Chapter Thirteen
Jace
The clock strikes noon.
“What exactly is it that you need again, Sparkles?” The day after Ivy and I set up our twelve-date arrangement, I’m standing in the middle of a dance shop that looks like its sole purpose is to populate the space with what I now know to be a fabric concoction called tulle.
“Sparkles? Really, Dad?” Emmy says with some sass, her grin matching my own. Her tiny frame moves through the round clothing racks nestled together tighter than tables at a wedding. I know what that looks like because when Jenna and I talked about getting married, she tried to figure out how to cram two hundred people in a space for one hundred because she liked the specific lighting of the venue for photos. I shudder at the memory of what might’ve been if we’d gone through with it.
“Hey, I’m trying out some new nicknames for you. Seems like the right thing to do since you’re growing up so fast.” Starlight is already taken as a nickname, of course, but Emmy thrives on words of affirmation and affection, so I know that she enjoys this little game of finding ways to show how much I love her as much as I do.
“I need slippers. My other ones are too big.” She scrunches her nose, and I wince. The oversized dance slippers would be myfault. I guessed at her size when I ordered online before I’d had a chance to get her into a proper dance shop. And the slippers are written in different sizes that don’t equate with the sizes I’m used to for regular shoes. To be fair, I’m still getting used to this world of dance in the first place.
“Right. Okay, well . . .” I look around the space and spot stacks of thin cardboard boxes that are shoved together to form a sort of bookshelf. You couldn’t fit another box on the stack if you tried, and I spot a few rebel slippers with their strings poking out of the ends of the boxes.
“This is probably what we’re looking for.” I direct Emmy toward the box pile.
I’m aware that a smart man would’ve asked Ivy for help. I’m way out of my element. For crying out loud, I’m trying to woo the woman, to finally show her how much she meant—still means—to me while I can. The thought of a younger version of Ivy finding happiness in this store loosens something in my chest as my daughter and I assess the stack.
“Can I help you?” a kind voice says from the stairs that lead to an upper level. An older woman is standing on them, looking at me skeptically. Her silver hair is pulled back into a sleek bun, and she’s wearing clothing that looks as if she could teach a dance class right here in this store. Seeing boxes stacked near the edge of the landing, I’m guessing she just descended from a stockroom up there.
“Oh, ah, yes,” I say with relief. “My daughter needs new slippers. Please.”
The woman’s eyes soften as Emmy steps into sight around me. Instantly, I realize that she probably thought I got lost and wandered into the shop. Now, the woman’s shoulders relax, and she smiles genuinely.
“Of course!” she exclaims. “As you can see, we have plenty!”
She steps onto the mini dance floor that I now notice beneath the stacks of slippers. The boxes remind me of Cracker Jack boxes. Maybe there’s a special fit for each person. The numbers and names on the sides of the boxes are still throwing me. It’s another language I haven’t yet mastered, but I have a feeling I need to, given how much Emmy loves to dance. We’re in this world now, and I might as well excel at it.
“I’m Ms. Phoebe,” she introduces herself, directing her attention to Emmy. “Are you in Miss Ivy’s classes?”
“Yes!” Emmy starts to bounce about, clearly happy at the fact that this woman also knows Ivy. “I love her.”
Of course, I recognize that she means this in a way similar to how people mean “I love cake” or “I love snow,” but the words still hit my heart.
“I love her too . . .” Ms. Phoebe’s brow furrows. Her eyes glance toward the stockroom briefly before turning back to Emmy. “What’s your name, darling?”
“I’m Emmy. This is my daddy.” Her little thumb hitched in my direction is adorable. “He got shoes that were too big because he bought them online.”
Okay, that part was more embarrassing than adorable.
“Well, I’m sure your daddy is doing his best. Right, Dad?”
I nod my appreciation and try to move the attention away from me by pulling a pair of slippers from the shelf, pretending like I have a clue as to how to analyze their quality.
“Don’t worry. I’ll get you fitted in no time.” Phoebe moves gingerly among the boxes, her hands doing what they’ve probably done for decades.
I decide to start looking around. “Emmy, what else do you need?” I call as I roam five feet away to a rack of children’s items.
“A new leotard, pink. And tights.”
Ahh, yes. The tights. Those were also my fault. Just once, I threw them in the dryer with my jeans. Let’s just say they’renow more lavender than pink. And when I threw her other set in the dryer, they shrank to a size that could probably fit Emmy’s dolls. I’m now known as the “tights giant” in Angie’s apartment. I’m hoping the nickname doesn’t catch on. Thankfully, I have confirmed Emmy’s sizes, so I feel confident that I can pick them out easily. Well, relatively easily, since the mountains of tulle all around the shop seem like an intentional obstacle for dance parents. “All right, Peanut. I’ll get them.”
As I move to another rack, the smell of leather and a scent I’ve never smelled before permeate the air. I reach for a pair of new pointe shoes hanging on the wall and unashamedly give them a sniff. Huh. I can now definitively say I know what pointe shoes smell like. Not terrible.
“Are you planning to try those on?” The smoky voice that inhabits my dreams drifts throughout the small space, and I turn so quickly that the hand by my side knocks into another makeshift bookshelf of pointe shoes. Several pairs wrapped in plastic bags fall to the floor.
“I’m so sorry,” I say toward Phoebe, still reeling that Ivy is in the shop. She’s here. Ivy is moving down the steps that lead upstairs, and Emmy squeals with delight.
