10. Gilbert
10
GILBERT
Dinner is a blur of clinking cutlery and polite conversation, the kind of surface-level topics that fill the space without saying anything of substance. Bonnie and I engage in small talk — the weather, recent events, anything to avoid the real subject that lingers over us.
My eyes keep drifting to Ashlynn. She’s dressed casually in jeggings and a t-shirt, a far cry from her usual ballet attire, yet she looks effortlessly stunning. Her brown hair flows freely around her shoulders instead of being pulled back into its usual bun. There’s a natural elegance to her, a beauty that seems to glow from within. Her green eyes catch the light, revealing hints of hazel that make them shimmer. They are as captivating as she is, drawing me in with their depth and intensity. Her flawless pale skin has a delicate, rosy undertone, adding a touch of warmth to her ethereal appearance.
I can tell she’s lost in a world of her own. She picks at her food, her eyes distant, her mind clearly elsewhere. I can’t help but feel a pull towards her, an innate need to understand her pain. My gaze lingers on her a moment longer than it should, taking in the way her t-shirt hugs her slender frame, accentuating her graceful lines. There’s an ease to her movements, a fluidity that reminds me of how she dances.
Every now and then, our eyes meet, and there’s something there, something raw and fragile that I can’t quite decipher.
What I do know, however, is that the attraction I feel is undeniable, a magnetic pull that’s hard to resist. The way she looks at me, the way her presence fills the room, it’s hard to ignore the emotions bubbling beneath the surface.
But I have to.
This is supposed to be a simple dinner, a gesture of support, nothing more.
She eats little, speaks even less, and excuses herself after dessert — which she barely touched — her departure leaves an emptiness at the table.
The sadness she carries with her is palpable. It lingers too. Bonnie and I try to maintain the conversation but it’s forced, and both of us are preoccupied with the young woman who just exited the room.
Bonnie gives up first and starts clearing the table, waving me off despite my protests.
“It’s called the division of labor for a reason,” she says, her balancing act impressive. “Since you did all of the cooking, it’s only fair that I clean. Lynn usually helps, but given the circumstances…”
Her voice fades as she disappears into the kitchen. I follow her, glasses in hand. “It’s her birthday, so she gets a pass.”
“Thank you for keeping it low-key. She doesn’t like to celebrate her birthdays, but she appreciates the pie. Speaking of, I didn’t know you could cook.”
“I dabble, but for tonight, I called in a favor. Our old House Manager, Melissa gave me some recipes for Ashlynn’s favorite desserts.”
Bonnie loads up the dishwasher. “Let me guess: You offered to rehire her, but she said no dice.”
“No one believes me when I say I plan on sticking around for a while. Didn’t Everett have a live-in housekeeper? Any chance she’d want to come work for us?”
“If only. Mrs. Torres officially retired two days ago. She’s moved to Florida to be closer to her grandchildren. I’d say that’s pretty final.”
I hand her the dishwasher soap. She measures what she needs, starts it up, and the low rumble of water fills the room.
“I’ll be off the grid for a few months, four months maximum,” she says, wiping her hands. At my puzzled expression, she adds, “Those happen on occasion. In the interest of transparency, I’ll be accompanying supplies for a ballerina in the program, one with homicidal tendencies. You crossed paths with her and her mother in Europe a few years back.”
I can’t help the frown that forms. “If it’s who I think it is, she’s still a minor and her mother is deceased.”
“There are ways to circumvent that, you know. She’s still a valuable material witness, so she’s in mafia witsec.”
“Mafia witsec? That’s not a thing.”
“I know it’s not, but that’s what I call it because officially,” she puts air quotes around the word, “it doesn’t exist. You see, when organizations need to creatively work with other organizations that don’t exist, they call me. Anyway, Lynn knows how to reach me in an emergency, and I also plan on regularly checking in with her. She knows enough of what I do and that it gets dangerous sometimes. Everett intentionally kept them in the dark, and we’ve already established I’m not my brother.”
Her changing the subject just as abruptly as she brought it up tells me she doesn’t want to discuss it further. Which is fine by me. Bonnie doesn’t have to tell me anything, which only makes me appreciate her transparency more.
“Thank you for telling me.”
She gives me a sad smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Lynn doesn’t drive,” she continues, “and hasn’t expressed interest in learning since the accident. She coordinates her school and dance schedules directly with Russ, and he keeps me apprised. He’ll report to you too. He also serves as her unofficial bodyguard, travels to competitions with her, and tends to her injuries. And, he’s very particular about whom he works for, a trait I find invaluable.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means his job is to drive Lynn around, not Lynn and her friends.”
I don’t follow. “I thought that was self-explanatory.”
“It is, but try telling that to a bunch of entitled teenagers and their entitled parents. Hannah didn’t do carpools, so I’m not sure why they expected Russ to engage in free labor for their spoiled brats.”
I can’t hide the snicker that escapes. “Tell me how you really feel.”
She throws a dish towel in my direction. “It’s not my job to play nice with other parents, nor is it Russ’s. It wasn’t Mrs. Torres’s job to clean up after other peoples’ brats either, but they didn’t seem to get the memo until she called the authorities on them for trespassing. It goes without saying that Lynn wasn’t the most popular student in middle school, and high school is no different. Teenagers can be cruel, but Lynn is no pushover.”
So she’s a loner. Like Rachel and I were in high school.
It’s like Bonnie can read my mind. “Lynn doesn’t care about being liked by her peers. This might sound cliché, but she’s always been more emotionally mature. She finds the whole teenage experience tedious. Her words, not mine. Sure, she’s a bit sheltered, but sometimes even I forget that she’s a teenager, with everything she’s been through, how she talks, and even how she carries herself. Eighteen going on eighty. On the drive here, she asked why I didn’t seem to be all that concerned about her living here. Well, it wasn’t a question, more like an observation.”
Loathe as I am to admit, Ashlynn has a point. She knew Rachel, but she doesn’t know me.
Not yet, anyway.
“You should be. For all intents and purposes, I am a stranger to her.”
She tucks both hands into her pockets. “I will move heaven and earth for that girl, but there are limits to what I can do. After the accident, she was diagnosed with PTSD and an anxiety disorder. It’s mostly managed without medication, and having a routine and structure helps. That said,” Bonnie’s face tightens with worry, “Lynn’s been having nightmares. Sometimes, she wakes up screaming, drenched in sweat. Other times, she’s quiet, but I can see the terror in her eyes.”
A pang of sympathy hits me. “Nightmares are a common response to trauma. They’re the mind’s way of processing what’s happened, but without the proper support they can become overwhelming. Given how long she’s had them, does she take something for it?”
“She has a prescription for lorazepam, which she takes as needed. She tells me when she takes them, but she doesn’t like to talk about her nightmares. After the accident she saw someone for about a year, so I know she’s not opposed to seeing someone now.”
I nod, absorbing the information. “I’ll need to familiarize myself with her medical history. I’ll need Ashlynn’s consent, so I’ll ask her directly.”
Bonnie smiles at that, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. “My advice is to tread lightly. She doesn’t trust easily. She’s built up walls around herself, so it’s up to you to bridge that gap.”
I lean back, the weight of the responsibility settling on my shoulders. It won’t be a piece of cake, but I’m up for the challenge.
“To be honest,” Bonnie adds, “That’s the main reason why I’m not contesting Hannah’s will. I want Lynn out of that gilded cage. Hell, I wanted to fight Everett for custody five years ago, but Will talked me out of it. With Everett gone most of the time, it was easier for Lynn to set her own routines that didn’t include him. She has always been passionate about ballet. It isn’t a hobby for her, it’s a calling, one that fulfills a deep, seated need within her. I walked away from it a decade ago, and turned out okay. I don’t think Lynn can live without it. It’s her way of coping, of expressing herself. Everett didn’t understand that about his own daughter, and with Hannah gone, it was my job to set his head straight.
“When he was gone, Mrs. Torres lived with Lynn full-time, and I stayed over when I could or she stayed with me. Obviously, I’d like her to move in with me, but there’s a seventy percent chance she’d have to change schools, and I’m not doing that to her a few months into her senior year. If I can give her a more permanent home base, then that’s what I’ll do. Or rather, you’ll do.”
That’s when I hear it. The familiar, tragic strains of Prokofiev’s “Romeo and Juliet” filter through the house, each note a haunting reminder of love and loss. Their story has always struck a chord with me, each note a dagger to the heart.
I glance at Bonnie. “You don’t think…?”
“I don’t think , Gilbert. I know.”
We follow the sound. The music pulls us towards Rachel’s Creative Wing, as she called it. The hallway leading up to it is lined with framed photographs and enclosed glass shelving filled with ballet trophies. It’s a gallery of frozen moments featuring Rachel, Hannah, and Ashlynn.
Suffice it to say, I haven’t stepped foot in this part of the house in years. The caretakers kept it in pristine condition, though. Like they knew something I didn’t — that someday this wing would be infused with life.
We approach the studio, the sorrowful melody growing louder with each step. I glance at Bonnie and she nods, understanding my unspoken question. When we reach the door, I pause, letting the poignant melody seep into my bones. We push the door open and stand in the doorway, watching Ashlynn.
She moves with a grace that is both mesmerizing and heartbreaking, her body telling the tragic tale of Juliet. Every step, every turn, speaks of love and loss, her movements infused with a raw, aching intensity that speaks of her own pain. Her arms reach out in longing, and her leaps defy gravity, but there’s a profound sadness in her dance that makes my chest tighten and takes my breath away.
Ashlynn is dancing on blistered feet. I can see the strain on her face and how her muscles protest with each rise onto pointe. But she doesn’t falter. The pain is evident, yet hidden behind her flawless form. She channels her anguish into the fluidity in her movements despite the obvious physical discomfort. Her face is a mask of determination, her body pushing through the agony.
Watching Ashlynn, I can’t help but draw parallels between her and Rachel. I’m transported back to those days when Rachel danced with the same passion, grace, and fierce resilience. But there’s something more here, something that stirs a long-dormant part of me.
Rachel used to say that ballerinas don’t like pain, but they learn to tolerate it. They condition their bodies to get used to the constant aches and pains and everything else in between.
But Ashlynn — she owns it, makes it her own.
She commands the pain, and she makes it her bitch.
Hers is a performance born of suffering, each spin and leap a cry for something irretrievably lost.
And yet… there’s an undeniable pull, a magnetism that draws me in. It stirs something inside me, a primal heat that I can’t ignore. The way Ashlynn moves and the way she pours herself into the song are both captivating and unsettling. Her vulnerability, her strength, her raw emotions — it’s impossible to look away from. A part of me aches for her, wants to reach out and hold her, to ease the pain that fuels her every step.
As the music swells, her movements grow more frantic, more desperate. She spins faster, her body a blur of motion, her turns becoming a whirlwind of emotion, a futile attempt to escape the pain that haunts her. She pours her soul into it, a physical manifestation of her internal struggle, and a desperate attempt to outrun her sorrow. Bonnie and I stand transfixed. Tears stream down Bonnie’s face, and my own eyes burn with unshed tears, the sight of Ashlynn’s torment cutting deep.
The final notes of the piece fade into a heavy silence. Ashlynn stops, breathless and trembling, staring at her reflection in the mirror. The raw vulnerability in her expression grips my soul. I can only imagine she’s seeing what I see, what we all see: The gifted ballerina she is, but also the girl who has faced so much loss, and the woman she is becoming, one who’s fighting to find her place in a cruel world that has taken so much from her.
It’s at that moment, standing in the doorway of the dance studio, that it finally clicks for me. I finally understand what ballet means to her. It’s more than calling; it’s a way for her to confront her pain, to bridge the gap between a shattered past and an uncertain future, to make peace with both and heal from it.
The decision to stay or leave is still hers to make. This house, filled with ghosts and memories, might also be a place for healing. I believe she can find a way to make this house a home again. A place where memories of the past can coexist with hopes for the future.
After all, this is what she was born to do. She belongs on stage.
And as her guardian, I will do everything in my power to support her on that journey, not hinder it.
Everett Crane was an idiot, and he didn’t deserve a daughter like her.
I won’t make the same mistakes he did.