Chapter 21 Absolutely No Safety Awareness
Claire
Everett holds the door of Stella’s, and I walk past him out onto the snow covered sidewalk, zipping my jacket.
“I really feel bad,” he says, meeting me outside. His head turns down and his shoulders slouch. “I’m sorry again.”
“For what?”
“For insinuating ballet wasn’t a tough sport.”
“You aren’t the first person to think that,” I say. “It’s really okay.”
“But that’s the thing—it’s not okay. I see how tough you are and can only imagine how hard you train back in New York. I don’t ever want to make you feel like I don’t see you. I never want to diminish anything you do.”
I stare at him a little stunned. I was honestly just giving him a hard time and joking around, but his sincerity has me feeling a way I’ve never felt around him before.
“I believe you,” I say as we begin to cross the street. “But thank you for saying all of that.”
“I mean it.” Our eyes connect, and without a doubt I know he does.
I offer him a reassuring nod and a small smile. “So, you want to head back to the house? Maybe see if we can find any clues there?”
“That sounds good.”
We turn to head toward the house when shouting coming from the three young boys who were wrestling in the booth causes us to freeze.
“Coach! Coach!” one of the boys yells as they all sprint toward us from the outdoor ice rink that’s situated at the top of the street in front of a town hall. Red curls bounce as they run through the snow.
“Coach, look at my new hockey stick,” one who is a little taller with similar red, curly hair shouts.
“I got a new one, too, but I hit Maple with it this morning, so Dad said I can’t have it back until tomorrow,” the youngest of the three whines, not taking a full breath until the last word falls from his mouth.
“Hi?” I say, looking from the three children back to Everett. It’s clear these boys know us, or they think they do.
“Are your parents around?” I ask.
“They’re over there,” the boy holding the stick says, pointing to where a small group of adults is huddled together, laughing. “What do you think, Coach?” He shows off the new piece of equipment proudly, pretending to shoot a puck across the street.
“Claire! Everett!” Their mother, Ginger, waves. “Hold on. I’ll be right there. Boys, give them some space.” She’s holding a baby on her hip, and two little girls follow after her like miniature shadows.
My attention turns back to the boys. All three of them are talking so fast that I can’t catch more than every third word. Everett nods along as they talk like he understands what they’re saying.
Their mother makes it to us and immediately wraps me in a one-sided hug.
“Hi, Mrs. Claire,” both of the little girls sing-song from behind her.
“Oh, hi,” I stammer, doing my best to return Ginger’s gesture, but I’m certain I’ve already made it awkward.
“Don’t you look pretty,” she says, stepping back and smoothing her coat. “Pink really suits you.”
“Thank you.” I fidget with the chain of my necklace.
“Cori, Dill, Fen! Stop talking so fast and let them be. You will have all of Coach Everett’s attention Monday at practice. Now run along.” She waves them off.
Coach Everett?
Why does the idea of him coaching little kids make my heart beat a little quicker?
Fuck, I bet that’s cute. My eyes flit over to Everett standing and listening intently as Ginger speaks.
Both of his hands are casually in his pockets, and he nods and smiles like this is some normal conversation between old friends.
The three boys run back toward the rink, yelling, “Bye, Coach” in unison, and Everett lifts his hand.
“The girls are so looking forward to dance classes starting back up after Christmas,” Ginger continues.
“Oh! They dance?” I ask, eyeing both girls, who are peeking out from behind each of their mother’s legs.
“What are you talking about, hun?” She cocks her head to the side.
I frantically search the street for any clue that could help me sound less crazy. My eyes dart down to the two little girls.
Mrs. Claire.
They called me Mrs. Claire.
Looking up, my eyes land on the ballet studio situated across the street from Stella’s Diner.
I teach dance.
Blush creeps up my face. “Oh…um…I just…I just meant...” I force a laugh, trying to cover my mistake, but I can’t think of anything to say that would make sense. Ginger’s brow knits together. “Are you okay, sweetheart?” she asks.
“We didn’t get a lot of sleep last night,” Everett cuts in. “Isn’t that right, babe?” He nudges me with his elbow gently.
“That’s right.” I nod and force a smile.
“Oh, I remember what the first year of marriage was like. So young and so in love.” She laughs. “How do you think Rusty and I got all these kids? I think I came home from our honeymoon pregnant with…well, you get it.” She laughs again and moves the baby to the other hip.
“Oh, no that’s not what he meant. We’re just both in desperate need of some more coffee. Right, babe,” I say, gritting my teeth.
“Ginger, have you seen Cori’s gloves?” a man, who I assume is Rusty, yells from where the three boys are now rolling around in the snow.
“One second,” Ginger yells back. “Well, I’ll let you two get going. You’d think I’m the only one in this family who knows where anything is. We’ll see you two later.”
The four of them make their way back to the rest of their family, leaving me alone with Everett.
“Okay, so that was…”
“Informative,” Everett finishes for me.
“Yeah.” The street is full of people coming and going from each shop. My eyes settle on the dance studio. I wonder if this version of me is happy teaching dance. If she ever knew what it was like to dance on the stage at Lincoln Center. “I can’t believe it’s mine.”
Everett turns to see where I’m looking. “No? Have you ever considered owning your own place before?”
“Not really.”
“Should we go check it out?”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I mean what else are we going to do?” He shrugs.
We finish crossing the street and arrive at the door of Pirouettes and Plies. The exterior is painted a light pink, and the trim is a shade slightly brighter. Above each window is a small white and pink striped awning.
“We don’t have a key,” I say, laughing and moving up to one of the windows. Placing my hands above my eyes to block the sunlight, I peer into the dark studio.
“I’m sure there’s a spare somewhere around here,” Everett says, digging in one of the small potted Christmas trees that frames the door.
“And if there isn’t?” I ask, turning to look at him.
“Then I’ll break a window,” he deadpans.
“Right. Because breaking and entering will surely help us here.”
Shaking my head, I try to channel where this version of myself would’ve put an extra key, but I’m not sure. I know nothing about the me who lives here other than she is married to Everett and owns a dance studio. Neither of which I ever saw myself doing.
“Is it under the doormat?” he asks.
“Do you really think I would leave the key where anyone could find it? The New Yorker in me knows better than to put it there.”
He glances around the street. “I mean, I can’t imagine this town is full of hard criminals.”
“We still don’t know that.”
He chortles.
Poking and prodding around, we try to find a trick rock or lock box or literally any place a key might be, but there’s nothing.
“What are you two up to?” a voice says from our right. Whipping our heads in the direction of the sound, we find Cami standing with a foldable chalk board outside the doors of Citrine Brews.
“Claire wanted to dance today,” Everett explains, gesturing in my direction. “But would you believe that she can’t find her key anywhere?”
Cami giggles as she begins to set up the sign she’s holding. “Is the spare you keep under the doormat not there?”
A snort erupts from Everett, and I cut my eyes in his direction. “Yeah, babe. Did you check under the mat?” he asks, trying to hold back more laughter.
“How could I forget,” I grit out through a forced smile. Swallowing my pride, I bend down and lift the doormat, revealing a small silver key.
Dammit. Apparently this version of me has absolutely no safety awareness.
“You two have a good day,” she calls, disappearing back into the shop.
“The New Yorker in me would never leave the key under the mat,” Everett mocks as I unlock the door.
“Stop it,” I warn, spinning around to face him with my hands on my hips.
“Say it with me,” he quips. “Everett. Was. Right.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Hey, I told you I’m right about a lot of things.” He steps toward me. My breath hitches as he bends down and his lips tickle the side of my neck. “You starting to come around to my idea yet, Sugar?”
Breathing in deep, I push him away. “The only thing you were right about was suggesting we check out the dance studio.”
My stomach dips as his mouth breaks into a grin, and I turn around, pushing the feeling away.
Opening the door, we walk into the small studio.
Flipping the switch, the chandeliers across the ceiling illuminate and reflect off the mirrors casting sparkles of light all around.
The light wood floors stretch across the entire room.
Framed photos of different aged children hang on the wall.
Each age level is wearing a different costume from what appears to be a spring recital.
I’m in each photo, posed and smiling. Dozens of different colored tutus hang from a clothing rack along the back wall.
“This is a cool place,” he says, looking around.
“Yeah, it is.” My fingers trail across the glass of one of the photos, and I take it all in. The tension between my shoulder blades begins to loosen, and my head feels a little clearer. For the first time since I woke up this morning, I feel at home. Like everything might actually be okay.
“Alright, well I’m gonna go explore, and I’ll meet you back here in a little while?” he says, still standing near the door.
“Explore?”
“Yeah. You’re welcome to come with me. I just thought you might want to dance or something. I know skating always seems to calm me down when I’m stressed.”
“Really? You don’t mind?”
He shakes his head. “No way. I’ll go walk around and see if I can find anything worth our time, and then I’ll swing by and we can walk back to the house together.”
“Yeah…okay…thank you.”
“I’ll be back soon,” he says. The corner of his mouth tips up, and then he turns, disappearing out of the studio and leaving me alone.
I lock the door behind him and begin to shed my jacket and then my bulky sweater.
My bralette covers just as much as a bathing suit, and I want to be able to move freely.
The jeans aren’t ideal, but I’ve danced in them before.
Kicking off my chunky boots, I walk over to the large stereo sitting on the ground in front of one of the windows.
I connect my phone to the aux cord and scroll until I find Tchaikovsky’s “Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy” and click play.
If I’m forced to be stuck here, then I can use my time to prepare for the show, or at least do what I can without my dance partner. The music begins, and I start to train the part I know so well.
Over and over, I run through the dance, and with every movement I feel a little more settled and my mind feels a little more clear.