Neither have I when I’ve been here setting up for the performance. But I’ve realized that when it comes to Ivy and me, time and space seem to move both for and with us. It’s as if Christmas magic influences each of our interactions.
Holding out my hand, I choose to use this moment—snowed in as we currently are—as a chance for me to get another piece of my life back. “Will you teach me more of how to dance with you? Your style of dance.” I nod toward the stage.
Ivy lifts her chin to study me. I dip my head and motion toward the center of the stage. She follows, pausing when we reach the taped marker on the old wooden floor.
“Do you have your music?” My hand grips hers as she pulls her phone from her pocket.
“I do.” A breathy laugh escapes her. Gracefully, she sits on the stage and slides on her pointe shoes, lacing up the ribbons nimbly. I watch her, realizing it’s a mesmerizing process. “I can’t believe we’re really going to dance again right now.”
I grin, my nervous system catching up with what’s about to happen. This isn’t going to be a waltz or a middle school dance where we sway and awkwardly place our hands at odd angles. I’m about to lift her, hold her, and ask her to jump so I can catch her.
“We’ll go slow,” she says, the music now flowing from her phone as she stretches and begins to warm up her feet.
What Ivy doesn’t know is that I’ve memorized the piece since I’ve seen and heard her dancing to it over the past couple of weeks. I may even have added it to my own playlist, but I’llpretend to faint before I admit that. Good thing Emmy isn’t here to reveal that fact in her excitement.
She pulls her wrap sweater tighter and then extends her right leg and moves to her toes, her left leg brushing past my arm. I place my hands on her waist gently, careful to hold her steady.
“Guide me up and hold on,” she instructs.
I do as she says, and she peeks up at me, the length of her midsection almost fully resting against me. She’s significantly taller in her pointe shoes, and it gives me a better angle of her hot-chocolate stare. I want to get lost in that gaze for a while, but not when I’m responsible for keeping her steady.
“You can grip me tighter. You won’t hurt me.”
I swallow and do as she says, my fingers connecting with her lower ribs. The softness of the leotard and the warmth of her skin underneath feel as if they are creating a current of energy through my hands. My hands are magnets, stuck to her, refusing to let go.
“Now, walk with me,” she guides. “Hold out your left hand.” She uses my hand as leverage, her body moving through what I now know are arabesques and extensions, her gracefully poised hands swaying through the air.
“Okay, next, you’ll gently wrap your hands around my waist. And when I spin, use your left hand to rotate me—I’ll spin faster.”
“Umm . . .” I don’t want to hurt her, but my hands hover near her waist. To my shock, Ivy goes up en pointe and starts to turn. In the sudden blur, I’m able to find her hip and help guide her forward. I’ve watched her favorite version of The Nutcracker, so the technique isn’t completely foreign. But with my assistance, she’s spinning faster than I’ve ever seen her, and it’s giving me a thrill to catch the flashes of a smile on her face.
“I’m coming out of it,” she says between us, and I let her stop. Our transition isn’t the most graceful, but we’re doing it. Itfeels akin to when someone starts training with me at the studio. There’s a rhythm to it that makes it look effortless. In the past, Ivy has been accustomed to dancing with men who are trained, and I’m used to choreography being the pattern by which I attack a punching bag. When we danced at her studio together, we only practiced a basic spin, my arm extended for her to use to balance. What we’re doing tonight is much more intricate.
“You’re doing good, Jace.” Her words warm my lungs, pushing me to be a little more daring.
“Should we try a lift?” I take a risk and suggest.
Turning to face me, her hands land on her hips, her feet pointing away from me on either side. Glancing down, I think of how much I love the way her feet never seem to want to face forward. With her eyebrows raised, she holds the back of her neck with one hand, regarding me curiously.
“You want to . . . lift me?” A flush creeps up the sides of her neck, and a delighted expression crosses her face as she peeks up at me.
“Unless you’re uncomfortable with that,” I hasten to adjust my suggestion. “I just thought I could try.” Suddenly, I backtrack, wanting to rewind my words. I wasn’t trying to get too cocky with her.
“No, it’s . . . no. You never make me uncomfortable. I mean, actually, you do . . .” she trails off, and I stiffen. “But only because I care about you so much. It’s like the good kind of being on edge, you know?” Her hands paint the air between us.
I grab them, bringing them close to my chest so she can feel the way my heart is pounding just for her. “I do know.”
Ivy’s grin is worth the honesty. “So, I trust you.” Her voice fades as she turns mid-sentence to face the empty auditorium, her delicate yet muscular back now facing me. “I’m going to jump up . . .” She spins back, her face coming into view again. “Actually, wait, do you want to lift me over your head or dip me?”
I can’t imagine either of these scenarios happening in the way she is probably thinking, and I’m racking my brain to try to remember an instance in the YouTube videos I’ve watched in which I’ve seen a man lift his female partner in ballet. “Um . . . ”
“You know what?” She scrunches her nose in concentration, and I’m struck by how much the expression resembles one I’ve seen Emmy make. “Let’s try the dip. So, I’m going to jump up, your right arm will wrap around my waist, and your left hand will reach underneath my thigh, and then you’ll dip me forward. Got it?”
“Um . . .” Once again, words fail me as I imagine all the ways this could go terribly wrong. “I can try.”
Ivy nods. “On the count of three: one, two, three!”
She jumps up, and I move my right arm to wrap around her waist, but I forget to catch her left leg when it extends. Instead, I grab near her knee. Thankfully, I don’t drop her, but our choreography is less than graceful. The effect sends us off balance. Ivy’s body lands at an odd angle, like a beautiful fairy trapped midair. I see her wince when her right foot hits the floor, and she lets out a hiss.
