Yet, I’m grateful that life gave us a few uninterrupted moments. I want to have more of them with her. The question of how I can accomplish that is on repeat in my mind as we shift back into the rhythm of time moving at its normal speed.
“Okay, Bear,” Ivy takes a step back. “I’m running late. Grey and Luke are waiting for me to arrive. This celebration is one of our traditions.”
“I’ll walk with you.” She doesn’t hesitate to accept my company. We turn and walk toward Marlee’s Books, our hands melded and swinging lightly between us. I don’t take it for granted, my gratitude quieting my fears. “And then I’ll text you later, since this is our meet-cute for the day.”
“How do you know about meet-cutes?” she questions with amusement.
“I watch romantic films.” I wink. Ivy’s delighted squeal makes me smile. “And what exactly are you two—sorry, three, with Luke—going to be up to this evening?”
“Oh, we put on White Christmas, which was Marlee’s favorite movie, and then we string popcorn like we could be cast in afilm from the eighteen hundreds. Then we watch Little Women, the nineteen-ninety-four version, and cry and talk about Laurie while making peppermint brownies. It’s a whole thing. We’ll be up all night.”
“It would be nice for Emmy to have a friend she does something like that with one day.” My tone is wistful, thinking of the possibility that Emmy could have a better childhood than I did. I was always a loner, with my siblings as my primary friends. I’d rather have gone to the symphony than high school parties, and it cost me—not that I regret the choice in the least.
“I’m sure she will,” Ivy reassures me. “When she’s old enough, you know . . .” Her words pause with a shrug, but I know she’s suddenly thinking about the future too.
“Yeah, I know, Starlight. I know.”
As we walk together, Ivy’s arm slides up to wrap around my arm. She initiated the contact, and my pulse beats stronger at the truth that’s becoming evidently clear to me. The job opportunity in Florida is going to have to wait, and my parents are just going to have to manage without me . . . at least until the New Year.
Chapter Nineteen
Ivy
Breathe in through your nose and release a long exhale out of your mouth,” Rose says, her perfect posture evident in my peripheral vision.
I’m on a Pilates reformer, stretching out my muscles at the only Pilates studio in the small radius of geography that is usually my life. The studio is on the outskirts of town, past several neighborhoods and nearly in the next town. I close my eyes, my legs in the machine straps, the tension and release of my muscles soothing. I developed a regular Pilates practice early in my dance career, and it’s stuck with me. I use it for injury prevention, for strength, and, for tonight, to clear my mind. The emotional waves I’ve been riding this season have made me feel like it should be summer instead of winter in New England.
Rose speaks again. “The next time your carriage has returned to the starting position, lift your legs to a tabletop.” There’s a pause as calming music flows throughout the space. “And point and flex your feet. And point. And flex. And point. And flex.”
I’ve worked myself into the rhythm when I hear a whispered, “Psst” in my ear. That’s odd. No one ever talks during these classes except for the instructor. I attempt to ignore it, crack my eyes open, and then catch a frantic wave to my left.
“Psssssst!” It comes again.
Halting my movements, I disrupt my concentration to find my grandmother on the once-empty machine next to me, the gleeful look on her face a pretense that she didn’t somehow stalk me to this location. My carriage crashes with a thump that causes me to wince.
“Gram!” I exclaim in a whisper-shout.
Rose looks my way while my grandmother stretches like she’s been doing it for years. Maybe she has, and I’ve never known?
“What are you doing here?”
A woman on the other side tries to shush me, and I shrug apologetically before flopping back on the reformer. My thoughts are positively scrambled.
Rose’s pleasant voice continues, “And carefully release your legs from the straps.”
I do as I’m told, trying to rush to get to the part when I can hear what I know will be a wild explanation from my grandmother.
“Hug your knees into your chest, and rock side to side. If that’s not available to you, simply keep your knees hugged into your chest.” Rose’s sweet tones ring throughout the space, and within a few more movements, we’re done, and I nearly leap off the machine.
Looking over, my grandmother nonchalantly wipes down her equipment with the provided sanitary wipes and acts as if she hasn’t just crashed my class. Hurrying, I wipe my own station, waiting for Gram to be finished. When she has satisfied the basic fundamentals of social hygiene, I—lovingly—grab her hand and pull her toward the lobby as fast as her clearly strong-cored frame can move. How she snuck into the studio within the last few minutes without causing a scene is eluding my understanding.
“Gram!”
“Yes, darling?” she replies serenely. Her outfit is of notably better quality than mine; a little jacket she had stowed in a cubby is now wrapped around her shoulders.
I pinch the space between my eyes with my thumbs. “Gram, what are you doing here? At this studio?”
“Oh, I’ve been coming here for years.”
