Somehow, she catches the duality between my expression and the intensity of what I’m not saying, and she clears her throat. “C’mon, Bear,” she adds with a playful lilt to her voice.
“You’re still calling me that?”
“Mmm,” she hums. “It’s a bit obvious, but it seems to fit you well.” I refrain from permitting the growl wanting to escape my throat when she peeks over her shoulder. “Besides, I like bears.” And with that, she winks. She actually winks.
And I know that the only hibernating I’m doing this winter is continuing to fight to keep my heart in one piece. “So, you were saying?” I ask, desperate to get back on track. I motion with my arm for her to keep practicing. It’s no good if I distract her from what she needs to be doing. I wanted to find some peace while she practiced, not keep her from doing what she loves.
“Oh, right.” She catches my eye over her shoulder before placing a foot on the highest level of the bar and leaning forward. Her arms flow about her as she stretches, folding over her leg in a way that looks like a flower closing up in the rain. She takes a deep breath. I assume she’s not going to answer me until she’s stacked her spine back to standing, her leg still stretched in front of her, and her fingers stretched over her head, arching toward the ground. I’m mesmerized by the sight of her graceful rhythm until her rocky voice crackles through the air.
“I can’t be held because I just slip through.” Ivy shrugs and switches legs, and I notice the way one of her leg warmers seems to slide down with the movement, revealing a bit more of her calf wrapped in those pink tights. She stares at the wall ahead of her.
Those pink tights are starting to invade my thoughts more and more. I tell myself it’s the color of them, not quite pink, not quite white. Through the haze of my fascination with her, I realize she’s telling me how she feels. And it hits me that this is how I feel too. I’m slipping through the cracks of my own life. The truth is that it wasn’t until Ivy entered my life again that Istarted to understand what it might feel like to be present once more.
“What do you mean?” I ask her, wanting to be certain that my stony heart isn’t making up stories.
“It’s like I’m made of smooth stone,” she begins, still staring at the wall and moving up and down on the balls of her feet. I think I’ve heard Emmy call the movement a relevé. “I’m the marble statue that men seem to want to look at or touch, but then they let it slide through their fingertips until the next, better piece comes along. And I’ve hated it.”
If I were a different man, if I had made other choices that hadn’t led me to a point in my life where my daughter was the only force over the past five years keeping me from staying in bed all day, I might try to prove her wrong. Because if she wants to be held as she deserves to be held, I’m afraid my grip is loose. Just the image of wrapping her up makes me wish that my hands could work again. Just for her, I’d pray for them to work again.
Ivy looks toward me, her eyes slightly wide, unmeasured emotion in them, while she scans my face. One of her legs has regained the highest level of the barre. Her body is still facing the barre, but when her arms rise and trail over her head toward her extended leg, she peeks at me from beneath the arch of her arms, eyebrows lifted. I sigh and nod, wishing I could tell her just to ignore me, but I can’t seem to get the words out. I probably shouldn’t even be here, but I can’t bring myself to leave her alone tonight. We’re in a sort of magic land with the fairy lights woven throughout the space, the music drifting through the air, and the warmth after the chill of the outdoors wrapping around us.
I lean back against the wall, allowing my eyes to close and the memories of our first moments to float through my mind. I’ve tried to hold them back, afraid that the resurgence of them would drown me rather than free me. But it’s time to honor the moments—even through the fear, the disappointment, and thedecisions I made following our ill-fated acquaintance. Running from those memories all this time has been exhausting, and if anyone is going to help me through to the other side, it’s Ivy.
The light patters of her slippered feet brushing and lifting off the floor soothe and calm my nerves. My courage lifts with every beat she moves to, so I open my eyes to take it in. Her body flows to a song featuring a cello, the music uniting with her in a way that’s magnificent to behold. Her whole body moves and flows with the soul of the sound, and I’m captivated. Once, she told me she’d been injured in New York, but the way she moves speaks of her determination to do what she loves without apologizing for it.
Before I can overthink it, I rise to my feet, slowly removing one shoe and then the other. I don’t want to startle her, so I stand at the edge of the studio floor with socked feet, waiting to make sure she even wants me in her space. After pirouetting a few times, she stops, and her eyes catch mine. Gracefully, she glides to the center of the room, her short tutu hugging the top of her waist. Her gaze shifts to my feet, and she smiles. To my surprise, her eyes brim instantly with unshed tears. I hope my gaze conveys my request.
Then Ivy nods, and I walk toward her, the sensation of my feet on the spongy floor bending beneath my weight a contrast to the feeling of my heart pounding within my ribs. When we’re only inches apart, I go still, unsure what to do next. We’re in the middle of the studio, but we might as well be in the middle of the ocean. I want to hold her, touch her. And I want what I’ve believed about myself to be rewritten.
“Dance with me?” Ivy asks, and the music stops, making the last word louder than the first. She looks at the remote under the barre and moves toward it, holding up a hand to temporarily pause what was between us. Soon enough, she’s back in the center of the space, and I smell the vanilla radiating off her witha hint of amber, the scent reminding me that this isn’t a dream. I can never smell her when I dream.
“I will dance with you. I want to dance with you,” I add as our eyes connect. “But I want to do your kind of dance.”
“My kind of dance?” Ivy asks breathlessly, searching my face. I let her search, knowing that she’ll find the truth.
“How would someone . . .?” I clear my throat as the thought of how many times other men have danced with her clenches my heart. I want it to be my turn. “How would a man hold you to support you while you dance? I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Jace, they’ve had years of training. And it’s an act, a show. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“Well, then you shouldn’t have a problem teaching me.”
“No!” she says firmly, and I feel my spine stiffen. “No, that’s just it . . . if you danced with me, it would mean everything.”
A tear escapes from her right eye, and I reach up to wipe it with the pad of my thumb. More tears fall, and my hands act like windshield wipers to gently clear them. Her hot-chocolate irises are hazy, the warmth in them increasing and steaming with emotion.
“I want to hold you, Ivy. I want to support you while you do what you love. And I promise you that I’m doing everything I can to fight what’s in my mind. I don’t want to leave you alone in the cold this time.”
In response, Ivy turns to the barre, using her fingers to lightly brush any remaining tears from her face. Her face is flushed, her eyes are glassy, and her lips are slightly open as she takes a deep breath.
“Okay, then,” she says, twirling toward the front of the room, her eyes now facing forward. I follow the direction of her line of sight until our gaze clashes in the mirror. To my delight, a slight grin lifts one side of her pouty mouth. The urge to kiss her just to make sure this is real overwhelms my senses. She motionswith her head to encourage me to move, and I stand behind her, waiting for my next instructions.
“I wanted to kiss you.” I let out an exhale. “I feel . . . almost desperate to kiss you again.” With a tentative chuckle, I shake my head. “But that’s me, ever the romantic.”
Ivy turns to face me, her eyes wide as she watches me silently.
“I know we said we’ve changed, and it’s true. But right now, it’s like . . .” Once again, my words get caught.
“Is it like you’ve never wanted anything more?” Ivy asks me.
