Since I’m sick and tired of wallowing, I’m just diving in without looking back at what I can’t have

You know what’s super not fun? Watching your friends and classmates dance around your sewing table while your ankle throbs, and your heart beats so fast you’re surprised people can’t hear it over the music.

I watch Atara explain how to do a dribble-dribble-throw move. It’s perfect, but as I watch them start from the beginning, I feel like something’s missing.

“How about a Scottish step dance?” I call out as I thread the bobbin.

Atara holds up a hand, the group of sweaty high schoolers drop to the floor, untucking shirts and guzzling water bottles as they laugh and schmooze.

“A Scottish step dance?”

I look up from the machine to meet Atara’s raised eyebrows. I grin.

“Yaaaah. I think it will really take the dance to the next level. It will make it very… baker-ish and so coordinated.”

Atara doesn’t move.

“Or not.” I shrug and begin sewing my carefully crafted pizza emblem onto the black jacket in front of me.

“You’re so much better at this than me.”

The tone is dull. I put down the costume and stare at her. “Don’t be nuts. You’re doing an amazing job. The girls love you. And I just made one comment, what’s the big deal?”

Atara huffs a sweaty strand of hair off her cheek. “The big deal is that it’s… just not fair that you can’t dance anymore.”

I blink away the sudden onset of tears, because, hello, public setting and all that. No need to add to my already tragic persona.

“Nah. I’m sewing, so fun,” I say thickly.

Atara doesn’t move. “Bella. Can you be our choreographer?” She gestures toward her dance group.

My mouth drops. “Are you serious?”

Atara gives a half smile. “I think so. But can you do both jobs?”

I smile back, my heart singing. “I think so.”