Chapter Twenty-Four #2
The next night arrives wrapped in snowfall. Not enough to stick yet. Just soft white flakes drifting down from the sky outside my apartment windows while I stand in front of my closet trying without much success not to feel nervous.
Which is ridiculous. I’ve known Hayden for most of my adult life. I’ve slept in his bed. Seen him furious. Seen him vulnerable. Seen him unravel me with a single look.
But somehow him taking me to the ballet feels more intimate than all of that. Because this isn’t about sex. This is about him remembering something important I used to love.
Nicole answers on the second ring when I FaceTime her.
“You look emotionally compromised already,” she jokes as a grin lifts her cheeks.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t. Show me the dress.”
I angle the phone toward the green silk dress draped across the bed.
Nicole gasps with a shake of her head. “Oh, you are so bringing that man to his knees.”
“You don’t think it’s too much?”
“Absolutely not. It’s stunning and only worthy of being worn by you.”
“That might be stretching it a bit, Nicole.” I laugh as I stare down at the dress.
“Men do not voluntarily take women to the ballet unless they’re either eighty years old or in love. And let me assure you, he’s absolutely in love with you. That was obvious at Gild.”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it, and then quiet panic settles in and takes over. Nicole’s expression softens as she notices. “You okay?”
The question catches me off guard enough that I hesitate. Because the truthful answer is, I honestly don’t know.
“I think…” I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “I think I’m trying not to want this too much.”
Nicole goes quiet for a second. Then, “Oof.”
“Not helpful.” I shake my head at her.
“You’re pulling away because you’re scared.”
“I’m pulling away because I don’t know where I actually fit in his life.”
Nicole’s face softens further at that. And then the truth spills easier than I meant it to. “He looks at me sometimes like I’m everything.” My throat tightens. “And then there are moments where it still feels like I only exist in the controlled little space he’s built for me.”
Nicole studies me before responding. “Do you think he’s ashamed of you?”
“No.” The answer comes without hesitation. “God, no.”
“Then what?”
I stare out the apartment window at the snow drifting through the darkening city. “I think he only knows how to love privately,” I admit. “And I don’t know if I can survive being loved that way again.”
Silence hangs between us as I slide the dress over my head and then slip my feet into heels. Nicole sighs. “Made more difficult by the fact that he’s sex on a stick.”
I laugh despite myself.
“Which means,” she continues, “you’re probably screwed.”
“Thank you, Dr. Phil.”
“You’re welcome.”
A knock sounds at my apartment door before I can analyze things further with her. Hayden. My pulse jumps under my skin.
Nicole notices and smirks. “Oh my God, look at your face.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Tell your terrifying bass player I said hi.”
I end the call before she can say anything else and cross the apartment, pulse thudding harder with every step. The second I open the door, Hayden’s gaze lifts to mine.
Snow dusts the shoulders of his dark wool coat. A black dress shirt is visible beneath it, tie loosened slightly at his throat like he’d been fighting with it in the car. His hair is damp from the weather outside, his dark eyes dragging over me with an intensity that turns my knees weak.
“Well,” his voice rougher than usual. “That feels unfair.”
My mouth curves despite myself. “You’re staring.”
“You’re breathtaking.” The words land too perfect. And all of a sudden, I’m at a loss as to how I should feel about him again. Because even though Hayden Sloane may not know how to love someone publicly, he absolutely loves me like he needs his next breath.
Snow falls harder by the time Hayden’s car pulls up outside the theater.
Enough to dust sidewalks and glow gold beneath the city lights while people hurry along Michigan Avenue wrapped in scarves and wool coats.
The entire night feels cinematic. Like this is playing out from a script that someone else wrote.
Hayden rounds the front of the car the second I step onto the curb, one gloved hand settling on instinct at my waist as his eyes drag over me again.
That look still destroys me. The dark green silk dress had felt a tad eccentric when I bought it years ago, but tonight, under Hayden’s gaze, it feels like a weapon.
“You’re staring again,” I goad while smoothing one hand down the front of my coat.
“I’m trying to figure out how you keep getting more beautiful.” The answer comes out so sincerely that my chest aches a little. God. This man.
Warmth spills around us the second we step inside the theater lobby. Chandeliers glow overhead while the low hum of conversation and the orchestra tuning swirl around us. We check our coats once we’re inside, Hayden sliding the ticket into his suit pocket.
And in an instant, I’m eighteen years old again standing backstage in satin slippers with my hair pinned too tightly to my head while nerves and adrenaline twist together in my stomach before a curtain call.
The memory hits hard enough that I stop walking for half a second. Hayden notices and pauses next to me.
His hand tightens at my waist. “You, okay?”
“I am.” I glance around at the velvet balconies and sweeping staircase trying to ground myself. “It’s just been a long time.”
His expression softens in understanding. “You miss it.” Not a question.
I exhale and nod once. “I guess I do.”
The truth settles in a way I didn’t expect, because ballet had once been everything to me. Not just something I did. It was everything . The feeling of becoming art instead of simply observing it made me feel invincible. I loved it enough to build my entire adolescence around it.
And then one day I had to stop. I tore my Achilles, playing tennis of all things, not even while dancing, the summer after my senior year of high school.
I was supposed to go to Northeastern in Boston, who partnered with the Boston Ballet to offer intensive classical training. Instead, I ended up at Northwestern, a semester late due to my recovery, and instead of making art, I studied it. And, it’s where I met Hayden.
I suppose I put the dream of dancing up on a shelf, and now, years later, I realized that I had lost something that once was my whole existence. All reasons that sound logical until years later when it dawns on you that you quietly abandoned something that once made your soul feel alive.
“You never talk about it,” Hayden comments as we climb the stairs toward our seats.
“I think maybe it hurt too much afterward.”
His gaze shifts toward me with curiosity. “Why?”
I offer him a sad smile with my explanation. “Because stopping wasn’t something I chose, it was something that happened.”
Something flickers across his face then. Understanding. Maybe even recognition. Because I know Hayden understands what it means to lose things that once made you feel whole and not have any control over that.
The orchestra begins tuning louder inside the theater as an usher guides us toward our seats near center stage. Of course, they are excellent seats. Hayden waits until I’m seated, and then settles close enough that his leg brushes against mine. It’s not accidental, it’s never accidental with him.
The lights begin to dim around us, and somehow the entire world narrows.
Music swells and with it, the curtain rises.
And for the next hour, I forget everything else.
I forget distance. I forget any doubts and fears I have.
I forget every carefully constructed wall I’ve spent the last week rebuilding around my heart.
Because Hayden’s hand remains tangled with mine. Because every time I glance toward him, he’s watching me instead of the stage. Because during one particularly emotional sequence, his thumb brushes across my knuckles like he can feel every reaction moving through me.
And maybe worst of all; I realize halfway through the first act, that Hayden doesn’t hate ballet at all. He just hates not understanding things. And tonight, he’s trying to understand this piece of me because he knows it matters to me. That in itself is enough to wreck me.
By intermission, the theater lobby buzzes with conversation and champagne while snow continues falling outside massive windows overlooking the city.
Hayden leaves to grab us drinks, and when he finds me again, I’m standing near the balcony railing staring out at downtown Chicago glowing beneath the snowfall.
“You disappeared,” he murmurs while handing me a glass.
“I was admiring the city.”
His eyes stay on me over the rim of his whiskey. “Pretty sure the city’s losing that competition.”
Heat rises to my cheeks. “You’re laying it on thick tonight.”
“Am I?”
“You took me to the ballet, Hayden. I’m already emotionally vulnerable.”
A low laugh escapes him. And God, I’ve come to love that sound. We drift through the crowd afterward, people moving around us in elegant gowns and suits. And then I feel Hayden go still beside me.
It’s subtle, but I notice it when his hand falls from my lower back. My brow furrows as I follow his line of sight across the lobby. I recognize Mikey from pictures of the band. And I’m assuming the woman with him is his girlfriend, Quinn. Hayden’s speaks of them both often.
They’re standing near the opposite staircase laughing together, Quinn’s hand wrapped around Mikey’s wrist while he says something against her hair that makes her grin. For one suspended second, warm hope blooms in my chest. Finally, a chance to be a part of something else in his life.
Hayden leans closer before I can even fully turn toward him, his mouth brushing against my ear. “Not tonight,” he murmurs against it. “Tonight is just for me and you.”
His words twist inside my chest in confusion. On the surface? What he said should be beautiful and romantic. Possessive in the way Hayden always is when he cares too much. But all I hear underneath them is; private, secret, hidden.
Doubt flickers through my mind. Because this night has been perfect.
Truly perfect. But somehow, standing here in the middle of a crowded theater while snow falls outside with Hayden’s hand no longer against my lower back, I realize perfection with him only seems to exist behind closed doors.
Private dinners. Private apartments. Private nights.
Private love. My throat tightens as I look over at him.
“You, okay?” Hayden ask, concern evident in his tone.
Of course he notices. I force a small smile quickly enough that maybe he believes it. “Yes,” I lie. “I’m okay.”
And because I love him enough not to ruin this night, I let him guide me back toward the theater when the lights flicker for the second act. But somewhere beneath the orchestra and drinks, something inside me has started breaking quietly apart.