∞∞∞
After quieting my shock by sipping hot chocolate at Sparrow’s Beret and eating a gingerbread croissant in lieu of my usual protein bar, I feel ready to find the joy in my life. Joy, for me, looks a lot like my little students who will soon arrive at my studio. Grey went back to the bookstore while I proceeded alone to my dance studio, En Pointe. What would any of my friends do about the situation I’m in, anyway? Only Grey knows the extent to which Jace affected all other attempts at romance over the past eight years. He was the measure by which I compared all other men. A man I met one time has been the standard for first dates. I shake my head at myself. Somehow, Jace became that important in my head, despite the fact that he stood me up and never spoke to me again. It’s no wonder that, after all this time and after every effort, nothing has stuck.
I know what it means to be loved fully and yet never feel like you’re fully loved. Because there are all different kinds of love—the love of a friend, the love of a parent, the love I have for Resin, and the love within a romantic relationship. That’s the one that has only ever felt one-sided. Maybe it was my perfectionism that annihilated any chance at romance before I could fully grasp it. Maybe my individualism has repelled men. I’ll admit I’m constantly dreaming, always wanting to be better than I am right now. And I struggle with believing that I’m not a failure.
Unlocking the door to my studio, I flip on the lights and adjust the heater to warm the space, my thoughts distracted by this unexpected situation.
Oh, sure, there were times—years, even—during which I was convinced that I would end up with someone—someone like Dmitri—only to be jolted to reality by the revelation that what I perceived as affection was someone else’s version of a placeholder until something better came along. Objectively, I know that I’m worth the effort to hold on to, but experience tells me no one will be capable of it.
It’s hard to see other people moving on. I see Sparrow and Lily living their best lives with their husbands, and I hear talk of families starting all around town. Grey isn’t tied down, but her heart is also not free. It’s clear to us all that she’s been in love with her best guy friend, Boston, since they met at literary camp when they were teens. Even she can’t understand the depths of the loneliness I sometimes feel. It creeps in at the edges, whispering that while I’ve wanted to dance with someone throughout the journey of life, it’s been pointless to hope for a partner.
From the depths of my dance bag, I pull out my slippers and slide them on, the pointe shoes so worn they are merely an extension of my foot.
The thing about being a dancer is that I understand all too well the power of partnership. With the right person, I can spin faster and literally fly through the air. I can do things I never thought possible when I trust that someone can catch me. It’s exhilarating, and it’s frightening. Dancing in partnership brings a rush of adrenaline that has, so far, been unmatched. That feeling ends on the dance floor. With my ballet slippers on and my hair pulled up, I adjust my dance sweater and leggings. I move to warm up at the barre. When I think of an anchor for life, the barre is it. The simple wooden contraption adhered to the wall is the thing I return to time and time again, never feeling disappointed. I’ve had some of my best moments at this very barre.
There are other moments that have seemed to meld themselves effortlessly into the fabric of my heart. Moments that would never advertise their need for my attention but, somehow, have stitched their way into my memories. Quiet drives on the way home when the bristling leaves on the tree branches overhead arch over my car as I pass by. The feeling of a cool, cloudy day. The eerie stillness of a snowy winter morning. The low hum of the record machine in my studio before it begins to play the classical music I warm up to.
In just moments now, I’ll have a whole class of students in the studio, eager for me to help them get one step closer to their dreams. I love my little ballet students and the way they willingly get their energy out and give it their all while practicing every movement.Even the shyest children seem to find the way they are meant to move and own it by the time they’re done with my class. I’m proud of the way I’ve carried on Ms. Phoebe’s legacy. She was the woman who taught me how to plié, and now I own her dance studio. Even though I’ve traveled around the world and have company experience, nothing prepared me to follow my dreams of dance like this studio tucked away in my smallNew England hometown. It was Ms. Phoebe’s trust, extended toward me through the years, that was enough to carry me through and lead me back all these years later.
I shift at the barre, the chatter of little voices in the lobby falling on my ears as I lift my other leg to stretch and warm my tight muscles. My part-time receptionist, Harlow, steps into the studio. I turn my attention to her, and a smile breaks out on my face as a little girl with nearly jet-black hair looks up at me from beside her. I take a second look at the girl and feel myself startle. There’s something so achingly familiar about her face that I feel a tug in my chest. I lower my leg and turn to face them fully.
“You have a new student! This is Emmy,” Harlow introduces her with a grin.
I step toward Emmy and bend to her level. “Hi, Emmy. My name is Miss Ivy. I’m so happy to meet you.”
A shy smile breaks across her face, and I clock the dimple peeking out on one side. My hands start to shake. Nervous energy flows through my system, the feeling that my life is somehow changing settling into my very bones.
“Have you ever danced before?” I manage to get out, emotion creeping into my tone. I’ve never had a reaction like this to a new student, but I’m trying to move through this conversation and make Emmy comfortable, despite my own discomfort.
Everything that I have, I give to this studio. I try to pass my passion on to my students, believing that dance connects us all, which is why I’m delighted when she shakes her head slowly and then looks down at her slightly too-big ballet slippers and her bunched tights.
“At home,” she says. “But Daddy says I need to dance again.”
“Oh, so you stopped dancing?” I ask, sensing there’s more to this story.
Nodding, Emmy looks shyly at the barre and the mirrors, glancing back to a few of my other students who are already starting to stretch and get out their nervous energy in the lobby.
“Emmy is five years old, Miss Ivy,” Harlow says for my benefit. “And this is her first official dance class. But rumor has it that she dreams of being a dancer. Isn’t that right, Emmy?”
“I want to dance,” Emmy says with bright eyes, and I note an amber color in them that arrests my movements. Involuntarily, my mouth opens and closes, my hand moving toward my chest to remind me to breathe. The color is too familiar. And while the truth echoes in my ribs of the person she reminds me of, I’m wrestling with the struggle to admit it.
“Your daddy . . .?” I choke out.
“Do you know my daddy?” Emmy asks, staring up at me with her brows furrowed.
It’s not possible.
Gladys mentioned that Jace might have a daughter. But of all the moments that led us here tonight, this is the moment my heart might truly break. I didn’t expect to be faced with the reality of who Jace has become so soon. And now, here I have before me his daughter.
“Daddy tries to dance with me, but he says that now that I’m five”—she holds up her tiny hand to demonstrate the number—“I can learn the steps and maybe dance on a big stage like you.”
The thought of her dancing with her dad is so adorable that I have to shake my head. Before I can reply, the studio door opens. Another line of my students pours through, their squeals of excitement radiating off the walls. Emmy laughs, too, delight marking her face. Reluctantly, I push aside all thoughts of a man with piercing eyes and a strong jaw, realizing it’s time to focus on this afternoon’s class.
“To the barre, my little dancers!” I sing into the space, forcing some energy into my tone.
With a glance at Harlow, I extend my hand gingerly. Emmy takes it without hesitation. The feeling of her little hand in mine, so trusting and sweet, makes me clear my throat once again. Trying to release some of the tension, I stretch my neck from side to side and walk us toward the barre. I catch the moment Emmy looks back with a huge smile and gives a wave.
“Dance with you soon, Daddy!” she yells, confidence now flowing through her small stance in anticipation of the lesson to come.
