Chapter Thirty-One Cord
Thirty-One
Cord
It takes me a couple of days, but I finally make that therapy appointment.
And then I make another one, and another.
It’s been six weeks since Allegra walked out of my apartment, and I’ve seen my therapist more than I’ve seen my dancers.
There’s no such thing as an overnight success, not in dance or in therapy, but it does seem to be helping, at least a little.
On the opening night of her ballet, I spend the day at the theater, needing to keep myself occupied.
Noah and Ivy premiered their routine the week before, and while there was still something missing, the crowd ate it up and our publicity team seems to be at least temporarily satisfied, so I take it as a win.
For a second, at the end of the night when I’m leaving, I think about jumping in a cab and making my way uptown.
I think about showing up outside the stage door and begging for a second chance.
But I dismiss the idea almost as soon as it comes.
I made our whole relationship, including its demise, about me.
I don’t need to make her opening night about me, too.
When I wake up the next morning, I immediately head over to the Times’ website, searching for her name.
Pride washes over me as I read the review of La Courtesan, but it’s not pride I feel when I look at the accompanying photos: one of her leaping across the stage, and one of her tucked under David’s arm at the end of the show when he announced her promotion to principal.
There isn’t a word to describe that feeling.
I’m on my third read-through when my phone chimes with a text.
Chloe: Did you see the article in the Times?
Me: No.
Chloe: Liar.
Chloe: But here’s the link on the off chance you’re telling the truth.
Chloe: Looks like the new ballet is a hit.
Chloe: And Allegra Hart “is sure to dazzle audiences with her brilliant debut as principal.”
Chloe: Her performance is “electrifying” and her dancing is “hypnotic.”
Me: Whatever point you’re trying to make, I think you’ve proved it.
Chloe: You should go see her.
Me: No.
Chloe: I know how much you miss her.
Me: Then you know how painful it would be for me to see her up on that stage, living out the dream she’s worked for her whole life, and know that I asked her to give it all up.
Me: You know how much it would hurt to see her again and know that I completely fucked it all up.
I stab at my phone screen, angry at my sister, angry at ballet, but most of all, angry at myself. Really, there’s no one to blame but myself.
Chloe: If that’s how you really feel, then why do you insist on continuing to be such a stubborn ass?
Chloe: If she means this much to you, then is it really worth holding some stupid arbitrary line?
Me: She deserves better than me.
Chloe: Well, at least we agree on that much.
My phone stays blissfully silent for a moment, but it doesn’t last, as I knew it wouldn’t.
Chloe: You deserve to be happy, Cord. And Allegra could do a hell of a lot worse than you. You know you’re my favorite brother.
Me: I’m your only brother.
Chloe: Point still stands.
Chloe: Promise me you’ll think about it?
I don’t like lying to my sister, so I take my time before I respond.
Me: I’ll think about it.
Chloe: I love you.
Me: Love you too.
I spend the rest of the day puttering around my apartment, considering Chloe’s words. When the sky darkens outside my windows and I’m still in my pajamas and haven’t left the apartment all day, I collapse on my sofa, reaching for my laptop.
I have to scroll back deep in the cloud, but I find what I’m looking for eventually.
Pressing play on the video, I lean back against the couch cushions and steel myself.
On the screen of my computer, I watch a heavy red curtain rise, already knowing what waits on the other side, but seeing the whole picture with fresh eyes.
I’m holding my pose, waiting for the music to strike and swell before I begin.
Dressed in blue tights and a velvet jacket, ten years younger, I almost don’t recognize myself.
But then I begin to dance and finally recognize the boy on the stage.
Aside from the viral video of my dance with Allegra, I haven’t seen myself perform in years.
The director of our ballet company used to make us watch our recorded performances so he could dissect them, pointing out even the slightest of missteps.
It’s a practice I never adopted—and certainly haven’t carried on for myself.
I wait for the old instincts to kick in, for the critiques to form in my mind. I wait to see the misery hidden in my eyes, unclear to the audience, but obvious to anyone who knows me.
But none of that comes. I don’t find a myriad of issues with the height of my jumps or the strength of my lifts. I don’t care about the slight wobble at the end of my turns.
And it isn’t misery I see in my eyes. It’s joy.
So much of ballet has been tainted, but this, here onstage, is what I always loved the most. Being onstage made me feel alive and powerful and creative and fulfilled.
I let everything else that happened around it wipe the love of the dance from my mind…and from my heart.
When the video ends, I click on another.
And another. I watch Chloe and me dance together.
I watch myself fly across the stage with a wide smile on my face.
I watch myself launch my partners into the air, always there to catch them.
I see my strength and the length of my lines and the balance in my turns.
I don’t realize I’m crying until drops land on the keyboard of my laptop, sparkling against the silver keys. I dig the heel of my palms into my eyes, as a half laugh, half sob escapes me.
I pick my favorite video of Chloe and me dancing together and send it to her. My phone rings five minutes later.
“Hey,” I say, glad I cleared the tears from my voice, even though I know she will still hear them.
“Hi.” She clears her own emotion from her throat. “I haven’t seen that in a long time.”
“Me either. I almost forgot how much fun we used to have up there.”
“The most fun. I always loved dancing with you.”
“Even when I threatened to drop you on your head?”
She laughs. “Even then.”
“It wasn’t all bad, was it?”
“No, it wasn’t all bad.” She takes in a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Cord. I’m sorry if my experiences colored the way you feel about your own.”
“Don’t apologize, Coco.”
“I know it wasn’t my fault. But I hate that what happened to me ruined ballet for you.”
“It didn’t. Or at least, it doesn’t have to,” I amend. “No matter what happened, it made us who we are today, and that’s something to be proud of.”
“Yeah. God knows you wouldn’t have that fancy-ass apartment on a ballet dancer’s salary.”
I choke out a laugh. “Very true.”
A comfortable quiet falls between us.
“Does this mean you’re going to go get your girl?”
I smile, for the first time in weeks, the thought of Allegra striking something other than despair in me. “Yeah, I think that’s what it means.”