All I can do is stare. The heels change her height; they change the lines of her calves, the way her hips set under the silk. It’s devastating. My Joy and someone I’ve never met, both looking back at me.
“Hi,” she says, and the smallest corner of her mouth tilts, enough to let me know she sees what this is doing to me. Enough to ruin me twice.
“Not fair, Foxy,” I manage. “In hoodies and jeans, you’re irresistible. Like this?”
Before she can react, I step in, hand at her jaw, her back against the doorframe. I kiss her hard enough that she gasps—that sound goes straight through me.
For a second, we’re still in my childhood bedroom, her laughing and rolling me under, demanding more—just us. Then she exhales, disentangles, smooths her skirt. The shift is visible. She slides herself back into the performance, and I feel it like a temperature drop.
“So.” She doesn’t meet my eyes. “Tonight is straightforward. We show up, pose for a few photos, say hello to my family and a few of their friends. Low key.”
“I can do low key?—”
“The trustees will be there,” she says too fast. “My mother’s friends. It’s mostly just an appearance. We don’t have to stay long after the performance.”
I frown. “Okay. But you’ve been weird all day. What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” She finally looks up, and her eyes are too bright. “I’m just nervous. You know. Introducing you. To everyone.”
“They’re going to love me.” I grin, trying to crack whatever’s wound tight under her ribs. “I’m very lovable.”
She laughs, but it splinters. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “You are.”
I pull her in, kiss her temple. She’s trembling. “Hey. It’s going to be fine. I promise.”
She nods against my chest but doesn’t answer.
“Come on.” I squeeze her fingers. “Let’s go wow them.”
We ride the elevator to the garage. When I open the door to my 911 for her, she doesn’t blink. No impressed smile. She just gathers the black silk at her knees and slides in like she’s done it a thousand times.
I get in, start the engine. “Music?”
“Sure.”
Classical drifts in when I hit the radio. The heater warms the air. The wipers flick once. I pull south, headlights threading into traffic.
December drops a bruise-colored lid over the Hudson. The Palisades run dark to our left; the George Washington Bridge throws a net of light ahead.
She talks easily—production design, that the soprano tonight is supposed to hit a top F that makes people cry, how the chandeliers rise like planets before curtain. Sparkly. Effortless. Practiced. None of it lands where I can reach her.
“Joy,” I cut in.
“Hm?”
“You’re allowed to be nervous. But you’re scaring me a little.”
She turns, and there it is for a split second—raw fear, guilt, something desperate. “I’m sorry. I just—” She swallows. “Let’s just get through tonight. Okay?”
“Okay,” I say, but the knot in my gut tightens.
We hit the West Side, slide down toward Lincoln Center. The city knifes up around us, windows catching the last light like a thousand coins in the air.
She points out a building she loves, a fire escape a cinematographer shot last year, a florist that does “sculptural arrangements.” I listen and don’t, because I’m cataloging the micro-shifts: how she leans when she laughs and then remembers posture, how her thumb worries the edge of her clutch and then goes still, and how my name lands like both invitation and caution when she says it.
We park and as we get out, the air hits us cold and faintly metallic—snow and exhaust. Across the avenue, Lincoln Center blazes. Fountains toss light; banners ripple.
“THE MAGIC FLUTE” arcs in gold across the glass. The Queen of the Night towers over the plaza, jeweled and severe.
