9. Andy
Andy
It's been four days since Jameson sat in my parents' living room and said everything I didn't know I needed to hear, and he hasn't tried to talk to me since.
No calls. No texts. No knocks on the door at seven in the morning or flowers left on the porch with sorry-I-ruined-everything cards attached. He's kept his distance.
But snacks keep appearing.
Granola bars and juice boxes stacked on the table by the studio door.
Coffee cups from the twins' shop with my name written in that careful handwriting I remember.
Sometimes it's bottled water or those protein bars I used to eat between rehearsals.
Always delivered by someone else — Pete's nephew dropping off supplies, or one of the moms picking up her kid, or just sitting there when I arrive like they materialized from thin air.
"From the guy at Pete's," is all anyone says when I ask.
He doesn't sign his name. Doesn't attach notes or conditions or requests to call him back.
Just food I might need and drinks to keep me hydrated, the kind of practical caring I used to take for granted back when taking care of me was something he did without thinking.
I notice. I try not to notice. I stack the granola bars on the counter and tell myself it doesn't mean anything, but my hands shake a little when I open the coffee cup and it's exactly how I like it — two sugars, splash of cream, the way he's watched me make it a thousand mornings.
The studio fills with noise as kids file through the door, their parents trailing behind with water bottles and hair ties and the kind of frazzled energy that comes from wrestling small humans into leotards.
I wave goodbye to the last mom and turn to face my dancers, all lined up at the barre in various states of readiness.
"Positions, everyone. Feet together, hands on the barre."
Lily raises her hand. She's six, gap-toothed, and has never met a rule she didn't want to negotiate. "Miss Andy, can we do the spinny thing today?"
"Turns," I correct gently. "And yes, but only after we warm up. Deal?"
She nods so enthusiastically her ponytail bounces. I press play on the old CD player and the familiar piano melody fills the room — the same exercises I did when I was their age, the same ones Maeve taught me in this very space fifteen years ago.
Pliés first, then relevés, building the foundation they'll need whether they dance for two years or twenty.
"Remember, we're growing tall like trees," I tell them as we work through the positions. "Roots in the ground, branches reaching up."
Marcus, seven years old and convinced ballet is too easy, wobbles during his relevé and catches himself on the barre. His cheeks flush pink.
"Trees sway in the wind," I say without missing a beat. "That's how they stay strong. Try again."
He does. This time he holds it for three counts before coming down, and the grin on his face could power the building.
"Beautiful, Marcus. Again."
We move through the exercises and I find myself doing what Maeve used to do — watching not for perfection, but for effort.
For the moment when a kid who couldn't balance yesterday suddenly can.
For the concentration on Emma's face as she tries to keep her turnout, tongue poking out slightly in focus.
For the way James helps Sophie adjust her arm position without being asked.
These kids don't know my name was in magazines. They just know I'm Miss Andy, and when I demonstrate a movement, they watch like I'm showing them something magical.
Maybe I am.
"Can we do the spinny— I mean turns now?" Lily asks after we finish our barre work.
"Center floor," I announce, and they scramble to form a line. I demonstrate a simple chainé turn, nothing fancy, just the basic step-touch-turn that builds coordination. "One at a time. Remember to spot — pick something to look at and find it again after you turn."
They take turns crossing the floor, some spinning so fast they get dizzy, others moving so carefully they barely turn at all. I offer small corrections — lift your arms, keep your head up, don't forget to breathe — and watch them try again with the kind of determination that makes my chest tight.
When did I stop trying like this? When did I stop believing that getting back up after a wobble was worth celebrating?
"Miss Andy, watch me!" Lily calls out for the fourteenth time today, and I do. I watch her spot her turn, wobble, catch herself, and grin at me like she just stuck a landing at the Olympics. "Did you see? I almost didn't fall!"
"Almost is the best kind of turn," I tell her, and I mean it. "Try again."
Maeve appears in the doorway, arms crossed, observing. She's been doing this more often — watching me teach instead of stepping in. At first I thought she didn't trust me to handle the class alone. Now I think she's seeing something I'm still learning to see myself.
After the kids run through their final combination — a simple sequence of walks, marches, and arm movements that they perform with the seriousness of dancers auditioning for their lives — parents start trickling in for pickup.
Hugs goodbye, promises to practice at home, reminders about next week's class.
When the studio empties, Maeve walks over to where I'm wiping down the barres.
"You have the eye," she says simply.
I pause, cloth in hand. "The eye?"
"For seeing what they need. Not just technically. As people." She adjusts her sweater, a gesture that means she's about to say something important. "It's not something you can teach. You either have it or you don't."
The compliment settles somewhere deep in my chest. This is mine. I earned it. Not because of who I'm married to or what connections I have, but because I showed up and did the work and cared about kids who just want to feel graceful for an hour.
"Thank you," I manage.
Maeve nods once and heads toward the office. "Lock up when you leave."
I finish cleaning and gather my things. The day feels both endless and too short — the way time moves when you're doing something that matters, something that fills you up instead of emptying you out.
My phone buzzes with a text from Ellie: Dinner at my place? Made too much pasta (lie) and need someone to help me eat it (also lie).
I'm typing back when I hear the first drops of rain against the windows. Then more. Then the steady drumming that means it's really coming down, the kind of rain that turns roads slick and makes visibility terrible.
I hate driving in rain. Always have. Something about the way headlights reflect off wet asphalt, the constant thrum of wipers, the way you can't quite trust what you're seeing. I pull out my phone to call Dad for a ride when a Jeep stops in front of the studio.
The driver's door opens and there he is, unfolding out of the car with an umbrella that looks too small for someone his size.
Six-five of him, in a gray sweatshirt and jeans, his hair damp from the run between the car and the overhang, and I hate — I genuinely, viscerally hate — that my first thought is how good he looks when he's not trying.
This is the Jameson I fell in love with. Not the one with the styled hair and tailored everything, not the brand version who poses for photographers and says the right things in interviews.
This is the man who fixed our radiator with a wrench he borrowed from our neighbor, who wore the same three sweatshirts all winter because buying new clothes wasn't in the budget, who looked like someone who worked with his hands because he did.
The stubble along his jaw. The way his sleeves are pushed up past his forearms. The fact that he's getting rained on and doesn't seem to care.
I notice and I resent myself for noticing.
He walks to the overhang where I'm standing, shaking rain from his hair. His eyes meet mine and there's something careful in his expression, like he's not sure he's allowed to be here.
"I know you don't like driving in the rain," he says. "I'll drop you home."
A small fact from our shared life, filed away somewhere in his memory next to my coffee order and the way I like my eggs scrambled. He remembered. I wish he'd forget things like this, because the remembering makes it harder to stay angry.
"No." My voice comes out sharper than I intended. "I don't want to bother you."
I don't want to be in a car with him. Don't want to be in that close proximity, where I can smell whatever soap he's using and see the stubble up close and feel the warmth from his body in the small space. I don't trust myself in that space.
"I won't speak unless you want me to." His voice is quiet, careful. "Please, Andy. I just want to see you home safe."
Please, Andy. The way he says my name — not like he owns it, like he's asking permission to use it.
I've heard him say my name a thousand different ways.
Teasing across our old kitchen table. Sleepy and muffled into my shoulder on Sunday mornings.
Sharp with laughter when I'd do something ridiculous just to hear the sound.
In the dark with his mouth against my ear, reverent and desperate and mine.
This is different. This is the voice of a man who knows he's lost the right to say my name like it belongs to him, but who's saying it anyway because he doesn't know how else to reach me.
I look at the rain coming down harder, at my car parked twenty feet away. At the way water is already pooling in the street.
I sigh. "Fine."
He opens the passenger door for me, holding the umbrella to shield me from the rain. The gesture is automatic, instinctive — the way he's opened doors for me since our second date, when he picked me up for coffee and held the car door.
The car is warm and dry and smells faintly of coffee. I buckle my seatbelt and stare out the passenger window as he gets in, water dripping from his hair onto his sweatshirt.