Chapter Twenty-Five
Jace
The clock strikes ten.
The world is covered in winter white. Ivy paces the stage, causing my nerves to tingle.
When you grow up in New England, you expect there to be storms. You anticipate things getting canceled due to snow, though most of us are usually prepared to drive in it.
We rarely lose power in this area, and the community has learned to adapt.
But over the course of this afternoon, as I’ve been painting the last details on the sets and Ivy’s been arranging the wings and the makeshift dressing rooms for her students, the inches of snow have fallen higher than predicted.
I had my phone on silent for most of the time, only allowing notifications from my brother and sister in case Emmy had an emergency.
As of five minutes ago, I received a text from Angie, asking if I am going to make it home tonight.
Seeing as her apartment is only a few miles away, the question seemed concerning, so Ivy and I stepped to the windows.
Now, we’re staring through the glass at the snowstorm happening outside the high school, the streetlights in the parking lot illuminating the scene and creating an untouched canvas to clearly see the amount of snow blocking us in.
My Jeep has several inches stacked around the tires.
We could make it out if we leave now, but it’s not going to be pretty.
My phone lights up again with a text from Edgar.
Edgar: Wait to drive. The plows haven’t come through yet.
I sigh, knowing that we could be waiting an hour or more until the plow comes by with the rate that the white flakes are coming down.
“Jace . . .” Ivy says my name with a hint of fear, the word laden with meaning.
“I know, Starlight.” I tilt my chin down, noting the intensity with which her hot-chocolate eyes focus on the blanket of falling flakes. Their speed is impossible to track. If we stepped outside, I think we could disappear in a few steps.
“My kids. The scholarships. We had one more practice, and . . . I’m so tired.
” Her bottom lip quivers, and I want to wrap her in my arms to hide her from the storm.
I’d be her own personal igloo . . . except the warm kind.
The analogy doesn’t work, but I want to be her shelter right now.
I have nothing else to offer her except a distraction.
And we’ll continue to make sure everything is perfect for her last rehearsal tomorrow.
Reaching for her hand, I give her a gentle tug, and her footsteps are barely audible as she glides across the tile floor. She’s a small woman to begin with, but I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to being unable to hear her walk due to her ballet training.
I open the large wooden doors to the auditorium and release her hand to walk through, but Ivy stops and turns toward me. She grabs my hand and pulls me into the room with her, looking around as if she’s forgotten something.
“Did you finish everything in here you needed?” I ask her, surprised by her urgency.
Ivy gives a tentative nod.
“I just want to finish some of the ornaments on the Christmas tree for the party scene. And then we’ll be good to go.”
“Can I help?” she asks.
“For now, I think you should sit and relax. Keep your feet warm. Find us some amazing music, and if it’s from a musical, even better.”
Ivy’s laughter lets me know I’m on the right track as I give her a wink and walk back to the sets.
Picking up a paintbrush, I focus on the task at hand, knowing that, despite her laughter, Ivy’s heart is heavy.
I know my daughter is safe at home, and I know that we’ll be safe, especially in this school, but Ivy has given everything for her kids to succeed during this performance season.
She’s banked on donations coming in and on her studio being given what it needs to thrive for another year.
But that’s who she is—selfless, giving, and, as is becoming abundantly clear, the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with.
Distracted, I drop the paintbrush and kneel to pick it up.
Rather than rising, I stay down, closing my eyes for a moment, suddenly unable to picture anything but Ivy in a white dress, looking at me in the way that only she does.
In the vision, I’m declaring that I’ll take care of her, honor her, and hold her until my last breath.
It’s the image I’ve tried to push down since we met, yet somehow knowing this is what my heart wanted all along.
A chair in the audience seats creaks.
“Jace? Are you okay?” Her worried voice approaches me, the scent of her vanilla perfume and the warmth of her small hand on my back bringing me back to the moment. My mind returns to the present, but my soul knows it’s never left my heart’s confession.
“I’m okay, Starlight. I’m okay.” I stand, and Ivy follows.
“You worried me there, Bear.” When my eyes well with tears, her fingertips press into my forearm. “You’re crying.”
I wipe my eyes with the heel of my hand and sniff.
I take a moment to regard her fully, the wisps of hair I’ve grown so fond of wrapping around her angel face.
I appreciate the strength in her frame and the grace in her limbs.
And then a chime on the back wall of the auditorium rings throughout the space.
“That’s odd,” Ivy muses. “I’ve never heard that chime before.”
Neither have I when I’ve been here setting up for the performance. But I’ve realized that when it comes to Ivy and me, time and space seem to move both for and with us. It’s as if Christmas magic influences each of our interactions.
Holding out my hand, I choose to use this moment—snowed in as we currently are—as a chance for me to get another piece of my life back. “Will you teach me more of how to dance with you? Your style of dance.” I nod toward the stage.
Ivy lifts her chin to study me. I dip my head and motion toward the center of the stage. She follows, pausing when we reach the taped marker on the old wooden floor.
“Do you have your music?” My hand grips hers as she pulls her phone from her pocket.
“I do.” A breathy laugh escapes her. Gracefully, she sits on the stage and slides on her pointe shoes, lacing up the ribbons nimbly. I watch her, realizing it’s a mesmerizing process. “I can’t believe we’re really going to dance again right now.”
I grin, my nervous system catching up with what’s about to happen. This isn’t going to be a waltz or a middle school dance where we sway and awkwardly place our hands at odd angles. I’m about to lift her, hold her, and ask her to jump so I can catch her.
“We’ll go slow,” she says, the music now flowing from her phone as she stretches and begins to warm up her feet.
What Ivy doesn’t know is that I’ve memorized the piece since I’ve seen and heard her dancing to it over the past couple of weeks. I may even have added it to my own playlist, but I’ll pretend to faint before I admit that. Good thing Emmy isn’t here to reveal that fact in her excitement.
She pulls her wrap sweater tighter and then extends her right leg and moves to her toes, her left leg brushing past my arm. I place my hands on her waist gently, careful to hold her steady.
“Guide me up and hold on,” she instructs.
I do as she says, and she peeks up at me, the length of her midsection almost fully resting against me.
She’s significantly taller in her pointe shoes, and it gives me a better angle of her hot-chocolate stare.
I want to get lost in that gaze for a while, but not when I’m responsible for keeping her steady.
“You can grip me tighter. You won’t hurt me.”
I swallow and do as she says, my fingers connecting with her lower ribs. The softness of the leotard and the warmth of her skin underneath feel as if they are creating a current of energy through my hands. My hands are magnets, stuck to her, refusing to let go.
“Now, walk with me,” she guides. “Hold out your left hand.” She uses my hand as leverage, her body moving through what I now know are arabesques and extensions, her gracefully poised hands swaying through the air.
“Okay, next, you’ll gently wrap your hands around my waist. And when I spin, use your left hand to rotate me—I’ll spin faster.”
“Umm . . .” I don’t want to hurt her, but my hands hover near her waist. To my shock, Ivy goes up en pointe and starts to turn.
In the sudden blur, I’m able to find her hip and help guide her forward.
I’ve watched her favorite version of The Nutcracker, so the technique isn’t completely foreign.
But with my assistance, she’s spinning faster than I’ve ever seen her, and it’s giving me a thrill to catch the flashes of a smile on her face.
“I’m coming out of it,” she says between us, and I let her stop.
Our transition isn’t the most graceful, but we’re doing it.
It feels akin to when someone starts training with me at the studio.
There’s a rhythm to it that makes it look effortless.
In the past, Ivy has been accustomed to dancing with men who are trained, and I’m used to choreography being the pattern by which I attack a punching bag.
When we danced at her studio together, we only practiced a basic spin, my arm extended for her to use to balance.
What we’re doing tonight is much more intricate.
“You’re doing good, Jace.” Her words warm my lungs, pushing me to be a little more daring.
“Should we try a lift?” I take a risk and suggest.
Turning to face me, her hands land on her hips, her feet pointing away from me on either side. Glancing down, I think of how much I love the way her feet never seem to want to face forward. With her eyebrows raised, she holds the back of her neck with one hand, regarding me curiously.
“You want to . . . lift me?” A flush creeps up the sides of her neck, and a delighted expression crosses her face as she peeks up at me.