Finding You

Hadley

The applause still echoes in my bones long after the curtain falls.

It’s not loud anymore—not really—but it lingers the way adrenaline does, buzzing under my skin, keeping me upright when my legs want to give out. My chest rises and falls too fast, sweat cooling along my spine as I step offstage and into the chaos behind it. Voices overlap. Dancers laugh and exhale and peel off layers of costume like shedding skins.

I did it.

That thought hits me harder than the applause ever could.

Three years ago, I wasn’t sure I’d survive loving him. Tonight, I danced like I finally belonged to myself.

Someone presses a water bottle into my hand. Someone else squeezes my shoulder. I murmur thank-yous, half-aware, still floating somewhere between the stage lights and the version of me who once counted last moments like they were sins.

I’m tugging at the ribbons of my pointe shoes when a stagehand appears in front of me, breathless and smiling.

“Hadley?”

I look up, blinking. “Yeah?”

“These are for you.”

He hands me a bouquet—lush white peonies wrapped (my favorite) in brown paper, tied with twine. My hands stall mid-motion.

“Oh,” I say stupidly. “Thank you.”

The stagehand nods and disappears back into the maze of curtains and cables, leaving me staring down at the flowers like they might explain themselves if I wait long enough.

“Someone’s popular,” a voice teases.

I glance up to find Rowan beside me, still flushed from her variation, dark curls escaping her bun. She gestures at the bouquet. “Secret admirer?”

I huff a laugh, shaking my head. “Probably my people. Janice, maybe. Or Ava. Or Mia. They’ve all been aggressively supportive.”

Rowan grins. “Must be nice.”

I smile back, then tilt the bouquet just enough to spot the card tucked between the stems.

The paper is thick. Cream-colored. Familiar in a way I can’t place yet.

I slide it free.

There’s only two words written in blocky, unmistakable handwriting.

Look up.

My heart stutters.

That buzzing under my skin sharpens, turns electric. I lift my gaze slowly, already knowing—already bracing.

And then I see him.

Chase stands just beyond the bustle of backstage, leaning casually against the wall like he hasn’t wrecked my nervous system by simply existing in my line of sight. Black jacket. Baseball cap flipped backwards. That chain still resting against his throat like it’s a permanent part of him, the H charm catching the fluorescent light when he shifts his weight.

His eyes—green, impossibly familiar—lock onto mine.

He smiles.

Not big. Not cocky. Just… easy.

Like no time has passed. Like he didn’t stop calling. Like he didn’t leave pieces of me in different states. Like loving him didn’t once feel like learning how to breathe underwater.

“Hey, ballerina,” he says, pushing off the wall.

The world narrows.

I don’t remember crossing the distance between us. I just know that suddenly I’m there—flowers slipping from my grasp, arms around his neck, feet lifting off the ground as he catches me without hesitation.

Just like he always did.

“Hey, Hads,” he murmurs, voice warm against my ear.

I laugh, breathless, the sound breaking out of me like it’s been waiting years for permission. My forehead presses into his shoulder. He smells like clean laundry and something unmistakably him, and my chest tightens painfully.

For a moment—just one dangerous, perfect moment—I forget everything.

The distance. The silence. The nights I stared at my phone willing it to light up. The way I learned how to live without him because I had no other choice.

I pull back before the weight of it all crushes me.

He’s still smiling, eyes bright, scanning my face like he’s memorizing it again.

“You were incredible,” he says. “Seriously. I mean—I know I’m biased, but… damn.”

I swallow. “You’re… here.”

“Yeah.” He nods once, like that answers everything. “I wouldn’t miss this.”

The words land softly. Carefully. Not a promise. Not an explanation.

Just presence.

Rowan clears her throat loudly beside me. “I’m going to pretend I don’t exist,” she says. “But I absolutely do, so—hi.”

Chase laughs, extending a hand. “Chase.”

She shakes it, eyes flicking between us with open curiosity. “Rowan. Nice to finally meet the legend.”

I roll my eyes. “He’s not a legend.”

His grin widens. “I kind of am.”

She laughs and slips away, mercifully giving us space.

We stand there, suddenly awkward in a way we never used to be.

“So,” I say finally. “How long are you in town?”

“Couple days,” he replies. “Thought maybe we could—talk. Catch up. If you want.”

I hesitate.

Three years ago, I would’ve said yes without thinking.

Tonight, I feel the old pull—and the new boundaries I fought like hell to build.

I nod anyway. “Dinner?”

His smile softens. “I’d like that.”

“Okay. Let me just change first,” I say, backing toward the dressing rooms. Chase nods, hands in his pockets now.

A few minutes, I come back out in jeans, a plain tank top, and flip flops. My hair’s loose against my shoulders. A relief from the tight bun it was in earlier.

Chase is still standing where I left him. He doesn’t notice as I walk up. He’s staring at his phone, brows furrowed, shaking his head as he types feverishly. I clear my throat quietly, snapping him out of his trance. The angry look that was on his face softens into something softer. Something I don’t want to admit to myself how much I missed.

“Ready?” I ask.

He shoves his phone back in his pocket. “Always.”

As we walk toward the exit, his hand brushes mine—not holding, not quite letting go. Just there.

And I know, with quiet certainty, that this is not a reunion.

It’s a reckoning.

Because some loves don’t end.

They just wait.

And I’m no longer the girl I was when this one left.

We end up at a little burger place a few blocks from the theater—brick walls, mismatched chairs, paper menus taped to the counter. Nothing fancy. The kind of place where no one looks twice if you’re still in stage makeup and pointe shoe blisters are taped instead of hidden.

It feels intentional somehow. Like Chase knows neither of us could handle white tablecloths tonight.

We sit across from each other in a booth, knees almost touching. The space between us is small, charged, familiar in a way that makes my chest feel tight and warm all at once.

“So,” he says, picking up his menu. “New York City ballerina. Kinda wild.”

I smile despite myself. “You’re one to talk. Professional baseball player.”

He snorts. “Not officially yet.”

“Still counts.”

Our food comes quickly. Fries in a basket between us. Burgers wrapped in paper. A beer for him, water for me. It’s easy—too easy—the way conversation slips back into place like muscle memory.

He tells me about the drive up. About how Nashville traffic still sucks. I tell him about the apartment Mia and I share and how the radiator screams like it’s dying every winter. He laughs, head tipping back, and for a second I’m seventeen again, sitting on the hood of his Jeep under stadium lights.

“You still hate tomatoes?” he asks, watching me peel one off my burger.

“With a passion.”

“Unbelievable.”

“You still eat like you’re fueling a small army?”

He grins. “Occupational hazard.”

The banter rolls effortlessly. Jokes layered with shared history. Looks that linger just a beat too long. Every time he smiles at me like that—soft around the edges, familiar—I feel something old and dangerous stretch awake in my chest.

Like no time has passed.

And that’s the problem.

I wipe my hands on a napkin, fingers suddenly unsteady. The weight I’ve been carrying for three years shifts, presses harder against my ribs.

I know if I don’t say it now, I never will.

“Chase.”

The way his name sounds in my mouth still does something to him. I see it in the way his smile fades—not gone, just quieter. Attentive.

“Yeah?”

I take a breath. Then another.

“There’s something I need to talk about.” I pause, making sure my voice stays steady. “And I’m not trying to fight with you. I just… I can’t keep carrying it.”

He nods once. “Okay.”

The trust in that simple word almost undoes me.

“When you left,” I begin, eyes fixed on the condensation ring on my glass, “we agreed to loosen our grip. To not trap each other with promises we couldn’t keep.”

His jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“And I understood that,” I continue. “I really did. I knew distance was going to be hard. I knew schedules would get worse. I knew we weren’t going to talk every day forever.”

I look up then, meeting his eyes.

“But I didn’t know you were going to disappear.”

The words land softly. No accusation. Just truth.

“You didn’t slowly fade,” I say. “You pulled away all at once. One day you were my person—still checking in, still asking if I ate, still calling me when you couldn’t sleep. And then the calls stopped. The texts got shorter. Days turned into weeks.”

My throat tightens, but I push through.

“And I told myself it was fine. That this was what we agreed to. That you were busy, that I needed to be strong, that loving you meant letting you go.”

I swallow.

“But it didn’t feel like being released, Chase.” My voice wavers, just slightly. “It felt like being replaced.”

His face changes then—real pain flickering across it, sharp and unmistakable.

“I watched from a distance,” I say quietly. “Watched you build a new life. Watched you stop needing me. Watched another girl step into the space I used to hold, like I was something you outgrew.”

I shake my head. “And the worst part? You promised me you weren’t going to leave like everyone else. You promised you’d stay—even if it looked different.”

My chest rises with a shaky breath.

“And then you did. You left. Not with cruelty. Not with anger. Just… silence.”

The table is quiet except for the low hum of conversation around us. A couple laughs at the bar. Silverware clinks.

Chase doesn’t look away.

“I’m not saying you were wrong for choosing your dream,” I add quickly. “I never would. I’m proud of you. I always have been.”

I force myself to hold his gaze.

“But I lost you. And I didn’t even get to grieve it properly, because I kept telling myself I wasn’t allowed to be hurt.”

My hands twist together in my lap. “I don’t do that anymore. I don’t disappear my feelings just to avoid hard conversations.”

He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath the entire time.

“Hadley,” he says, voice rough. “I never meant to—”

“I know,” I interrupt gently. “I believe you. This isn’t about blame.”

I let the last piece fall, the one I’ve never said out loud.

“It’s about how lonely it was to love you from a distance when I felt like I was the only one still reaching.”

His eyes shine, and that—God, that hurts more than anger ever could.

I lean back against the booth, exhausted but lighter somehow, like I’ve finally set something down.

“I needed you to know,” I finish. “Before we pretend this is easy. Before we pretend nothing changed.”

Chase is quiet for a long moment after I finish. Not distant. Not defensive. Just… thoughtful in that way that always meant he was taking me seriously. He just looks at me—really looks at me. Like he’s seeing all the years he missed layered over the girl he never stopped loving.

“I didn’t replace you,” he says quietly. “But I did run.”

The admission hangs between us, heavy and honest.

“And I don’t expect you to forgive that just because I showed up tonight.”

He reaches across the table—not touching me, just close enough that I can feel the warmth of him.

“But I’m here now. And I want to do this right. Even if ‘right’ isn’t simple.”

Then he straightens slightly, shoulders squaring like he’s bracing himself.

“There’s something I should tell you,” he says.

I tilt my head. “Okay.”

“I wasn’t just in town for your show.”

Something in his tone makes my stomach tighten.

He exhales through his nose. “The Yankees signed me.”

The words hit like a held breath finally released.

“What?” I blink. “Chase—”

“It’s not announced yet,” he adds quickly. “Paperwork’s done. Medicals. Contracts. I had to come in person.”

My chest fills with something sharp and bright and painful all at once. Pride. Awe. A familiar ache.

“That’s… incredible,” I say honestly. “Chase, that’s huge.”

His smile flickers. “It is. Scary as hell. But yeah.”

I reach for my water, needing something grounding. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” He hesitates, eyes searching my face. “Mom told me about your show. I figured… I was already here. I didn’t want to miss it.”

I nod slowly. That part tracks. Janice always did love a full-circle moment.

“And,” he continues carefully, “being here got me thinking.”

I don’t interrupt. I already know where this is going.

“We’re going to be in the same city now,” he says. “Same time zone. Same everything. And I just—” He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. “I thought maybe we could… reconnect. Start talking again. See where things go.”

There it is. The old familiar pull. The dangerous hope. I look at him for a long second before asking the question I already know the answer to.

“And Brittany?”

His jaw tightens. He doesn’t answer right away. And that pause tells me everything.

“Yes,” he says finally. “She’s moving with me.”

The air goes very still.

I nod once. Calm. Controlled. The way you nod when you’re closing a door, not slamming it.

“Okay.”

Chase’s brow furrows. “Okay?”

I set my napkin down carefully, hands steadier than I feel.

“I can’t do that,” I say. Not angry. Not raised voice. Just clear. “I can’t be reopened halfway.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it.

“I’m not doing the in-between anymore,” I continue. “I’m not waiting around while you figure out what you want. I’m not being the girl you ‘might’ come back to if things don’t work out.”

“That’s not what this is,” he says quickly.

“But that’s what it would feel like,” I reply softly. “And I won’t put myself there again.”

I meet his eyes, holding them.

“I spent years unlearning how to make myself smaller just to keep someone in my life. I’m not going back to standby mode. I’m not a back burner option. And I will never be someone’s second choice.”

His face tightens, pain flashing through his eyes. “You were never that to me.”

“I know,” I say gently. “And that’s why this hurts.”

I lean back against the booth, exhaling slowly.

“You don’t get to show up, stir everything up, and then ask me to exist in the margins of your life,” I say. “Not after everything it took to stop waiting for you.”

The words aren’t cruel. But they’re final.

Chase looks down at the table, then back at me. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

“I know,” I say again. “But intention doesn’t change impact.”

Silence settles between us—thick, heavy, adult.

Finally, he nods. Once. Sharp.

“I get it,” he says quietly.

I believe him.

We sit there for a moment longer, two people who love each other standing on opposite sides of a line neither of us is willing to cross.

When we stand to leave, there’s no dramatic goodbye. No promises. No ultimatums.

Just the weight of what almost was.

And what I refuse to lose myself to again.