drive to Berkeley, which is just across the water from San Francisco, but today takes an hour thanks to the congestion over the Bay Bridge. It gives me a glimpse of what I have to look forward to if I land this job. For some reason it causes my stomach to twist even more. Am I ready for such a commitment and change to my routine? 

Right as Charlie pulls up to the dance studio, I open the passenger door and vomit.

"Are you alright?" He unfastens his seat belt.

"Fine..." I say, even though I'm far from it. Charlie isn't buying it and jumps out of the car to rush to my side.

"Here." He hands me a handkerchief. 

His initials are sewn in the corner, as if someone had it made for him, so I shake my head. "I don't want to ruin it." 

"This is what handkerchiefs are for, Ma'am." 

"Please stop calling me Ma'am. It's ok to call me Mara."

"But—"

"No buts. You don't have to be formal with me. In fact, I insist that you treat me normally."

"If that's what you want."

"It is."

"Alright, and I insist that you use my handkerchief to clean yourself up." He shoves it in my hand, then walks to the trunk of the car and rummages through it for a bit. When he returns, he has a small bag, crouches in front of me, and opens it. "Enzo called this the beauty kit. It has everything you need to freshen up before you walk inside." 

My eyes widen and I reach for the mouthwash. "You're a life saver!" 

"And a little spritz of cooling mist," he says, spraying something onto my face from a small bottle. I close my eyes and reel back.

"What is that?"

"It's some sort of fancy botanical mist to freshen you up. Enzo used it on his long days of meetings. He said it helped him not look so tired. It has cucumber in it... I don't know, but I thought you might like it." Charlie shrugs.

"I do." I smile, remembering how disciplined Enzo was about his skincare routine. "Thank you."

After taking a few deep breaths, I enter the dance studio. The last time I was inside one was when the San Francisco Ballet Company was laying me off work. It feels like ages ago, and now here I am, auditioning for another company, and I should be ecstatic for this second chance at my dream. 

Yet, it doesn't quite feel right.

Too much has happened.

Too much has changed me.

I walk to the front desk to give the receptionist my name, and she tells me to wait on the bench. A few minutes pass while I use the opportunity to stretch my muscles. Usually, I would choreograph something that pushes my limits to truly impress whoever I'm auditioning for, but considering I'm still healing from being stabbed, I chose something less strenuous. Hopefully, it's good enough. 

An older woman with wavy grey hair, wearing a maroon leotard finally arrives and greets me.

"Mara Santiago?"

"Yes, that's me."

"It's a pleasure to meet you. I'm Simona Fontaine, one of the managers of production." She guides me through the studio. "Today, you will perform for two choreographers, another more manager, and myself. Is that alright?"

"Yes, of course."

"Did you bring music?"

"I did."

"Excellent. We have someone on standby to play the piano if, for whatever reason, we can't get the music to connect to our system." She opens a door that leads to a smaller room with four chairs in a row. Three of them are already occupied. "Everyone, this is Mara Santiago."

They exchange greetings with me, but do not rise from their seats. On any other occasion it would feel rude, but I'm here to perform, and they are here to judge. This isn't a cocktail party, and the seriousness of this opportunity is sinking in. This is my moment to be like Jennifer Beals in the movie Flashdance and blow them away with something memorable.

"You may hand François your music," Simona says, motioning to a man with a long ponytail sitting behind the piano. 

We take a moment to connect my MP3 player to his Bluetooth speaker system, and I tell him which song to play. It's a mix that Delilah helped me put together. She's good with stuff like that and created a samba-like sound with a classical edge so I can show off my skills while incorporating something different for my small audience to sink their teeth into. 

"Are you ready, Ms. Santiago?" Simona asks.

"Yes." I nod and glide into the center of the room with a pirouette, then hold the pose with my arm raised above my head and my opposite leg kicked out.

The music begins, so I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and think of Enzo. I think of the fine lines around his eyes whenever he smiled, which I grew to love. I think of how safe it felt to be wrapped in his arms. I think of how he used to gaze at me in adoration from across the club, and we would exchange a secret that no one else knew. It was a secret that I was his, and he was mine. Our love began because my dancing caught his eye. So, I will forever honor him with every movement, across every stage, for the rest of my life. 

I love you Enzo Esposito.

Always.

Pushing my shoulders back, I transform into his tiny dancer and show the ballet company what Mara Santiago is made of.