Chapter Thirty-Five
Walking into the theater Monday morning was as tense as trying to get out of a grocery store with a stolen watermelon hidden under a T-shirt. I felt like I was getting away with something, waiting to be caught. Waiting for someone to say, What the fuck are you doing here?
But no one said anything. And then no one else said anything. Just like the week before. And then the day kept moving forward and before I knew it, I was in hair and makeup. The poker face this company holds is unbelievable.
I’m grateful that Arabella isn’t here so far. I wouldn’t put it past her to show up, since she’s made it her life’s work to torture me.
We’re about an hour from showtime when I decide to bite the bullet and send a text I’ve been meaning to send for a while now.
Hey…long time no talk. Sorry about things at the gallery. I think we need to talk. If you’re willing to? I have a show tonight actually in an hour, but I’ll be free around eleven? Any chance you’d meet me for a drink?
The idea of a drink still makes me feel a little woozy, but once I spend three hours under the stage lights, I know I’ll be able to rally for a glass of something. If he’s willing to meet me.
For the next forty-five minutes while I do my warm-up, I check my phone every five minutes—and that’s me having self-control. He doesn’t answer me, and a big part of me fears that he’s just not going to. That him being blocked didn’t matter, because he was never going to reach out anyway.
They’ve just announced the fifteen-minute warning until curtain up and my dresser has knocked on my door asking if I’m ready for costume.
I tell her I need a few more minutes, then I take a deep breath. I’m alone. When you dance a principal role as a soloist or corps member, you get moved to a principal dressing room for the show. I reach into my bag and pull out the photos I grabbed from my spot in the shared dressing room.
I smile at the one of Sylvie and me, then the one of Mimi and me.
Then I pull out Jordan’s picture. The two of us kissing, full rom-com style.
And then I pull out the picture of my mom and me.
It’s after my first show with NAB. She looks so proud. I’m smiling, but she is glowing. I look at it now and feel ashamed of my behavior. She was just doing the best she knew how. I grab a piece of tape and I put it up on the mirror. It’s the only one I’m putting up tonight. This show is for her.
—
The show is a dream. It doesn’t top the studio run-through on Saturday, but it’s up there. I receive a standing ovation and numerous bouquets of flowers. When I bring the conductor onstage for his bow, I finally have a chance to glance at all the flowers I’m holding. I can see on one tag a simple For you—Jordan.
I smile and take a few more bows and curtain calls before finally the audience have exhausted themselves. And the curtain closes for the night.
I feel exhilarated. My skin is damp with sweat, my muscles are on fire. I started the day at such a deficit, but somehow I managed to push through to where I am now.
My heart almost stops when I see Sarika and Charlie walking out from the wings. Fuck. Is it going to happen now? Is my reprieve over?
Sarika comes up to me and shakes her head, smiling, saying, “You were brilliant. Absolutely mesmerizing.”
Charlie smiles, too. “Well done.”
I laugh, relieved, and say, “Thank you so much. Thank you.”
I wait for them to add that, of course, I am fired. But they say nothing.
A bit confused, I excuse myself and move past them, rushing to the dressing room. I wait impatiently as my dresser undresses me, then I reach into my bag and pull out my phone.
There’s the text I was hoping for from Jordan as soon as I saw the flowers. I had checked after act one and act two and there wasn’t anything. Fucking finally. I smile.
You were amazing. Hope it’s okay I got a ticket at the last minute and was able to watch the show…I’ll be in front of the theater when you’re through.
I start laughing as I read the text. He came. He fucking came.
Tears start to come, and I wipe them away.
I hurry to get ready, cleaning off my makeup and throwing on a pair of jeans, a tank top, and a big, thick turtleneck sweater.
I put my hand on my excited heart and then run through the hallways. I avoid the backstage exit and take a shortcut to the front through the door to the lobby and see him.
I don’t even think about it, I don’t even hesitate before pushing open the doors and running up to him and just throwing my arms around him.
I know it’s the wrong thing to do. I know he doesn’t know everything that’s been going on. But I can’t help it.
Thank god, he doesn’t shrug out of my embrace or pat me awkwardly. He hugs me back. A little stiffly at first, then I feel his body relax against mine.
I breathe him in, the scent of him, the warmth of him. I miss him so much. I can’t believe how much I’ve missed him.
It’s so clear to me in that moment that I have never, not for one second, stopped loving him.
Finally, we break away from each other.
“Do you know where you want to go?” he asks.
“Let’s go to Bluebell.”
Bluebell is a quaint little pub right around the corner from our—his—apartment.
We go outside, the balmy spring air damp against my cheeks, and we catch a passing cab.
We don’t talk much on the way, just amicable silence and observations about the things we pass. It’s like we’re saving the real talk for when we’re sitting down, looking at each other. With a confidence-giving drink in front of us each.
The pub is busy and cozy, but we find a table near the fireplace in the back corner.
“I’ll have a stout,” he says, when the server comes over.
“Same,” I say. As much as I love champagne, I kind of feel like I could go the rest of my life without expensive wine ever again after the last few months.
“So how have—” he begins, but I cut him off.
“This psycho ballerina Arabella blocked your phone number. Actually, you met her. That night after New Year’s at the burlesque place. But the point is, she blocked you and I didn’t know. Did you—have you tried to text me? Or call me? At all?”
He looks confused for a moment, and then nods slowly. “Ah.”
“What?”
He pulls his phone out, pulls up our text screen, and puts it on the table in front of me.
Text after text after text after text.
The most recent ones say things like:
I get that you’ve probably blocked me, but I feel like if I keep texting, one day you’ll answer.
Last month:
I hope you’re doing okay. I know we’re not talking, but I wish I could get ahold of you.
And back in January:
Please come home. I love you. We’ll get through this.
I look up at him. “You texted me.”
He laughs. “Yeah, you could say that.”
The server puts our beers down in front of us and we both thank him.
“Cheers,” says Jordan.
“Cheers.”
We both sip, and then we start talking.
I tell him everything. What happened the night I left. Everything about my mom’s estate. Mimi’s bills. I even tell him how I fell in with Alistair.
Laying it all out the way I do, like a story, it feels like it happened to someone else. Someone I have compassion for. Someone who was really lost.
Someone who tried to blow up her life.
Alistair. He feels like a person from my life a million years ago. I can’t figure out why, at first, but the more I talk, the more clear it becomes.
I just needed protection. Security. Safety.
That night at the Seven, he had said all the right words. He’d said, Maybe your problem isn’t that you’re going to turn into your mom, maybe the problem is you can’t accept peace when it’s on offer. Maybe your life is actually falling into place, not falling apart.
Then he’d said I should let go. And then he’d said, Maybe I’m not going to betray you in the end. Maybe you’re actually hanging around with a good guy who’s really just trying to look out for you .
His words had had the ring of truth, but something had felt wrong. They’d felt almost right, but not quite.
Jordan was the good guy. Jordan was the one I didn’t need to push away. He was the one trying to look out for me. That relationship, its peace, was something I couldn’t accept. I was so used to turbulence that I couldn’t let things be still.
My attraction to Alistair was real, but it was based in nothing but sex. I never thought about the future. I never fantasized about growing old together. You could argue that I didn’t because it was just too early, but I thought about that the first night with Jordan. Not all of it, and not to a psycho amount, but I thought about it. The future was always a part of our present.
When I finish telling Jordan everything, all the way up to yesterday, he’s silent for a long moment.
When he speaks, he’s gentle.
“I love you, Jocelyn. I am so sorry I wasn’t there for you. If I had known you wanted to hear from me, I would have done anything I could. But I didn’t know where you were. I knew I couldn’t show up at your job. When I saw you at the gallery that night, I could barely keep it together. I wanted to reach my arms out and just never let you go.”
My heart feels carved out at his words. “I love you, I love you so fucking much, I’m so sorry I ever—”
“No, no apologies. It’s okay. It’s okay.”
I start to cry and he pulls me in toward him, allowing me to hide my face in his chest.
“Shh, shh, shh, no worrying now. It’s okay.” He gives a soft chuckle. “I always thought we had such good communication, but we just keep ending up on different planets. First after Vienna, now this.”
I laugh a little, too, pulling back and wiping the tears away. “I know. I’m so sorry.”
He nods. “It’s okay, Jo.”
We both take a sip of our second round of beers and then he asks, “So what now?”
“Well, now I’m probably going to get fired. And then…I don’t know. I really don’t. I missed ballet. I was right to go back to ballet. But something about this just felt wrong the whole time.”
“Maybe it’s just not the right company for you,” he says.
There’s a simplicity in his words that almost shocks me. I hadn’t really considered that this was an option.
“I…well, I don’t know.”
“You’re a good dancer, Jocelyn. A great ballerina. You’re not trying to prove yourself. The world knows you’re a great dancer. You don’t have to accept anything that doesn’t feel right. Maybe in the beginning, but not anymore. You don’t have to wait to be fired by this company. You just lost your mom, Jo. Whatever happened here, it happened, and it’s okay.”
“You think I should quit?”
“I didn’t say that. I would never tell you what to do with your career. I’m just reminding you that you don’t need to beg for anything. You don’t need to fight for a place.”
Now that he’s saying it, I realize that I didn’t feel completely relieved when I stepped offstage and saw Sarika and Charlie and they didn’t fire me. I had dreaded getting fired before going onstage, but after, it felt different. I had expected them to take me into the office and tell me I was through. And there was a part of me, I realize now, that had wanted that.
The idea of trudging through the next weeks, months, or even years in that environment made me feel completely miserable. Arabella and her harem of lovers eyeballing me. The Cavendishes and Mary Simon involved in my life. Even if I didn’t get fired, I would just be given to some other donor, and as Arabella told me all those months ago, it’s just different here. The donor-dancer relationship is different. It demands more. It demands something besides dance.
I think about a text I received from my old ballet mistress back in February. She told me to reach out if I ever needed anything.
Maybe I could do that. Maybe I could go back.
“Jordan,” I say. “Do you want…to be my boyfriend again?” I ask.
I’m so nervous I feel like I might slip out of my seat and onto the ground, but I have to ask. “If you need more time, I get it, I just—”
But I stop speaking when he shakes his head.
“No? No? What do you mean, I’m sorry, Jordan, please…”
I feel suddenly desperate. Angry at Arabella for everything. Frustrated that I got so distracted by Alistair. Missing the warmth of the Waverly Inn and the chaos of Washington Square Park.
“I’ll do you one better. Marry me, Jocelyn.”
I miss a step as I try to replay his words, making sure I heard them correctly. “Did you—”
“Marry me. Let’s not lose each other again. I love you.”
I look at his beautiful face, his earnest eyes, and I want to kiss him. But first, I have to say, “Yes. Hell yes.”