Chapter Nineteen Ruby
When the New York City skyline comes into view, I feel a strange mix of emotions. Most of it is pure relief over being home at last. What should have been a few hours’ journey in the car turned into a twenty-four-hour hellscape of a situation.
There’s another part of me that is keenly aware of the fact that my time with Ben is now extremely limited. I know that I’ll see him soon enough, considering his position at the company, but it will never be like this again. We will never be like this again. Almost friends, almost lovers. Something tentative yet infuriating, incredible yet dizzying.
Almost something great.
When I get out of this stupid fancy Porsche, we’ll go back to the way things were before. I’ll just be Ruby, Eva’s maid of honor, and he’ll just be Ben, Sebastien’s best man. We’ll be two strangers who kissed once and then never again.
I should be okay with that. Haven’t I ranted to anyone who has suggested otherwise that I prefer to be romantically unattached? Am I not married to my career? Utterly and completely devoted to it?
I can’t afford to let my confusing interest in Ben lead me astray. The fact that he makes me feel like the entire world has been tipped upside down should terrify me. As soon as the car stops outside my building, I should be running away as fast as I can.
It’s too easy to picture how saying yes to a date with Ben will go, though. Too easy to know that he would take me somewhere fascinating and artistic, like one of those high-tech art shows that feature in the old warehouses near Chelsea. He would be funny and charming, because that’s how he is with everyone, and this time I would actually be willing to appreciate it. He’d wear his stupidly stylish clothes, so chic-ly chaotic and unkempt in that way he wears his nice things, and he’d look so stupidly handsome that it would probably make my head spin.
Then we’d go somewhere for dinner—not somewhere posh or exclusive. I know now that Ben isn’t the type to show off like that. He’d probably take me to some artsy old restaurant—the kind of place with a story where writers and musicians and their muses have frequented for decades. I’d love every second of it, unfortunately.
I know he’d walk me home. He’d walk me right to my front stoop, just like he did last May.
He would kiss me goodnight. Maybe twice. Maybe three times. Maybe, I might consider inviting him to come upstairs, then make the responsible decision to simply say goodnight and go… but maybe only after a fourth or fifth kiss.
I know I could fall for Ben Hawthorne. That’s exactly why I decided to hate him so much. Because I can’t afford to fall for anyone.
We’ll find a way, he told me. But I don’t think we will.
No matter what Gram might have been told by the wind, there’s no way for us to be together. Whatever message she received from the universe—whatever compelled her to put those stones in his pockets—was probably nothing more than leftover sentiments from that day at the Strand. Nothing tangible. Nothing that can be a reality in the present or the future.
Too soon, we’re trapped in the slow crawl of traffic in Midtown. We might have taken the highway that loops around the outer edge of Manhattan if not for the fact that half of that route is closed off from flooding. If I crane my neck and look west, I can see glimpses of the roaring Hudson churning and frothing in the wake of the almost-hurricane that struck.
I direct Ben toward my apartment, trying to keep my tone as casual as possible. He, too, has become overly polite in his responses. It’s as if, now that we’re faced with the inevitability of our separation, neither one of us knows how to act around each other anymore.
My dusty little studio is tucked away at the fringes of Little Italy. It’s a miracle that I even managed to find my own place. Most dancers—especially in New York—don’t make nearly enough money to live on their own and instead have to pile together into cramped spaces with roommates. After Eva moved out a couple of years ago, I just happened to get insanely lucky and find a rent-controlled apartment that a sweet old lady had been living in for decades. It’s not glamorous and the layout is definitely not ideal by anyone’s standards, given that my shower is actually located in the kitchen, but I love it too much to give it up.
I wonder what Ben would think of my apartment. Not that it matters. He’ll never see the inside of it. Still, I have a feeling he wouldn’t judge me. Even though he probably lives in an insanely modern high-rise with a uniformed doorman and all the amenities anyone could ever dream of.
Whatever.
“This is a cool neighborhood,” Ben comments as we inch closer and closer to the end.
“Yeah.”
“I’d be tempted to eat my weight in pasta and pizza every night.”
“I definitely feel that temptation often.”
Ben chuckles. There’s a note of awkwardness in it, though. Does he remember walking me here before? Probably not, considering he needs me to direct him. It must be difficult to have such an unreliable memory. It’d drive me crazy, and it would also make me a terrible dancer. Memorization is a huge part of ballet.
Wow, now I’m starting to feel bad for him. I really have come full circle.
I need to get out of here.
Minutes later, he pulls up to the curb in front of a classic brick walk-up that looks just like every other sturdy-yet-vaguely-rundown building on the street.
Ben puts the car in park. We meet each other’s gaze across the center console.
“Um, thanks,” I say. The awkwardness is painful. It makes me want to crawl out of my own skin. “For the ride. And everything.”
“Anytime, Ruby.”
“I should… go.”
“Okay.” There’s a tinge of disappointment in his gaze that I have to force myself to ignore.
Even though there’s a little voice in the back of my mind screaming for me not to get out of the car, I climb out and then circle around to the trunk.
“Let me help you with your—”
“I’ve got it,” I insist, hauling my suitcase out onto the pavement before Ben can do the chivalrous thing. I don’t need my stupid heart pitter-pattering over him again.
Ben rolls down the passenger side window. I stare at him from the sidewalk. It feels like we should say more. Do more. We just spent twenty-four hours together—slept in the same room as each other—and yet we’re just going to say goodbye and that’s it?
Yes, that’s it. And it’s for the best, I remind myself.
“Bye,” I say.
Ben smiles. “Bye, Ruby. I’ll see you around.”
I nod. “Yeah… okay. Bye.”
I’m all too aware of Ben idling there on the curb as I climb the steps of my stoop and, as usual, find myself fighting with the outdated lock on the front door. When I step inside the dingy, narrow hall of my building, I dare to turn back and look through the dusty window at the street. He’s still idling there. When he sees me looking out at him, he waves and then finally pulls away.
He’s gone.
For a long moment, I stare at the empty hallway. I can hear old Ms. Saltz’s two Pomeranians yapping away in the apartment to my left. Upstairs, the sounds of Mr. Pomar’s twin daughters bickering float down to me. Just outside, a car horn blares, an engine revs, and someone shouts a greeting to someone else. The sounds of New York City are so different than that of the small town where I was born and raised, but I love the music of this place. I love both of my homes.
“Ah, that feels good,” I sigh as another soloist in the company, a sweet French girl named Isabelle, steps on my toes. My pointe shoes make a subtle yet satisfying crunching sound as she does.
Angeline lets out a breathless laugh. “Me next.”
I nod in agreement. Against the barre, we switch positions so that I can press the heels of my feet, and the full weight of my body, onto her toes. To any outside observer, we probably look insane. But at this point in rehearsal, our toes are so numb that stepping on them is pretty much the only way to get any sensation flowing back into them.
“Ow, that’s amazing,” Isabelle says, cringing yet smiling at the same time.
I stifle a giggle, knowing that this particular instructor isn’t a huge fan of displays of happiness in his studio. He’s tough, but also a genius, so we hide our smiles and keep on dancing.
As soon as I lift my weight off Isabelle’s toes, the instructor claps his hands together sharply. “One more time! One! More! Time! Let’s go!”
I feel like I’m going to collapse into a puddle of sweat and agony on the floor, and I’m not entirely sure I’m ever going to be able to catch my breath even once this rehearsal is over, but I obediently find my position as the music begins again. Isabelle shoots me a wink and takes her place next to me.
The music begins again and we come to life once more.
It’s been a week since the storm that changed everything and nothing. I haven’t seen Ben, though I’ve foolishly expected him to appear around every corner in the company building. The members of the board don’t just wander around this place.
He hasn’t texted me. Or called. I tell myself that it’s for the best, just like the first time.
Yet, pretty much every waking thought I have is invaded by him. He’s like a parasite, and I should hate him for it, but I think I know by now that I never actually hated him in the first place.
When our aspiring drill sergeant finally decides that we’ve done adequately, he releases us for the afternoon and sweeps out of the room without a single nicety. We’re all used to it by now, so it’s easy to shrug off. Chilliness from an instructor doesn’t mean you’ve done poorly. In fact, if you’re dancing badly, you’d be told loudly and without hesitation in front of everyone else.
I drop down to the floor to undo the knotted ribbons of my pointe shoes. I’ve been dancing for the past six hours and now I have a hot date with the company’s physical therapist to help work out some stiffness in my left hamstring.
Maybe I can ask him to recommend a good lobotomist who can force the persistent thoughts of Ben out of my brain.
Isabelle chatters beside me, telling me all about her niece that was just born. While I listen, I shove my numb feet into a pair of socks and reach for my sneakers.
“Oh, what’s Katia doing here?” Isabelle whispers.
I glance up immediately. The studio is emptying out steadily, but everyone notices when a principal dancer enters the room. Katia smiles warmly at a few people, then scurries over to me. Her wrist is in a stiff black splint—evidence of the minor surgery that has her out of commission until September. The reason that I was almost cast as Giselle.
Katia skids to a stop in front of me and Isabelle, then plops down on the studio floor with a conspiratorial grin on her face. She glances over her shoulder, as if to check that nobody else is close enough to overhear.
“Aren’t you supposed to be on bed rest?” I ask her.
Katia waves her uninjured hand dismissively. “I’m fine. I just had to come and tell you myself—I have news.”
I glance at Isabelle. Friendly, docile Isabelle who came into this company as a soloist and has only ever dreamed of going that far. That’s why Katia deems her safe to overhear whatever she’s about to say next. Isabelle isn’t a threat.
My stomach flips.
“What kind of news?”
Katia grins and leans in closer. “I’m retiring.”
Both Isabelle and I gasp loudly in unison. Katia hushes us, once again glancing over her shoulder at the stragglers taking their time leaving the studio.
Katia is only thirty-two. She has at least another five years before her body will start demanding for her to call it quits.
“Why?” I whisper.
Her eyes are twinkling with unbridled joy. “I’m pregnant.”
Again, Isabelle and I gasp. Then, in unison, we throw ourselves at the principal and engulf her in a hug.
“Congratulations,” I breathe. “Oh I’m so happy for you!. Wow… that’s crazy!”
I knew Katia was married, but I had no idea they were trying to have a baby. Pregnancy isn’t necessarily career-ending, but it definitely keeps you off the stage for a long time. Years, sometimes.
But clearly, this is exactly what Katia wants. There is so much joy in her radiant expression that my throat tightens with inexplicable emotions.
Eva, married. Katia, pregnant.
Then there’s me… well, I guess I’m still waiting for something big to happen.
Katia leans in again, smiling at me and Isabelle. “Anyway, the news is probably going to get out tomorrow or the day after. And I wanted to let you know that I’ve already recommended you as my replacement for principal, Ruby.”
Isabelle squeals with delight. I gape at Katia.
“But… Katia.”
“They’ll want to do the formal audition process and all that, of course, but everybody knows that you were due to be promoted within the next year or so anyway.”
“Not everybody knows that,” I protest.
Isabelle snorts. “Yes, they do.”
“I didn’t know that,” I reply.
Both girls smirk at me.
Katia lowers her voice even more and whispers, “Oh, and I also heard some very juicy gossip while I was up there dealing with the suits on the admin floor.”
“What kind of gossip?” Isabelle asks, gripping her leg warmers close to her chest with rapt attention.
“You know that really gorgeous young guy that just joined the board? That rich kid?”
An inhale stutters on its way to my lungs, causing me to make a sound like a wheeze. Luckily, neither one of them seems to notice as Isabelle leans in and breathes, “Henry Hawthorne?”
“No, no. That’s the older brother. One of them, at least.”
“Ben,” I supply automatically. “Ben Hawthorne.”
“Right!” Katia says, nodding emphatically. “Well, I heard he left the board! That old fart Gerald was muttering about it. Apparently, he sent out a formal resignation and hasn’t been heard from since! He was here for, like, not even six months! I wonder what happened. Maybe some kind of scandal?”
“Maybe the Hawthornes want to switch their donations to ABT instead? Everyone always favors the classical companies,” muses Isabelle.
Katia scoffs. “Screw them if that’s the case. But anyway, I just thought I’d let you girls know. And congratulations, Ruby. I’d bet everything I own on you being promoted to principal by the end of this season.”
I should smile. I should throw myself at her feet and weep my gratefulness for her recommendation. I should hunt down Ben right now and ask him what on earth is going on.
But all I can do is stare at Katia and Isabelle in complete and utter shock.