My mother crosses her arms and raises her eyebrows.
“Well, you’ve already interrupted, so please, continue.” Her rudeness barely phases Grant, who looks between the two of us. I glance between him and the door frantically, trying to get him away from my mother's wrath.
“You must be Mrs. Dupont?”
He’s about a foot away from her now, his height and bulk completely dwarfing my mother, making her appear much less intimidating than usual. She looks at him skeptically, her eyes pinched in suspicion.
“And you are the one who distracts my daughter so much she can’t do a simple turn?”
Her gaze shifts to me now, burning with a mixture of embarrassment and resentment. It says:if I were to be in your position I’d never miss a turn, never have an off day.And this is how it’s always been for my mother and I. This unspoken competition—whether it be dance, our looks, my father’sattention—it’s always felt like she gains something when she can succeed in shaming me like this.
Grant winces, finally noticing the energy in the room. “I’m Grant Fielder, ma’am.” He extends his large palm toward my mother to shake, and she eyes it as if it’s lined with filth.
Jean’s lurking presence becomes more apparent when he lets out an exaggerated cough, murmuringFielder Foodsin Grant’s direction.
“Of Fielder Foods…?” Grant says, blindly following Jean’s lead with an air of confusion. I give Jean a look of thanks and he mouthsgood luck, before beelining back out the door. If it’s one thing my entire ballet company agrees on, it’s to steer clear of my mother.
Mom’s eyes widen, registering the gravity of who he is, and she grasps my hand tightly—a signal that she’s pissed I didn’t warn her more than a sign of maternal instinct. Her smile is forced, like she’s the one performing, but instead of her trying to play off failed fouettes, it’s a failed first impression. The beautiful lines of her face twitch beneath the strain.
What my mother and I differ in complexion, we make up for in our similar lithe frames and high cheekbones. I’ve heard hundreds of times how I have my mom’s smile. She’s so beautiful, elegant in all the ways a ballerina should be, but even so, it’s hard to take it as a compliment considering I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her genuinely smile. It’s always performant in one way or another.
“And so handsome!” My mother squeezes Grant’s arm and I can’t help but shut my eyes in embarrassment. Grant seems over the moon though, as if he personally achieved the task of winning my mother over, not his family name.
“I wasn’t expecting tomeet you, Mrs. Dupont. Would’ve changed after practice, otherwise,” he explains, his smile timid and good and safe. His smile is everything my mother’s is not and it has me wanting to shield him from her.
I pull out of my mother's grasp grabbing Grant’s arm, trying to casually pull him toward the door.
“Now might actually not be the best time?—”
“Nonsense.” My mother interrupts shouldering her shiny new designer bag. “What brings you to see my daughter, Grant?” Her face is controlled the way it always is when she’s putting on the mask I’ve come to be so familiar with. The one she wore anytime she met a friend's parents, or one of her current husbands' many business colleagues. The mask that somehow shielded her from the whispers and lies. The one that’s shielded her from me.
“I was actually going to ask her to dinner. I knew today was going to be a long one for her,” he says, and the fact that he remembers my rehearsal schedule, to the point that he can perceive how intense it will or won’t be, has my heart swelling with appreciation.
He looks down at my completely trashed pointe shoes and I see a slight flicker of recognition move across his face that only an athlete of our caliber would understand. That today I worked my ass off.And yet I still didn’t perform the way I wanted to.
I brush the thought away, focus on Grant showing up here to take care of me after a long day.
“Salad, I hope.” My mother gives him a knowing wink, and I think she hopes Grant will play off of her the way Will has in the past, picking at me indirectly with light hearted banter. When I was younger, I would tell myself it was a strategy to appease my mom so he could get her out of our presence as quickly as possible, but as I got olderand saw the way Will’s family spoke about him while he stood there, I realized this was just how he was raised. And now, I wonder if it ever even crossed his mind that it wasn’t okay to do, or if it was just another way he kept me on his hook.
Grant’s jaw sets, sending a little thrill through me because he didn’t like that comment. He didn’t like that comment, and it’s written so clearly across his face, even my mother is awkwardly laughing, trying to lighten the mood.
“Gen’s an athlete. In order for her to keep training as hard as she has been, I had much more than a salad in mind.” His voice comes out stern but not unkind, and I can see my mother is embarrassed.
“Of course! It was a jest.” She slaps Grant's arm lightly and he gives her a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes but seems to soothe my mother's ego. “I’m just leaving, but speaking of dinner?—”
I breathe through my nose hoping that what’s coming isn’tactuallywhat’s coming.
“Ken and I would love to have you both for dinner.” I wince, but Grant’s posture is comfortable and relaxed as always.
“Absolutely. Just tell us when.” His voice is the amber color of honey and it almost tricks me into thinking dinner with my mother wouldn’t be so bad.
“Parfait!” She gives his arm another playful tap and quietly, as she passes me, says under her breath, “Practice!” Then, she slips out the door.
“She seems…. sweet?” Grant gives me a half smile and I feel myself let in my exhaustion now that my mother is no longer in the room. My shoulders seem to deflate as I give a tired sigh.
“The sweetest,” I grimace as I slump down to theground, pulling off my pointe shoes and revealing the bloody mess that is my feet.
“Jesus christ,” Grant says, his eyes wide at the sight of the tattered fabric I used to protect my toes.
