I step over a curb awkwardly—there's equipment from one of the booths scattered on the sidewalk—and Evan reaches out, catching my hand.
“Careful.”
“Thanks.”
He doesn't let go.
Neither do I.
We keep walking, hands clasped, and I'm hyperaware of every point of contact. His palm warm against mine. His thumb occasionally brushing my knuckles. The way our steps have synchronized without trying.
“So,” I say after a while. “How do you know about the Marie/Clara thing?”
“Elsbeth was a retired ballerina. Danced with the Royal Ballet.”
I stop walking.
“I'm sorry, what?”
He turns to face me. “I didn't mention that?”
“You definitely didn't mention that! Evan! Your nanny was a professional ballerina and you just ... casually left that out?”
“It didn't seem relevant.”
“Not relevant?!” I'm trying to keep my voice down but honestly. “You spent an hour in the car telling me about Gene Kelly movies. You could have mentioned that Elsbeth danced for the Royal Ballet!”
“Fair point.” He starts walking again, pulling me gently along. “We'd watch The Nutcracker on TV during the holidays if my parents weren't home. Different productions—New York City Ballet, Royal Ballet, Bolshoi. She'd explain the differences, why certain companies staged it certain ways.”
I'm listening, picturing young Evan curled up with Elsbeth, watching ballet on TV while his parents were out.
“She gave me a book about it one Christmas,” he continues. “The history, the different variations, all the productions. She wanted me to see all the roles for boys—the Nutcracker Prince, the toy soldiers, the Mouse King, all the character dances in Act II.”
“She wanted to normalize boys dancing for you.”
“Yeah.” His voice is soft. “She did.”
We're at the edge of the square now, which opens to a small park. The massive oak tree stands in the center—the Wish Tree for the duration of the festival—and it's covered in lights and paper.
“So wait,” I say, stopping again. “Is this not your debut in The Nutcracker too?”
He shakes his head with a chuckle. “No, it is—I swear. I was never in it. But as you said, Elsbeth wanted me to see that boys belonged in all types of dance.”
“That's the sweetest thing I've ever heard.”
“Is it?”
“And the saddest.” I squeeze his hand. “Because she saw you, Evan. She really saw you. And then?—”
“And then I went to boarding school.”
We stand there, hands clasped, the festival lights twinkling around us.
“What about you?” he asks. “You said you were 'almost Clara' once?”
I take a breath. “Yes, but I didn't get to dance it.”
He waits.
