Chapter Twenty-Three
Jace
The clock strike eight.
“Do you mind if I just . . . sit here for a moment?” I hover the majority of my weight just above the bench placed against the wall in Ivy’s dance studio. It’s sitting close to the dance floor but just off to the side.
“As long as you don’t mind the sound of my shoes on the floor while I practice.” She lifts her shoulder a bit, but I see her uncertainty. I feel it across the room. She isn’t sure if she wants me to watch her dance.
Ever since the dinner at her parents’ inn, the look in Ivy’s eyes has been hesitant.
I wish that wasn’t the truth of it, but here we are.
And I created this because I panicked. After Mina passed and Jenna left, I haven’t seemed to be able to make long-term plans.
I thought I was finally making progress by choosing to move to Florida months ago, but those plans are now precariously in danger of being destroyed.
And it scares me. I’m scared to give my heart to another woman.
I’m not sure it could handle Ivy finding me to be less than what she’s hoped for all these years.
“I don’t mind.” I want to say so much more, but I force myself to settle for the simple words. Because I want to tell her that her presence feels like a balm upon the pain that sticks to my joints and settles in my bones, though I know the source of it is really all coming from my heart.
Music begins to play from the antiquated speaker in the corner.
The lights are off in the studio, apart from the twinkle lights she has strung all throughout the space.
Multiple strands are lighting the ceiling and walls.
There’s a stack of records and compact discs stacked together in the corner under a record player.
Immediately, I want to build her a new one, etching my signature into the piece so a part of me could live here too.
Ivy presses something on the remote in her hands and slides it across the floor until it’s under a barre.
Taking a long drink from her steel water bottle, I notice the stiffness in her shoulders and the way her lungs expand and contract rapidly through the thin material of her leotard.
It’s long-sleeved and white, the color a contrast to the dark-colored practice tutu she’s wearing.
I’d expect her to be wearing her red lipstick, as usual, but tonight, only a gloss paints her mouth, her natural beauty radiating even though I see the tension in her limbs.
Gracefully, she moves her feet while facing the barre, the rhythmic and steady quality of her movements in harmony with her rich hair that looks as if it’s spun with dark gold.
The waves are loosely pulled back with a bow resting near the crown of her head.
I want to reach for her, but I don’t want to hurt her.
I never want you to touch me again.
The words that seem permanently stuck to my soul after Jenna said them cause me to groan inadvertently. “Can I confess something?” I ask, hesitating.
Ivy nods while she continues to dance.
“I’m sorry about last night. I feel like I didn’t make it clear that I still wanted to hold you after the holidays.”
“That’s the thing, though, Jace.” She stops and bites her lip before releasing it. “I don’t think I’m capable of being held. Not truly.”
My eyes widen. My brows furrow. “You can’t mean that,” I grit out.
“Oh, I’ve been touched all over,” she says lightly, like the information is nothing.
I hear a slight growl escape my throat as I rise from the bench, the room nearly blurring in my peripheral vision.
Ivy jumps back as one of her eyebrows lifts. “Oh. Oh.” Her words come out in a rush. “No, it sounds far worse than I meant it.”
My shoulders lower, no longer hovering near my ears, ready to take names, and .
. . I don’t know what exactly. The idea of other men touching Ivy makes my head spin.
I never put together the mental picture of the number of dance partners she’s probably had.
It hurts that I’m not able to fulfill that role for her.
I sit down again and grip the bench, aware that my feelings are shimmering too close to my skin, ready to be unleashed.
“Sorry, no. I mean, yes,” Ivy continues.
“I have been touched quite a bit. I’ve been held.
You don’t become a ballerina and dance with men not to have them lift you and spin you and carry you time and time again.
It’s not romantic in any sense of the word, I can assure you.
It’s messy and sometimes uncomfortable, even when the guys don’t mean it to be.
And there are lifts where their hands are just .
. .” She motions in the general vicinity of her lower body, and I shut my eyes.
Crack. I look down to see a piece of the bench in my hands.
I broke it. Embarrassment creeps through my spine as I close my eyes and rush through my thoughts, trying to pick one—any one—that will help make this situation any better.
I’ve never broken anything from emotion.
I’m not a violent man, except to my heavy bag at the gym.
Though, at times, I just don’t know my strength. I’d never want Ivy to be afraid of me.
“Oh, my goodness, are you okay?” The pitter-patter of her shoes on the floor grows louder as she approaches. It’s the only thing I can focus on until I open my eyes to find her kneeling before me, her knees barely grazing the ground.
“I’m not dangerous,” I mutter.
“I know that.”
“I . . . I’m sorry. I’ll fix it.”
“I know you will.”
My eyes shift to hers. “How do you know that?” My breathing is heavy now, but the possibility that she’s still seeing me in a clearer light than I realized does strange things to my system. Somehow, she knows I’m not talking about fixing the bench.
“Because you’re someone worth trusting. You bristle at affection from others sometimes, and yet, you’re anxious to give it. You protect the ones that you love, especially Emmy. You love her so fiercely. It’s incredible.”
I’m silent as emotion begins to creep up my frame.
“Thank you for saying that,” I reply softly, letting my words ring clearly.
Ivy looks at me as a blush starts to form on her cheeks, like it’s being magically painted in the air between us. Her eyes dart down to the piece of bench still in my hands, and she releases a laugh from somewhere deep in her soul. “You really broke it.”
“Yep.” There’s no point in denying it or adding sparkle to my words.
“And now it’s clear that you really don’t like the idea of me being touched.” Her eyebrow lifts in a teasing dare until she catches my expression.
I will myself to remain neutral, but what I’m really thinking is not unless it’s by me.
Somehow, she catches the duality between my expression and the intensity of what I’m not saying, and she clears her throat. “C’mon, Bear,” she adds with a playful lilt to her voice.
“You’re still calling me that?”
“Mmm,” she hums. “It’s a bit obvious, but it seems to fit you well.” I refrain from permitting the growl wanting to escape my throat when she peeks over her shoulder. “Besides, I like bears.” And with that, she winks. She actually winks.
And I know that the only hibernating I’m doing this winter is continuing to fight to keep my heart in one piece.
“So, you were saying?” I ask, desperate to get back on track.
I motion with my arm for her to keep practicing.
It’s no good if I distract her from what she needs to be doing.
I wanted to find some peace while she practiced, not keep her from doing what she loves.
“Oh, right.” She catches my eye over her shoulder before placing a foot on the highest level of the bar and leaning forward.
Her arms flow about her as she stretches, folding over her leg in a way that looks like a flower closing up in the rain.
She takes a deep breath. I assume she’s not going to answer me until she’s stacked her spine back to standing, her leg still stretched in front of her, and her fingers stretched over her head, arching toward the ground.
I’m mesmerized by the sight of her graceful rhythm until her rocky voice crackles through the air.
“I can’t be held because I just slip through.” Ivy shrugs and switches legs, and I notice the way one of her leg warmers seems to slide down with the movement, revealing a bit more of her calf wrapped in those pink tights. She stares at the wall ahead of her.
Those pink tights are starting to invade my thoughts more and more.
I tell myself it’s the color of them, not quite pink, not quite white.
Through the haze of my fascination with her, I realize she’s telling me how she feels.
And it hits me that this is how I feel too.
I’m slipping through the cracks of my own life.
The truth is that it wasn’t until Ivy entered my life again that I started to understand what it might feel like to be present once more.
“What do you mean?” I ask her, wanting to be certain that my stony heart isn’t making up stories.
“It’s like I’m made of smooth stone,” she begins, still staring at the wall and moving up and down on the balls of her feet.
I think I’ve heard Emmy call the movement a relevé.
“I’m the marble statue that men seem to want to look at or touch, but then they let it slide through their fingertips until the next, better piece comes along. And I’ve hated it.”
If I were a different man, if I had made other choices that hadn’t led me to a point in my life where my daughter was the only force over the past five years keeping me from staying in bed all day, I might try to prove her wrong.
Because if she wants to be held as she deserves to be held, I’m afraid my grip is loose.
Just the image of wrapping her up makes me wish that my hands could work again.
Just for her, I’d pray for them to work again.