“You,” I said without thinking, tears surfacing. “I never should have let you go.”
Until that point, I’d resisted the urge to look for Dominique. With my resources, it wouldn’t have been difficult. The letters never contained a return address, and they were never signed, but that meant nothing. Dominique was too smart to believe that this in any way kept his location a secret. He wasn’t hiding.
On day one, I’d read the postmark. It indicated the mail was sent from Laval, Quebec, but with a population of nearly five hundred thousand, it alone wasn’t helpful.
It took two weeks for me to get the courage to look deeper. Running his driver’s license gave me an address in Montreal. It was a stone’s throw from Laval and home to Quebec’s Laboratoire De Médecine. With his skill and background, it made sense for the lab to scoop him up. To confirm my suspicions, I placed a phone call to the facility. The switchboard operator instantly transferred me to the office of Dr. Dominique Chevalier.
When he answered, I froze, the soft thrum of his voice reaching through the line and drawing me in. The ground beneath me wavered. Unprepared for such conflicting emotions, I hung up.
Was I better off knowing where he was, or had ignorance been vital to safeguarding my heart?
That night, unable to settle, I took a walk through the neighborhood. Upon finding a dandelion with a head of seeds, I plucked it from the ground and held it before my mouth, feeling childish and foolish. It didn’t stop me from closing my eyes and huffing a gust of air over the bulb. The seeds drifted away as I made a wish. For answers. For a sign. For a second chance at love.
I’d sent Dominique away, but at what cost?
Six months after that blustery confrontation in the cemetery, at the height of summer in Ottawa, another letter appeared on my desk. Inside, I found two things. A shred of paper with a short message carefully printed on its surface—it did not escape me that Dominique no longer wrote in cursive—and a ticket to a ballet production calledConte de Fées.
I couldn’t make sense of the ticket, so I focused on the note.
This is not the ending I predicted, and I predicted many. Loving you was not in the plan. Losing you is my sole regret. Please know, your sacrifice was not in vain. I would have missed so much had you chosen differently. You gave me sunrises and sunsets, treasures collected in pockets, and dandelions in vases on my kitchen table. You gave me a summer of wishes and smiles and dancing and song. She mentions you still. Amazing for the short time you knew each other. You must have made an impact on her life as well.
I have no right to miss you, but I do. I have no right to ask anything of you, but I am.
If you don’t come, I’ll understand.
Loving you always.
I examined the ticket again, turning it over in my hand. Printed on the front was an address and time for the performance.
Two weeks later, ona Friday afternoon at the end of July, I drove two hours east to Montreal. My inner debate after reading Dominique’s letter had lasted all of ten minutes. My reason for sending him away was never because I stopped loving him. It wasn’t because I couldn’t accept what he’d done. I’d willingly decided to cover up his actions. To lie for him. To turn my back on that which would have seen him rot in prison for the rest of his life.
Fear was a powerful motivator, and my choices and the potential consequences were grave. I had to protect myself in the process, and that meant distance. Time. That was why I’d sent him away.
The months had passed, but my heartache worsened in his absence.
The tiny theater was located in a library on the south end of the city, and upon entering the building, I was surrounded by excitable children of all ages, along with frazzled parents trying to keep them in line. Many of the children were dressed in leotards, glittery costumes, and tutus.
Balloons surrounded a colorful sign, announcing the production ofConte de Féesby the Peppi Pirouettes Studio de Danse. Not a professional ballet, but a children’s school of dance.
To the left, the auditorium doors stood open, and two grandmotherly-looking women dressed in black and white greeted people as they entered, informally checking tickets and directing them which way to go.
I scanned the lobby and approached a display board with dozens of photographs of the various groups performing that evening. I scanned faces until I saw her. Her curls had been twisted into two high buns on the sides of her head. A pink feather boa draped her neck. She clasped the ends in her fragile hands. Her white sparkly tutu had been paired with pink tights and a bodysuit. Unlike the other children, who stood in a neat row, smiling for the photographer, Cosette had been captured with a leg kicked up in an action that looked more fitting to karate than ballet.
“The instructor says she’s a handful,” said a warm, familiar voice from over my shoulder. “Graceful is not a word I’ve ever used to describe her, but she wanted to dance, so here we are.”
He stood close enough that I felt his body heat radiate between us. I did not turn around. “Hello, Dominique.”
“I’m glad you came.”
“I wasn’t sure I would until I was in the car driving here.”
I rotated, taking him in for the first time in over six months. He was as handsome as ever. Dominique had always carried a perpetual look of sadness in his pale blue eyes, but today I saw a hesitancy born from our separation. I recognized it because I felt the same. The mere inches separating us felt like a gulf, a chasm. I didn’t know how to bridge the gap. The distance was my doing, so it felt like my responsibility.
I was vaguely aware of an instructor, wrangling energized ballerinas backstage, and parents filtering into the auditorium. Dominique didn’t move, so neither did I. A calm settled over the lobby as the congestion eased.
Dominique wore light cotton trousers and a breezy polo, a far more casual choice of clothing compared to my dress shirt and tie.
“In my defense,” I said, self-consciously touching the noose around my neck, “I didn’t know what kind of ballet I was attending.”
