Ever since the dinner at her parents’ inn, the look in Ivy’s eyes has been hesitant. I wish that wasn’t the truth of it, but here we are. And I created this because I panicked. After Mina passed and Jenna left, I haven’t seemed to be able to make long-term plans. I thought I was finally making progress by choosing to move to Florida months ago, but those plans are now precariously in danger of being destroyed. And it scares me. I’m scared to give my heart to another woman. I’m not sure it could handle Ivy finding me to be less than what she’s hoped for all these years.
“I don’t mind.” I want to say so much more, but I force myself to settle for the simple words. Because I want to tell her that her presence feels like a balm upon the pain that sticks to my jointsand settles in my bones, though I know the source of it is really all coming from my heart.
Music begins to play from the antiquated speaker in the corner. The lights are off in the studio, apart from the twinkle lights she has strung all throughout the space. Multiple strands are lighting the ceiling and walls. There’s a stack of records and compact discs stacked together in the corner under a record player. Immediately, I want to build her a new one, etching my signature into the piece so a part of me could live here too. Ivy presses something on the remote in her hands and slides it across the floor until it’s under a barre.
Taking a long drink from her steel water bottle, I notice the stiffness in her shoulders and the way her lungs expand and contract rapidly through the thin material of her leotard. It’s long-sleeved and white, the color a contrast to the dark-colored practice tutu she’s wearing. I’d expect her to be wearing her red lipstick, as usual, but tonight, only a gloss paints her mouth, her natural beauty radiating even though I see the tension in her limbs.
Gracefully, she moves her feet while facing the barre, the rhythmic and steady quality of her movements in harmony with her rich hair that looks as if it’s spun with dark gold. The waves are loosely pulled back with a bow resting near the crown of her head. I want to reach for her, but I don’t want to hurt her.
I never want you to touch me again.
The words that seem permanently stuck to my soul after Jenna said them cause me to groan inadvertently. “Can I confess something?” I ask, hesitating.
Ivy nods while she continues to dance.
“I’m sorry about last night. I feel like I didn’t make it clear that I still wanted to hold you after the holidays.”
“That’s the thing, though, Jace.” She stops and bites her lip before releasing it. “I don’t think I’m capable of being held. Not truly.”
My eyes widen. My brows furrow. “You can’t mean that,” I grit out.
“Oh, I’ve been touched all over,” she says lightly, like the information is nothing.
I hear a slight growl escape my throat as I rise from the bench, the room nearly blurring in my peripheral vision.
Ivy jumps back as one of her eyebrows lifts. “Oh. Oh.” Her words come out in a rush. “No, it sounds far worse than I meant it.”
My shoulders lower, no longer hovering near my ears, ready to take names, and . . . I don’t know what exactly. The idea of other men touching Ivy makes my head spin. I never put together the mental picture of the number of dance partners she’s probably had. It hurts that I’m not able to fulfill that role for her. I sit down again and grip the bench, aware that my feelings are shimmering too close to my skin, ready to be unleashed.
“Sorry, no. I mean, yes,” Ivy continues. “I have been touched quite a bit. I’ve been held. You don’t become a ballerina and dance with men not to have them lift you and spin you and carry you time and time again. It’s not romantic in any sense of the word, I can assure you. It’s messy and sometimes uncomfortable, even when the guys don’t mean it to be. And there are lifts where their hands are just . . .” She motions in the general vicinity of her lower body, and I shut my eyes.
Crack. I look down to see a piece of the bench in my hands. I broke it. Embarrassment creeps through my spine as I close my eyes and rush through my thoughts, trying to pick one—any one—that will help make this situation any better. I’ve never broken anything from emotion. I’m not a violent man, except to myheavy bag at the gym. Though, at times, I just don’t know my strength. I’d never want Ivy to be afraid of me.
“Oh, my goodness, are you okay?” The pitter-patter of her shoes on the floor grows louder as she approaches. It’s the only thing I can focus on until I open my eyes to find her kneeling before me, her knees barely grazing the ground.
“I’m not dangerous,” I mutter.
“I know that.”
“I . . . I’m sorry. I’ll fix it.”
“I know you will.”
My eyes shift to hers. “How do you know that?” My breathing is heavy now, but the possibility that she’s still seeing me in a clearer light than I realized does strange things to my system. Somehow, she knows I’m not talking about fixing the bench.
“Because you’re someone worth trusting. You bristle at affection from others sometimes, and yet, you’re anxious to give it. You protect the ones that you love, especially Emmy. You love her so fiercely. It’s incredible.”
I’m silent as emotion begins to creep up my frame.
“Thank you for saying that,” I reply softly, letting my words ring clearly.
Ivy looks at me as a blush starts to form on her cheeks, like it’s being magically painted in the air between us. Her eyes dart down to the piece of bench still in my hands, and she releases a laugh from somewhere deep in her soul. “You really broke it.”
“Yep.” There’s no point in denying it or adding sparkle to my words.
“And now it’s clear that you really don’t like the idea of me being touched.” Her eyebrow lifts in a teasing dare until she catches my expression.
I will myself to remain neutral, but what I’m really thinking is not unless it’s by me.
