Her shoulders visibly descend, relief clear in her exhaled breath.
“Good. That’s good,” she says softly, rubbing a hand across her forehead. She doesn’t look at me, but I watch her as a few tears bloom and slip down her cheeks. I’m aching to hold her hand, press my fingers against her back, anything to help. Surely my mother’s not the only one who can. Surely, Eva’s and my big world is still out there, waiting for us to slip back into it where we belong.
“Are you okay?” I ask instead, lacing my fingers together in my lap.
She nods and looks down, picking at a hangnail.
“Tell me something about her,” I say. “Something good. Anything you want.”
She lifts her head, staring into the tree branches cocooning around us. After a few moments and a few deep breaths, she starts talking. “There was this café on Sixtieth Street. It’s pretty famous and sort of a tourist trap, but it’s near the dance studio and my mom and I would go there after class every Tuesday and get frozen hot chocolates.”
Her eyes mist over with the memory. “I miss those stupid overpriced drinks. There was usually a huge line outside the café, but it never mattered to Mom, even though she was always tired after teaching. We’d stand there for an hour, talking about everything and nothing. Even when it was freezing outside, we’d wait. I miss that. Just . . . standing there with her, you know?”
I nod, even though I’m not sure I do know.
“I miss ballet,” she goes on. “I miss the movement, the line my arms would make with the rest of my body. The smell of resin and varnish that coated the hardwoods in the studio. I miss New York.”
“Do you really hate it here?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know. It’s where I need to be. I miss home but I can’t be there, you know? It’s not New York without her. It’s not anything.”
“Eva—?”
“I want to go back. I just don’t know if I can. New York, ballet, any of it. I used to want to teach ballet like my mother did. She loved it so much.”
“Do you love it?”
A line creases between her eyes. “Mom made me try out different things when I was little, but I always came back to dancing. It’s in my blood. I loved that I could forget everything and anything. Or remember it. Whatever I wanted. I was in total control when I danced, but I also wasn’t, like something bigger than me, bigger than everything that made me anxious inhabited my body, moving my arms and legs. I wanted to help other girls feel like that. Especially girls like me.”
“Wow.”
She laughs. “You mean, Wow, that sounds ridiculous.”
“No. Not at all. I get that.”
Her mouth tilts up in a smile, and she tilts her head at me. “Pianists are very important to dancers, you know. To shows and studios.”
“Are you still a dancer?”
Immediately, I regret my question. That tiny smile fades like a chalk drawing in the rain, and Eva’s mouth parts as though my question is a literal shock.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I only meant that when you talk about dance, you always talk about it in the past tense.”
She nods but doesn’t take her eyes off of mine. “Are you a pianist?”
“Always.” I blink at her, surprising myself with my lack of hesitation. But it’s true—?there’s no way I’ll ever not be a pianist, even if I spend the rest of my days in the Book Nook with Patrick as my only audience.
We sit in silence for a few seconds, Eva’s breaths steady and thoughtful next to me. It’s easy, this quiet between us, and I can’t help but think that piano isn’t the only thing that makes all the bullshit fade into the background for me. At least not right now.
“So, riddle me this,” she finally says. Her voice is light, her posture straightens against the tree trunk, and I know we’re done talking about ballet. “Jay walked into your house after you left earlier. Your mom called him Julian.”
I groan dramatically and bury my face in my hands. “Well, he would. He lives there.”
“I mean, I got that, but why?”
I rub at my forehead. “Yes, that is the question, isn’t it?”
“Your mom is actually dating his dad?”
