Chapter Five #2
There are other moments that have seemed to meld themselves effortlessly into the fabric of my heart.
Moments that would never advertise their need for my attention but, somehow, have stitched their way into my memories.
Quiet drives on the way home when the bristling leaves on the tree branches overhead arch over my car as I pass by.
The feeling of a cool, cloudy day. The eerie stillness of a snowy winter morning.
The low hum of the record machine in my studio before it begins to play the classical music I warm up to.
In just moments now, I’ll have a whole class of students in the studio, eager for me to help them get one step closer to their dreams. I love my little ballet students and the way they willingly get their energy out and give it their all while practicing every movement.
Even the shyest children seem to find the way they are meant to move and own it by the time they’re done with my class.
I’m proud of the way I’ve carried on Ms. Phoebe’s legacy.
She was the woman who taught me how to plié, and now I own her dance studio.
Even though I’ve traveled around the world and have company experience, nothing prepared me to follow my dreams of dance like this studio tucked away in my small New England hometown.
It was Ms. Phoebe’s trust, extended toward me through the years, that was enough to carry me through and lead me back all these years later.
I shift at the barre, the chatter of little voices in the lobby falling on my ears as I lift my other leg to stretch and warm my tight muscles.
My part-time receptionist, Harlow, steps into the studio.
I turn my attention to her, and a smile breaks out on my face as a little girl with nearly jet-black hair looks up at me from beside her.
I take a second look at the girl and feel myself startle.
There’s something so achingly familiar about her face that I feel a tug in my chest. I lower my leg and turn to face them fully.
“You have a new student! This is Emmy,” Harlow introduces her with a grin.
I step toward Emmy and bend to her level. “Hi, Emmy. My name is Miss Ivy. I’m so happy to meet you.”
A shy smile breaks across her face, and I clock the dimple peeking out on one side. My hands start to shake. Nervous energy flows through my system, the feeling that my life is somehow changing settling into my very bones.
“Have you ever danced before?” I manage to get out, emotion creeping into my tone. I’ve never had a reaction like this to a new student, but I’m trying to move through this conversation and make Emmy comfortable, despite my own discomfort.
Everything that I have, I give to this studio. I try to pass my passion on to my students, believing that dance connects us all, which is why I’m delighted when she shakes her head slowly and then looks down at her slightly too-big ballet slippers and her bunched tights.
“At home,” she says. “But Daddy says I need to dance again.”
“Oh, so you stopped dancing?” I ask, sensing there’s more to this story.
Nodding, Emmy looks shyly at the barre and the mirrors, glancing back to a few of my other students who are already starting to stretch and get out their nervous energy in the lobby.
“Emmy is five years old, Miss Ivy,” Harlow says for my benefit. “And this is her first official dance class. But rumor has it that she dreams of being a dancer. Isn’t that right, Emmy?”
“I want to dance,” Emmy says with bright eyes, and I note an amber color in them that arrests my movements.
Involuntarily, my mouth opens and closes, my hand moving toward my chest to remind me to breathe.
The color is too familiar. And while the truth echoes in my ribs of the person she reminds me of, I’m wrestling with the struggle to admit it.
“Your daddy . . .?” I choke out.
“Do you know my daddy?” Emmy asks, staring up at me with her brows furrowed.
It’s not possible.
Gladys mentioned that Jace might have a daughter. But of all the moments that led us here tonight, this is the moment my heart might truly break. I didn’t expect to be faced with the reality of who Jace has become so soon. And now, here I have before me his daughter.
“Daddy tries to dance with me, but he says that now that I’m five”—she holds up her tiny hand to demonstrate the number—“I can learn the steps and maybe dance on a big stage like you.”
The thought of her dancing with her dad is so adorable that I have to shake my head.
Before I can reply, the studio door opens.
Another line of my students pours through, their squeals of excitement radiating off the walls.
Emmy laughs, too, delight marking her face.
Reluctantly, I push aside all thoughts of a man with piercing eyes and a strong jaw, realizing it’s time to focus on this afternoon’s class.
“To the barre, my little dancers!” I sing into the space, forcing some energy into my tone.
With a glance at Harlow, I extend my hand gingerly.
Emmy takes it without hesitation. The feeling of her little hand in mine, so trusting and sweet, makes me clear my throat once again.
Trying to release some of the tension, I stretch my neck from side to side and walk us toward the barre.
I catch the moment Emmy looks back with a huge smile and gives a wave.
“Dance with you soon, Daddy!” she yells, confidence now flowing through her small stance in anticipation of the lesson to come.
I can’t help but swing my head toward her source of happiness, and my distraction causes me to stumble toward the barre.
I grasp it tightly with my free hand, still craning my neck toward the lobby.
His presence overwhelms me before I see him.
The man I never thought I’d see again is standing just a few feet away from the studio doorway.
The other parents are busy scrolling on their phones around him, completely oblivious to his tall, broad shoulders, his messy black hair that curls around the ends in different directions, and those whiskey-colored eyes that once marked me for life.
But it only takes five seconds before I clock all the changes in the man who once captured my attention so strongly. The man in the lobby of my dance studio is familiar and unfamiliar in so many ways.
Immediately, I notice his aloofness. Even from afar, his eyes are stormy.
His jaw could cut glass. His posture is tense.
There’s nothing playful or easy about him.
The only break in his somber countenance is when his eyes move to Emmy’s as she waves at him.
They soften just slightly before lifting to mine once more.
I can’t control it. My stomach leaps, and then it sinks.
The truth settles as I turn toward my class, forcing myself to smile for them.
The man that she calls her dad is the hollow version of the man I spent the most magical evening with, the man who didn’t show up for me when I wanted him to the most, and the man who never got another chance.
My heart races before it breathes out one single word: Jace.