“Hi, Emmy girl,” Ivy says with a smile. “Let me help your dad really quick, and then I’ll be back to check on how those shoes are treating you.”
Emmy claps then refocuses on her shoe fitting with Ms. Phoebe. As I hastily attempt to restack the shoes I knocked down, I realize that the numbers and codes on the bags of pointe shoes also must be sorted in a special way that I’m destroying as well.
Ivy’s voice swirls around me. “Well, I would say the phrase ‘bull in a china shop’ fits this situation, but I’m not much of a fan of idioms. I blame Grey. Instead, I think you’re more of a mountain in a dance shop . . . or a bear. You can take your pick.”
She winks, and my heart rate accelerates. I straighten to my full height and freeze as Ivy reaches for me. Correction: She reaches for a ribbon that’s somehow landed on my shoulder. I’m not even sure where it came from, but instantly, it makes me think of the one she gave me years ago. I bet she thinks I don’t have it anymore. When I open my mouth to ask, Emmy beats me to it by calling Ivy.
“Excuse me, but I’m being summoned.” The soft smile she flashes is enough for me to want to sink to the floor. Forcing myself to redirect my attention to the mission at hand, I hustle to find the items Emmy needs as fast as possible so I can move back toward the little group and pretend I’m just casually standing near the action and not thinking of how my heart may explode at the focused attention Emmy is now getting from her dance teacher. Ivy is lifting her arms over her head and directing my daughter in the proper technique of some ballet moves I’ve seen her practicing at home.
Admittedly, the shoes now on my daughter’s feet look much better than the ones I purchased, which were a bit . . . what’s the word? Floppy. I grip the packages of tights and pink leotards as Emmy looks at me.
“Daddy, they fit!”
My cheeks flush, embarrassed that I didn’t know how to do this better. If she’d needed boxing gloves, she would’ve had the best ones and been fitted like a champion the next day. I’m out of my element with these delicate fabrics and specially fitted items. Instead, I’m a single dad trying to make sure that she grows up to know that she’s fully loved and won’t ever be in need of anything. I feel like a failure. But I don’t voice that out loud.
“That’s awesome, sweetheart.” I clear my throat; the sting of not only my own inadequacy but also that fact being so clearly displaced in front of Ivy burns my chest. “I’m just going to . . .” Itrail off, bringing the items to the counter to take a breath. I hear murmurs of conversation, and then Ivy appears beside me.
“You really are the quietest walker I’ve ever seen,” I observe. “You’re stealth on steroids—not that I believe in those.”
“Oh, believe me. I don’t think anyone could accuse you of using anything synthetic.” She scrunches her nose, a habit I recognize from my daughter and am now delighted to see on her.
“Starlight, are you flirting with me?”
“What? No.” Her shoulders drop. “Yes. I guess that was flirting, actually.”
I laugh.
“I’m not very good at it, I guess. But I was trying?” Her eyes scan from my hair to my shoes, and I stand a little taller.
“Well, you’re doing much better at it than my attempts to give Emmy what she needs.” My fear—that I’m not a good enough dad for my daughter—hovers between us. Its uncertainty is laced in my words, filling the air around us. I expect her to agree or, at the very least, to look at me with pity for not knowing how to navigate all the unknown firsts of having a daughter that seem to be piling up around me at an alarming rate or even question my ability to provide for Emmy.
But her reply is so full of compassion that it sends an antsy tingle up my spine. “Hey, no, don’t do that, Jace. You’re giving her everything you can. It’s clear how much you love her. And the dance world isn’t easy for anyone, not even the ones who grew up in it.”
I’m not sure I’m worthy of her kindness, but she grins, and my knees buckle. With relief, I take the reprieve she’s offering. “I mean, the numbers on all the shoes. That’s confusing.”
Ivy laughs and picks up a keychain with a miniature pointe shoe on it, spinning it and fidgeting. Her eyes lift to mine again, and her hands go still. She opens her mouth as if to say something, but nothing comes out.
“We have the shoes!” Ms. Phoebe interrupts with a flourish as she holds Emmy’s hand and walks her toward us.
“Right, yes. The shoes!” Ivy smiles at Emmy, replacing the keychain on the checkout display. She turns to me. “Okay, well, I should . . .” She gestures upstairs.
I find myself not wanting to let her go. It feels like the most inopportune moment for Ivy to walk away. I’m not even sure why I feel that way, except that her presence has a way of reminding me of the parts of myself I used to really like but have since long forgotten.
“When does your shift end?” I find myself asking as Emmy raises her hands for me to lift her up, which I do. Just yesterday, I proposed a twelve-days-of-Christmas-get-to-know-each-other experiment to Ivy. We haven’t yet set up our plans for today.
“Oh, I don’t work here,” she replies, glancing around. “I used to, as a teenager, with Ms. Phoebe over here. But I was just checking her stock for some items we’ll need for the show. I get insider privileges in this town.”
I nod, an idea forming. “Would you like to get lunch with us?”
A weird-looking cuckoo clock behind the counter chimes just as I say the words. A miniature nutcracker pops out at the last chime. Ivy’s eyes widen, her lips parting in a knowing grin.
“Please! Please! Please!” Emmy holds her hands under her chin in the way she does when she wants me to cave. While I make sure to keep discipline and boundaries gently established in our parent-and-child dynamic, this is the move that usually derails my plans. And Emmy knows it. Ivy’s smile tells me she’s not immune to Emmy’s charms either.
“Go on, dearie,” Ms. Phoebe coaxes. “It’s not every day you get asked out by the most adorable pair I’ve seen in a long time. I can text you the numbers later tonight. I think I know by now what you need.” She looks at me with a wink. “Besides, if this onestays here any longer, I think he might break everything in my shop.”
As if on cue, I overestimate the space I have available to reach into my coat pocket for my wallet and knock over a display of wooden Mouse King ornaments. “I’m so sorry. I’ll clean that up.”
Ms. Phoebe waves me off. “Please don’t touch another thing. I know a good story when I see it. Besides, I really do think you’re just too big for my place.”
