Chapter Four
Ivy
(NEARLY) EIGHT YEARS LATER
Loneliness can feel a lot like doing your best to make it through each day while not having someone with whom to plan your future.
You pay the bills, try to drink plenty of water, eat something that has a semblance of nutritional value, consume enough protein to fill Santa’s sleigh, stay off of devices but also get work done with blue-light glasses, have meaningful connections, try not to self-isolate, and don’t get too many parking tickets (not that I’ve ever had a problem with the law).
Throw in multiple failed attempts at dating apps, ballet slippers, and the quirkiness of my small town, and you’d see the cycle of my life.
This is the rhythm to which I’ve set my days.
It’s a daily attempt to hold on to gratitude even though I’m frustrated that I don’t currently have someone to hold on to.
In the meantime, I’ve transformed from a professional dancer into a woman who owns her own dance studio.
I take care of others. I have a strong community.
And still, it doesn’t seem like I’m able to make progress in a relationship.
Not because I don’t want one, but because—even all these years later—no one has looked at me like a man named Jace once did.
When I returned to New York after the New Year eight years ago, the most devastating part of it all was being forced to dance with Dmitri again—newly engaged and not engaged in his work at all.
The result was the end of my career as a dancer.
During the spring, as we rehearsed for a new show, Victoria, his new fiancée, passed by the studio, and in his distraction, he nearly dropped me.
To brace my fall, my ankle was forced to bend in an unnatural way.
The injury ended my professional career.
After all my hard work, my career was over before the new show had even begun.
While I recovered gradually and can now dance again, the way my body moves will never be quite the same.
I’ve learned to make peace with that, despite how painful that season of loss became.
Now, I watch vintage ballet performances as a way to remind myself why I fell in love with dance again.
The credits to The Nutcracker with Mikhail Baryshnikov and Gelsey Kirkland roll while tears fall down my face.
I have a junky DVD player, and yes, I still have the DVD of one of my favorite ballet performances of all time.
This particular classic from 1977 was a gift from my mom, and even though it was filmed before I was born, the ballet was a deep part of my childhood.
The whole thing triggers a sense of nostalgia as it meets an ache in my bones.
I want to be Clara, finding a nutcracker who happens to come alive as a prince.
While other kids were falling asleep to Disney movies at night, I was falling asleep to the brilliance of Tchaikovsky, imagining how I would one day dance the pieces that had already begun to mean so much to me.
And while The Nutcracker is infamous across the world, this television adaptation of the story has stayed with me throughout my life.
Many people may not realize that there are a few different versions of the beloved ballet.
Some versions call the main character Marie.
Others will call her Clara (which is my preference).
Most uniquely, while the most popular choreography I’ve seen is to have a pas de deux between the Sugar Plum Fairy and the Cavalier, my favorite way is as performed in the 1977 version—the Nutcracker Prince himself dances with Clara.
What was once nothing more than a wooden toy comes to life, breathing, feeling, and enjoying a dream world with Clara before they realize that, at some point, the dream is over.
The dance creates the most gorgeous storyline of a young girl awakening to love and, ultimately, saying goodbye to the one she wanted to hold.
No dream can last forever. But the idea that someone can be woken to life and then be forced to revert to the ways things were before because time ran out is one of the most compelling pieces of dance that has stayed with me throughout life.
I pause the performance and sigh into the fur of my beloved golden retriever. “C’mon, Resin.”
He’s named for the type of substance that keeps my pointe shoes together. Resin has done the same for my life. He’s a steady companion who’s currently curled up on my lap with his head leaning on my chest, and he’s been staring me down ever since I started crying during the grand pas de deux.
Grabbing my empty pint of peppermint stick ice cream, I push off the couch and walk to the sink, the spoon hanging partially from my mouth as my phone lights up with a notification.
Freddie, my brother—also known as my hero—has sent me another reel.
No doubt, it’s a reel that will either make me cry from laughing or just simply cry.
I make a mental note to call him tonight after I haven’t just finished bawling over a ballet that I’ve seen hundreds of times (yes, hundreds).
At least my family tries to keep the loneliness at bay during Christmastime.
They are my rock. Freddie is in the military and is currently at a base on the West Coast. Growing up, we were inseparable, but our five-year age difference meant that by the time I started to get interested in boys and was trying to figure out how to navigate my feelings, he had enlisted.
The reality of an older brother in the military could only go so far with punk teenage boys when I didn’t have him to walk the halls with me at school or his presence at home before a date.
Despite this, the pressure to be perfect weighed on me in Freddie’s shadow, threatening on the edges of our relationship to pull us apart if I compared myself to him. Nevertheless, through letters and video calls or voice memos, we’ve managed to remain as close as two siblings can be.
My parents, John and Mandie, were high school sweethearts.
Now, they’re the epitome of a gorgeous couple who have loved each other through the joys and heartache, exemplifying a life lived well.
They founded the Birch Borough Inn. It’s situated in the middle of town on the other side of a small community park, close enough to join in the festivities each season but private enough to be away from the hustle and bustle.
They both went to Boston University and represent the most New England-type of New Englanders one could know.
My mother makes clam chowder in the summer, and my father owns multiple pieces of sports memorabilia from every Boston and New England team.
During their time in Boston, they also picked up the accent.
You’ll hear them say “pahk” instead of “park” and “cah” instead of “car.” They are the type of people who would have been cast in the 2020 “Smaht Pahk” Super Bowl commercial. And I love them for it.
At least they have each other, I comfort myself. And I have them this Christmas.
Grabbing my dance bag and shoving a protein bar and an electrolyte packet next to my giant water jug, I kiss Resin on the head before putting on my boots.
“We’ll be together soon, my little love bucket,” I say to his brown eyes, noticing pieces of fur disrupted in the middle of his head where I kissed him.
I step outside my apartment. I live in the small unit on the second floor, where my friend, Lily, used to live.
Gliding downstairs, I emerge in the frigid air and walk toward the rushing river.
The swiftly moving water runs through town and seems to give a sense of cadence to the seasons and the events that unfold.
It’s exceptionally cold, and I’m thanking my lucky stars that I decided to wear my lined leggings and an extra pair of socks today.
Since it was just Thanksgiving, they even have turkeys on them, but they’re hidden in my boots.
The vibe is festive. Bright-red ribbons are wrapped around the historical lampposts that line my street, a nod to the holiday season that’s just beginning.
Lorelai Gilmore from the top-tier TV show Gilmore Girls claimed she could smell snow.
I would adamantly say it’s the same for me.
I can sense the gorgeous sharpness in the air right before the perfect flakes appear from heaven and remind me that even things that fall can create something beautiful.
You can’t see the intricacies of an individual snowflake unless you have the proper microscope.
I can’t always appreciate the beauty of my own life until I zoom in.
I think I love Birch Borough most in the winter.
We may have an abundance of town events throughout the year, but the ones that take place around Christmastime are my favorite of all.
I love more than the lights hung all around town, bathing all the shops and the streets in a warm glow.
And it’s more than the special pastries at Sparrow’s Beret.
It’s the way that Lorenzo of Lorenzo’s Pizza dresses as Santa Claus every year and the way that Grey wraps up books for people in town, writing their names on them like the biggest game of Secret Santa you’ve ever played, except they’re all from her.
I love the way the quiet of the fresh snowfall seems to remind my lungs to breathe.
The crackling of wood fires in cozy homes and the scent of smoke that laces the night air are deep comforts that settle into my soul.