Chapter 33Ingrid. Mid December, Present
INGRID. MID DECEMBER, PRESENT
"You and I have always known each other, from the very beginning. Never strangers, not for a single second."
"Two chocolate croissants," Ingrid announced in her most exaggerated French accent, drawing out the kwah-sahn like she was narrating a perfume commercial. She did it specifically to annoy Sylvia, knowing full well it would get under her skin.
Sylvia groaned instantly. "Seriously? Kwah-sahn?" She mimicked the accent with even more drama, rolling her eyes so hard they nearly did a full rotation. "The girl spends a year in France and suddenly thinks she’s Coco Chanel."
Ingrid pressed her lips together, fighting a smirk. "There are perks to being a college dropout. Like mastering the pronunciation of croissant."
Sylvia didn’t even hesitate. She immediately started humming Beauty School Dropout from Grease.
Quitting Juilliard to join the Paris Opera Ballet was a risky move, but one Ingrid never regretted. It not only polished her French but also paved the way to her real dream: dancing with the New York City Ballet. Now, four years later, she was living that dream.
Ingrid snorted. "Okay, bold of you to judge, considering you went to Tennessee for a week and came back with a full-blown Southern accent that lasted a month."
"What can I say? Southern charm just rubbed off on me. I must've been a Southern belle in a past life."
"Right. Well, you did end up marrying one," she quipped, referring to Jessica, Sylvia’s partner of seven years, who she’d married last summer in the middle of a heat wave so intense the cake nearly staged a slow, sugary collapse.
Ingrid had stood beside her as a bridesmaid, slowly baking in chiffon like a very supportive rotisserie chicken.
Sylvia scoffed. "Jessica’s from Kansas. She doesn’t even have an accent."
"Yeah, and thank God for that," Ingrid teased. "Otherwise, you’d be running around saying y’all unironically."
The cashier slid the croissants across the counter, and Ingrid grabbed them as they made their way to a table by the window.
Outside, people bustled down the street in a blur of scarves, hats, and the kind of frantic energy only New Yorkers had when snow was in the forecast.
"So," Ingrid said, tearing off a piece of her croissant, "how’s West Side Story? Still snapping dramatically in alleys? Turf wars, but make it jazz?"
"An absolute blast. I mean, nothing says high-stakes drama like pirouettes and switchblades. But I’m always auditioning for something new and fresh. Gotta keep the jazz hands sharp."
Ingrid grinned. Sylvia had basically cartwheeled off the Juilliard stage and straight into a Broadway spotlight, dancing in the cast ever since. Musical theater wasn’t just her job. It was her natural ecosystem: sparkly, loud, and ideally underscored by a 40-piece orchestra.
"You and Broadway," Ingrid said, shaking her head fondly.
"I thrive on sequins and melodrama," Sylvia declared. Then, with a pointed look, she added, "Unlike some people, whose audiences are just wealthy insomniacs in pearls looking for an excuse to power nap in public."
Ingrid gasped in mock horror. "You dare insult ballet in the sacred safe space of Joe’s?"
Joe Coffee had been their go-to haunt since college, first for Sylvia, because it was close to her old apartment, and now for Ingrid, ever since she’d moved to the Upper West Side after leaving France.
Sylvia rolled her eyes. "You say artistic expression, I say two-hour mime crisis. With pointe shoes."
"Hater," Ingrid accused, pointing at her with her own croissant.
"Truther," Sylvia shot back, pointing to herself.
"So, Swan Lake 2.0. How are we feeling?" Sylvia asked, her tone casual but Ingrid caught the underlying tone.
Two weeks until opening night, and she had been practically living in the studio, fine-tuning every step, every leap, every microscopic detail.
The daunting 32 fouetté turn sequence? At this point, she could probably do it in her sleep.
She trusted her dance partners, their onstage chemistry undeniable.
And yet, despite all that, a flicker of doubt still lingered.
The fear that history might repeat itself, that it could all go wrong again.
"The pressure’s on this time," Ingrid admitted, shaking her head. "Two weeks left, and I am running on pure caffeine and muscle memory."
"Ah, yes," Sylvia nodded sagely. "The pre-show spiral. How long until you start hallucinating swans in your apartment?"
"...Give it a week," Ingrid sighed.
"Alright, smartass, I already know you’re an amazing dancer. But how do you feel?" Her voice softened, the teasing giving way to something more sincere.
Ingrid exhaled slowly. She knew what Sylvia was really asking. Was she ready? Ready to step back into this role, into the spotlight, into the moment that had nearly broken her?
For years, she’d replayed that night on an endless loop, agonizing over what she could’ve done differently.
It was her greatest talent, really. Taking full responsibility for things that weren’t entirely her fault.
And back then? That pressure had crushed her, filling her days with guilt and nights with restless self-recrimination.
But she wasn’t that dancer anymore. That person anymore.
"Aimee’s producing the show, and she wants me to do the lift again at the end," Ingrid admitted, absentmindedly tracing the edge of the table with her fingertip.
Sylvia’s expression shifted instantly. "Do you trust your partner?"
Ingrid nodded. "I do. Hugo is great, and I trust him completely. But that doesn’t erase the fear."
Sylvia reached across the table and squeezed Ingrid’s hand. "This is your chance at redemption," she said firmly. "It’s like you’re rewriting history–again, but better."
Ingrid blinked. Sylvia quoting Aimee? That was unexpected.
Again, but better.
The phrase echoed in her head, a familiar mantra.
Aimee had said it often at Juilliard. It was vague enough to be flexible, sharp enough to push her forward.
Now Aimee was producing the same show, and it seemed she was determined to make her confront everything she’d buried.
There was a strange kind of symmetry in that.
"Again, but better," Ingrid echoed, a wry smile creeping onto her lips.
But Sylvia was no longer paying attention. Her eyes had locked onto something or someone behind Ingrid, her expression shifting from concern to mild horror.
"…Are you seeing the future?" Ingrid asked, immediately suspicious.
"No. The past," Sylvia muttered, before abruptly straightening. "Okay, don’t freak out."
"That is literally the worst way to start a sentence."
"Just stay cool. And whatever you do, do not turn around."
"Okay, well, now I have to turn around," Ingrid deadpanned, already twisting in her seat.
Sylvia groaned, dropping her head into her hands. "Oh my God, you always do this–"
But Ingrid wasn’t listening anymore. She was too busy scanning the café, her eyes skimming past the line of people waiting for their orders until they landed on him.
Standing at the counter, broad shoulders, tattooed hands, familiar silhouette. One hand was fishing out his wallet, the other cradling a bag of groceries. Because, of course, the universe decided to plop Beck here, at the café a block from their apartment building.
Her hands went clammy. Her heart, the traitorous little thing, went rogue in her chest. She hadn’t seen him since their night out a week ago. And she still didn’t know where they stood.
"Oh. Just Beck," Ingrid said, as nonchalantly as humanly possible, even as her stomach executed a flawless series of pirouettes.
Sylvia slowly turned her head to her. "Just Beck?"
"Yeah?"
"Just the guy you’ve been in love with since the dawn of time? Standing right there in front of us? Oh, no big deal. Totally casual. Super chill," Sylvia said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Oh, I have so much to fill you in on," Ingrid muttered, forcing a tight smile as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
Sylvia narrowed her eyes. "Oh, you think?"
Lowering her voice, Ingrid launched into a rapid-fire explanation. How Eden had oh-so-conveniently let Beck move in next door. How yes, they now shared a wall. Sylvia leaned in, eyes glittering with intrigue.
Ingrid hesitated. Then, in a whisper, she confessed, "And then there was Thanksgiving."
Sylvia’s eyebrows shot up. "Oh, this should be good."
"I found out he still wears the necklace I gave him."
Sylvia slapped a hand over her heart. "WHAT?"
"And then he..he told me he wanted to start over. That I’d always been right for him." She swallowed hard, her cheeks heating as she added, "He even recreated our dates."
Sylvia audibly gasped. A woman at the next table shot them a weird look. Ingrid ignored her.
"He still wears the necklace?" Sylvia whisper-shouted. "And the dates? Holy shit."
"Shhh! Keep it down," Ingrid hissed, though she couldn’t stop the tiny smile tugging at the corner of her
“Ingrid, come on, he still loves you. This is Beck we’re talking about!"
Her heart faltered at the words, a stutter in her chest, her palms damp with nerves.
She wanted to believe it. Wanted to let herself believe it.
But was it real or was she just clinging to some hopeless, romanticized version of him?
Of them? The sting of his silence back then, how he hadn’t even fought for her, still sat heavy in her chest.
She knew she could find love again without him. If she tried, if she let herself be open to it, it would come. Maybe slower, maybe gentler. The kind of love that built itself brick by brick, that didn’t burn so hot it scorched everything in its path. Maybe she would even be happy.
But deep down, in the quiet places she rarely touched, in the marrow of her bones, she knew it would never be like Beck.