She tosses in a few sickly emojis for good measure. I know her well enough to know that’s code for she won’t be going anymore.
Well, I’m not missing out, even if I have to watch Blake perform. This is something Mom and I always talked about doing.
I carefully avoid the sequins of my champagne dress, tugging up the zipper slowly. The neckline hugs the slight swells of my breasts. One nice thing about being small chested—no need for a bra. I’m forgoing underwear as well, thanks to the slit of the dress slicing dangerously high on my thigh. Better to avoidunderwear lines or a panty flash. It wasn’t like anyone would be looking at me in the private box Delilah had splurged on anyway.
Grabbing my clutch, I slip my key and phone into it. Then I move into the hallway, waiting for the door to shut behind me before I walk toward the elevators.
The theater is only a couple blocks away, and the lobby is bustling when I arrive. I wave at a few of the passing ballerinas I hung out with backstage yesterday while I stand in line to get in. Whipping out my phone, I hold it out for the attendant to scan my ticket, then traipse to the bar to grab a glass of chardonnay. At least if I accidentally spill my drink, it’ll blend in with my dress. I double check that my slit is in its proper place before walking on, enjoying how the sequins caress my curves, glittering like diamonds under the buttery chandeliers above.
The chimes ring, signaling the doors to the theater have opened. I spot the sign corresponding to my ticket on my right and steer away from the crowd. Gripping my skirt in the same hand that’s holding my clutch, I use my other to stay balanced as I walk up the staircase to the upper level where the private boxes are. I follow the arrows until I come to the curtained-off box F.
An usher rushes over, holding the black velvet to the side so I can enter. “Anyone else joining you tonight?”
I give them a gentle smile. “Nope. Just me.”
“Well, I’ll be at the end of the hallway if you need anything at all, dear,” they say, tipping their head.
“Thank you,” I call over my shoulder before heading toward the front of the box and picking a seat in the center. There are two more boxes on my side and three across from us. I’m in the farthest right, closest to the stage. Curtains swag either side of the row, hanging like a set of long bangs, casting the intimate space in darkness compared to the well-lit theater. I sip my wine, watching people move between rows, finding their seats andmaking room for each other. I admire my favorite gowns and ogle a few famous faces. Famous for the ballet world, that is.
The emcee’s voice booms over the theater, and the last of the audience takes their seats. They welcome us and remind everyone not to use flash photography, record on their cell phones, or walk out while a performance is taking place. Everyone, including myself, nods along. Each spectator is either a former, current, or loved one of a dancer. We know the drill.
First to take the stage is The Australian Ballet, performing the opening number with their two premiere principal dancers playing Carmen and her Don José, captivating us with their passion-filled pas de deux full of lifts and heavenly extensions. I watch, entranced, experiencing each step alongside them. It’s a beautiful piece, a moment captured in a ballet about desire and how jealousy can turn to tragedy. The story ofCarmenhas been around for ages, told in a million ways. You know in the end that he will root his own destruction, but the way they are moving, vibrant and enamored, you can almost forget, can almost believe they will make it—even when the story never changes. The happy ending never comes.
I clap along with everyone else when it’s over, then grab the program that’s been left on the seat next to mine and flip it open to see what’s coming next. With each piece, I am inspired. Reinvigorated. I’m caught in their spell, balancing between not wanting to miss a moment of their performance and wishing I was out there dancing it myself. Whenever I have a hard day at rehearsals, watching my favorite pieces online always rekindles the joy that the day-to-day can snuff out if you let it. Watching in person… It’s a whole other level.
Mom would have loved this. I savor each performance, enjoy every moment, for her. For us.
The San Francisco ballet is up next with the Bluebird pas de deux fromSleeping Beauty. I’ve actually danced this variationbefore, and my heels tap out the steps of their own accord. I’m so glad no one else is here to see me embarrass myself, though I know Lark would do the same.
The curtains on either side of me jostle, an icy wind blowing in seemingly from nowhere. My chest and arms pebble and my body goes still.
Then I listen.
Ignoring the instrumental and the gentle patter of pointe shoes hitting the Marley floor, I try to see if he’s here. Scared to get my hopes up.
Tiny white snowflakes trickle from above, pirouetting around each other on the breeze. Dancing just for me.
“Jax?” I whisper under my breath, eyes darting around the empty box. “Is that you? How…”
Not that I didn’t already know the answer.
“We went over this before.”Jax’s comforting baritone strums through my core, voice drifting into my mind.“I’m as real as the whisper of the wind, the cold settled in your bones, the flakes that fall outside…or inside, if I’m feeling especially inspired.”
The snowflakes encircle me along with the breeze. It’s him. God, he’s beautiful, even when he’s more like sculpted ice than man. I want to snatch this moment before it flits away. The last time I saw Jax felt like barely a reality, his presence melting just as quickly as he’d solidified before me in that icy studio.
“I’ve missed you.” The words escape me as naturally as an exhale.
“If you’ve missed me so much, then why aren’t you letting yourself truly believe I’m here?”
After spending weeks together, curled up and talking night after night, he’d disappeared from my life, only showing up one brief time. I know he was in hibernation and couldn’t get to me, but I can’t help but fear another ephemeral visit. I’m scared tobelieve, scared to want this so badly only to have it taken away again.
What if one of these days he doesn’t come back?
“I never stopped trying to get to you.”
“I know,” I say, a bit breathless. “It’s not that I don’t believe you’re real or that I don’t wish to see you. That couldn’t be the furthest thing from what I want.”
The sequins of my dress rustle, the fabric between my breasts lowering enough to feel the faint weight of Jax pressing a palm over the silvery streaks. My mate mark.
