Encore
My hand grazes chipped grey bricks as I stroll down the familiar hall. The air buzzes with muddled murmurs from the crowd that filters into the theater above. Through thick layers of concrete, I can just barely make out the low whine of the orchestra tuning to A.
I’d forgotten that sound.
A sharp thorn catches my skin from the bouquet under my arm.
I move instinctively, pinching off the offending needle and flicking it to the ground.
When I finally come to a stop at the last door in the hall, I have to physically wrangle in the muscle memory of cranking the knob and thoughtlessly pushing my way in.
Three sharp knocks echo through the air.
Silence.
A grin pulls at my face. I wrap my fingers around the cool bite of metal and turn.
At least I tried to do the polite thing.
“I know, I’m late,” a sweet voice bursts out through the crack, tinged with exasperation. “Just hold the curtain call and give me a sec—”
The words cut off as I step into the dressing room, and I take the liberty of shutting the door behind me. The woman sitting at the light-up mirror is a vision in white tulle and sparkles. Her hands freeze mid-hairpin as those doe eyes stare back.
“Octavia?”
I smile, stepping forward to set down the flowers.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry! I thought—”
“It’s fine, Bambi.” The light pink bodice of her costume is stunning against her dark skin. She practically glows in the low light of the dressing room, even though her eyes are wide with panic. “How late are we running?”
She sighs, gazing up in defeat. “I’ve been trying to get the twist to stay for an hour. The costume department threw a new hairpiece into the mix at the last moment, and I haven’t even finished my makeup, and…”
I step forward, patting the stool sitting in front of the bright mirror. “Here, let me.”
My deft fingers pull pins free with precision. It’s as if no time has passed at all. I palm the nearby can of spray and reset the base, securing her bouncy brown curls into a neat slick-back.
Bambi chews her nails and asks me questions about where I’ve been.
I tell her I got married and moved to Chicago. I tell her about my big family, my troublesome husband, and a little girl named Anya, whom I adopted a few weeks earlier.
She informs me that marriage and motherhood at twenty-two is crazy.
I laugh so hard, my eyeliner streaks down my face.
She asks me if I still dance, and I’m not expecting the genuine relief that floods through my veins as I respond with a simple no. She doesn’t push the subject. Perhaps because she’s all too aware that motherhood often marks the end of a career in our world, not the start of one.
She also doesn’t mention the new scar raised across my cheek.
“You look happy,” she whispers, glancing through the mirror as I slip a final pin into her hair. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you happy before. It’s nice.”
I roam over her perfect, shiny French twist as I squeeze her words into my battered heart.
A quiet confidence radiates from the prima, so different from the fearful girl I remember standing behind me at the barre.
“That shiny new armor looks good on you, Bambi.” My hand slips off the smooth skin of her shoulder, but I don’t lift my gaze from the mirror, entrapped by the fire blazing in those warm brown eyes. “Let me know if anyone tries to scratch it, okay?”
I turn when liquid pools in my line of sight, but I’m still wearing a genuine smile as I slip out of the room.
My heels click along the old meandering pathway back to the main theater, and I take care not to draw attention as I crack open the unassuming side door and step back into the bright lobby.
“There you are.”
I spin.
My husband parts the crowd like the Red Sea, using all of his addictive muscles and gorgeous tattoos to make way for the little girl leading him forward. And damn, does he look good in a tux.
I bend low just in time to catch the creature that bolts into my arms. Anya squirms until I lift her tiny body and settle her against my hip.
“Where did you go?” I ask, kissing her adorable little cheek and leaving a faded print from my lipstick.
“It seems like the show’s running a bit late, so we went to get you a drink.” Vas holds up a paper-cup cocktail that probably ran for forty dollars apiece.
Massive arms wrap around Anya and me, one hand reaching to smudge the lip print decorating her cheek.
“No, leave it!” she announces, lunging from his touch with a giggle.
Vasiliy sighs in exasperation, wrenching yet another laugh from my throat.
“Fine. Do I at least get one too?” He smirks up with a boyish expression.
I roll my eyes and press a kiss up to his cheek. His pale skin comes back stained with a red, heart-shaped mark.
“We should get to our seats,” I say. “The lead ballerina just needed a little extra time to finish her hair.”
Vas lifts Anya out of my arms and grabs my hand, leading me forward with a strange expression on his face. “And how would you know that, my love?”
I lean over to Anya, covering my lips in a playful whisper that makes her eyes widen with excitement. “I have my ways.”