‘Ballet’s a part of you, the same way bulls are for me. Let it back in, Bailey. Or at least give it a try.’
I’m silent as his words weave through me, challenging me to do something I thought I’d never be brave enough for.
‘I’ll be with you the whole time,’ he says, and it’s like the unlocking of a door only he has the key for. Because if I’m ever going to do this, to try to enjoy a performance that I so desperately want to be a part of, then having Beau by my side is the only way to even attempt it.
‘Yeah, okay.’ I drop my eyes away so hopefully he doesn’t see what a leap of faith that is. ‘Yeah, let’s just … see how I go. No promises.’
We have a drink in the lobby before the performance, and he buys me another one to take in—a flute-shaped plastic cup almost full to the brim with champagne, but, honestly, the way I feel when the lights dim and the music starts has nothing to do with the effects of alcohol. From the first strains of the oboe to the introduction of the strings, I sit up straight in my seat, trembling with the emotion of the moment. Tears film my eyes, but Beau is there, his hand coming to rest on mine, holding me through this threshold moment.
I stare at the dancers and the grace of their movement, feel the orchestra as though their notes are being massaged into my soul. Pain washes over me—a familiar pain I have lived with a long time. Grief too. Sadness that I will never again move as they’re moving, never channel the music through the steps my body takes.
But as I watch, with Beau by my side, something else starts to pulse inside me—love. Love for this orchestra, this ballet, this performance, these people. Love for the art form that has always held my heart—and that I’ve been denying myself for almost ten years. Love for a form of musical expression that has always obsessed me, that I suddenly can’t believe I’ve been living without.
I thought I had to be on the stage to honour it, but I was wrong. Sitting here like this, I feel it just as I did then, like a powerful light that’s bursting through me. It’s hard to breathe normally; I am in awe.
When another movement begins, my heart lifts, and I lean even further forward, watching as the stage fills once more with a swell of ballerinas, and the principal characters too. I watch as they move through the steps that are familiar to me, and yet not, because every ensemble adds their own touch to a performance, makes it uniquely theirs, and this is no exception. The music slows and the lights on stage lower, then the curtain falls for intermission, and I continue to stare, my lips parted, speech impossible.
‘Bailey, I’m so fucking sorry.’ His voice is gravelly and deep, pulling me back to the here and now, the theatre, so I blink as though the threads of fantasy have been forcibly cut.
‘Huh?’ I turn to face Beau, vaguely aware of a stricken expression on his face.
‘Shit,’ he curses, reaching across and running his thumb over first one cheek and then the other, smudging away my tears. ‘This was a jackass thing to do. I had no right?—’
‘No,’ I deny quickly, standing as an elderly couple approaches us, wanting to get past. ‘I’m?—’
‘Let’s go,’ he insists, reaching down and holding my hand, neither of us capable of caring who sees, drawing us through the auditorium behind the older couple. I shake my head, but there’s no sense trying to talk to him when we’re walking like this.
It’s only when we’re back in the foyer that I squeeze his hand to get his attention.
‘Beau, listen,’ I say urgently.
He glances down at me, and looks all guilty again. His jaw tightens as he clamps his teeth. ‘I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking. I’m so sorry.’
‘Stop saying that,’ I say on a tremulous laugh, using my other hand to wipe away the tears that are still wet on my cheeks. ‘Beau, I’ve been terrified of watching a ballet ever since I realised I would never be able to dance again. I’ve been running away from what I really love, and it’s so stupid. This is— this has been— incredible.’
He stops walking then and looks at me. Really looks at me.
‘You’re crying.’
‘You’re meant to cry at the ballet.’
He pulls a face.
‘Okay.’ I laugh unevenly. ‘Not every ballet, and not everyone. But I cry. I feel it, here,’ I say, jabbing my fingers between my breasts. ‘It is one of the most moving and transformative things I have ever experienced.’ I close my eyes, force myself to speak the truth of my heart. ‘And I’m really glad we got to share this.’
When I blink up at him, all I see is relief on his features. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Yes.’ I laugh. ‘I’m sure.’
‘So you want to stay, to see the rest?’
‘Wild horses couldn’t drag me away.’
He glances around then quickly leans down and presses a kiss to my temple, holds himself there a second so his warm breath fansover me, and I close my eyes on the perfection of this. ‘I’m so proud of you, Bailey James.’
I practically float through the rest of the night.
Chapter Twenty-Five
