Chapter Twenty-Five

Twenty-Five

E ight days later, we leave our desks at the end of the workday and head downstairs to the Christmas party. I go before Chiara, who is slowly packing her things, and when we meet at the decorated office space reserved for the social event, Chiara grabs my shoulders, flashing a radiant smile.

"I got the Game Designer job in Stockholm!"

We both shriek, and I hug her, saying, "Congratulations!"

We've talked a lot the past few days when I was sleeping at her place. I shared the joys and turbulences of my relationship with Erik, and she told me more about what had been going on between her and Anika. She listened to my advice to not give up on the two of them and kept applying for jobs in Stockholm. I'm so glad she succeeded and that she and Anika will share an apartment there.

On a selfish level, I'm sad to lose the only friend I have in Copenhagen, but the universe would have been unfair if it had denied her and Anika the opportunity to give their love—and their careers—a try.

My smile falters, however. I can't deny I'm jealous. But I try not to blame the universe for being unfair when it came to Erik and me drifting apart. It did its part to make things more complicated for us, but ultimately, it was us who decided we should follow our separate paths.

It wasn't something we agreed upon directly. There was no talk, no official breakup. I just left to stay with Chiara, and he was okay with that. He didn't text me. I didn't call him. We let ourselves focus on our jobs because until we're okay with our own situations, we won't be okay together.

And I'm starting to accept we might never be okay together.

Not that it's an easy thing to accept. It's crushing. My mood swings are a constant reminder of how all of me misses Erik. And how I will be okay without him.

I have to be.

And I'll prove that tonight.

The hall is filled with people sitting on the sofas or on the stairs, serving cups with beer, soda, and mulled wine, and gathering in front of the improvised stage, waiting for their colleagues to embarrass themselves.

The Christmas tree is decorated with beetles from our most famous game and scorpions like the one in the company logo. We all hang out for a while, Christmas songs playing through the speakers, drinks and snacks abounding. Then the talent show begins, and George and Alex are the first couple onstage. They entertain us with a lively performance of "It's Raining Men."

When they are done and people are applauding and whooping, my name is announced. With my heart in my throat, I climb onto the stage and stand behind the curtains. It's the first time I'll do something as attention-getting as dance in front of a crowd. And not just any crowd—coworkers who will look at me every single day and remember how I've embarrassed myself onstage.

Oh, Jesus, why am I doing this?

To get promoted , I answer. To get your dream job.

To be yourself.

I chuckle inwardly, staring at the silky curtains. I haven't practiced enough; I've switched to samba so I can dance alone. The thing is, when you know how to dance samba, you just do it. You improvise. All I have to do is pretend I'm at a Carnival parade in Brazil.

It's a dance that can be perceived as sexy. You move your hips a lot and your butt shakes as you move your feet to the rhythm of the drums. When you dance samba, it's normal to wear colorful, glittery outfits that cover almost no skin.

I'm wearing my highest high heels and a short green sequined dress. I know I will call attention to myself. But I want to show off dancing like this. It's part of my culture, and I'm proud of it.

When the curtains part, I'm greeted by applause and expectant, drunk faces. I swallow hard, losing courage as I scan the room full of people looking at me. Please, start the music, or I'll drench my clothes in sweat before I even start moving.

The drums begin to play, and I press the Start button inside me, forgetting my nervousness and embarking on my samba trip. I try not to look at the crowd, I just dance as if my cousins are behind me, making their own moves, having the time of their lives, and my uncles are in the front row, cheering us on.

Soon I'm letting go, led by the rhythm, enjoying myself. People seem to be enjoying it too. I see a few trying to copy me and dance to the beat, and I smile because their movements are so jerky and awkward. I calm myself with the thought that I am not embarrassing myself. I'm just different from them.

And that's good, right?

I'm having fun, and everyone else seems to be having fun too by the end of the song. The final drumming echoes through the walls, and I bow as everyone applauds. I did it. It was great!

I'm about to leave the stage when another song starts to play. A tune featuring an accordion and a rhythmic regional beat.

The forró song Erik and I had been rehearsing.

I look around, confused. Did I tell them to add this song to the playlist when I thought Erik was going to join me? No... I'm pretty sure I didn't. But then how—

Erik emerges from behind the curtains, and I watch him walk toward me. What the hell is happening?

My mouth is hanging open when he positions himself in front of me.

"What are you doing here?" I whisper, wide-eyed.

His reply is a meaningful smirk. One that says, What do you think I'm doing?

His left hand holds my right hand, and his right arm goes around my back. He pulls me closer until my chest is pressed against his. I lose my breath. In forró , there is no space between bodies.

Feeling the warmth of his muscular torso through the fabric of my dress fills me with desire. My left arm is embracing him at shoulder height, and though our skin is not in contact, this is as close as we can get.

Well, not quite close enough . My groin heats up with the way our hips click together. It's scary how fast my body responds to his touch. How quickly it remembers the pleasure and forgets we are not walking in that direction.

But we are dancing. Erik starts with the first basic step we learned—one step forward, one step back. We are nailing it like we didn't in our few rehearsals. I'm in awe. What on Earth is happening?

Smoothly, he changes to the second basic step—left-left-right-right. He is actually moving his hips. Then he holds both my hands and tries the third basic step, which we didn't practice. It feels easy enough now, both of us opening sideways and stepping back, mirroring each other, until we are back at our starting position.

Suddenly, we are spinning, doing the complicated step he found nice but claimed would be impossible to learn so quickly. I tried to teach him, but he wasn't very patient. Now here he is, dancing with confidence, not afraid to move and be vulnerable. We are caught in a tight embrace, our hips swaying in one flow. It's sexy, fun, and breathlessly intimate.

Dancing here with Erik, who has clearly practiced so much he could be one of the Brazilian men I would find in a club, I feel a heightened sensory experience. I'm touching his solid muscles, observing his mouth, smelling his skin, moving with his guidance. It feels as though all our days apart never existed.

And the time away only increased my longing for him.

I want to touch his face, kiss his neck, and feel his fingers on my naked back. He spins me, and I'm back into his arms. Every boomerang move is a chance to be reunited and feel the butterflies in my stomach assaulting me in a delicious way.

"This is impressive," I whisper to him as we dance. "Who did you practice with?"

"A stiff cousin and a pregnant woman with an eight-month belly. I don't recommend it."

I laugh. I'm so proud of him. And I can't believe he did this for me.

The song ends, and we hear applause roaring. Erik takes my hand, and once we are off the stage, many people acknowledge our good performance. We squeeze through the crowd, trying to find a quiet place where we can talk, but Lars blocks our path and claps right in front of us with a huge smile on his face.

"That was excellent. Very entertaining." He bows his head at me. I thank him with a smile. "Erik, you're a great dancer," Lars says, and Erik laughs dismissively.

"Let's not exaggerate."

"Were both of them Brazilian dances?" Lars asks me, and he looks delighted to have witnessed something so out of what is ordinary for him. Maybe I was wrong about him. Maybe I didn't need all the lies.

"Yes," I answer enthusiastically. "The first was samba, and the second is called forró ."

"Amazing." He puts a hand on Erik's shoulder, still smiling. "Can I have a word with you, Storm?"

Erik looks surprised. He blinks at me, then at Lars.

"Eh...sure."

"Great. Come with me."

And just like that, Lars takes Erik away from me before I get the chance to ask him what this whole dance thing was about. Lars couldn't know we have been living apart, not talking for an entire week, but I can't help but feel frustrated. Why did he have to talk to Erik in private now? What could he want to say that I couldn't hear?

I hold my breath. Could this have anything to do with the idea they're stealing from Erik? Is Lars going to tell him they will not do that after all?

My stomach flips, full of hope. Maybe everything will turn out all right for both of us.

I move through the crowd, trying to spot them, but I don't see them anywhere. Did they go upstairs to a meeting room? I stop myself at the stairs. Erik will tell me what it was about, of course. I just need to wait until he finds me.

I sit down with a cup of mulled wine and wait for what seems like endless minutes. I can't be patient though. My head is spinning. I need to know what is happening.

Today is my last opportunity to convince Lars to choose me for the game director position. We all go on Christmas holiday tomorrow, and then we'll know who he is hiring in early January.

I enter the corridor where the bathrooms are and find Martin leaning on the wall, pressing paper against his nose. He's grimacing. Bleeding.

"What happened to you?" I ask.

" Erik happened," Martin says with an angry nasal voice.

An involuntary smile stretches my lips. "Did he punch you?" My expression then changes to concern. "What did you say to him?"

Martin gives me a bloody smile. He's so full of his usual disdain, my insides twist. "You don't know, do you?"

"Know what?" Fear assaults me. I try to keep breathing.

"That you're not getting the game director position."

My body turns to ice, but my heart keeps pulsing, faster and faster.

Shit.

Shit.

FUCK.

" You did," I say, because it's the only possible conclusion. That's why Erik punched Martin and left in anger.

But Martin shakes his head, squeezing the bloody piece of toilet paper against his nostrils and smiling wide. "No, Sol, I didn't get it either."

" What? Then who did?" My heart hammers like the drums of a samba parade.

Martin snorts with contempt. "Erik got the job."