I glance at the youngest of our students, lining up backstage. Their mamas are busy corralling them, smearing sparkles on their cheeks, securing tiny wings to their backs. An ache passes through me—the same ache I always get when I realize I never had such moments with my own mother.
What would she have thought of my performance today?
I pull Miss Macy in for another hug and then make my way down the stairs. Kaylee’s still speaking into the microphone. She thanks everyone for coming to Stratus Community Center’s Grand Reopening, tells them her Aunt Delia’s slaved over the pies in the back and to help themselves.
I weave through the crowd, looking for Dad, looking for Jake. I accept pats on the back and words of kindness. From the stage the crowd looked small, but on the floor with their familiar faces and words of congratulation ringing in my ears, I’m impressed by the turnout. When I agreed to open the celebration for Kaylee, I had no idea she’d rallied so many to the cause. Canaan towers over the crowd at the back of the auditorium, so I angle toward his silver hair. The crowd is dense enough that I don’t see Jake until I’m right in front of him.
He spins in a circle, showing off his tutu. “You like?” he asks, that boyish scratch in his voice endearing.
He has no idea how much I like. “Does this mean you’re ready for that dance lesson?”
“Does this mean I’m ready? You’re the one who’s been hiding all the tutus.”
I haven’t. Not at all, but there’s something of the truth to his words. Sharing ballet with Jake would be like admitting I’m ready to move on. That I’m ready to let dance be more to me than my big break in the big city. And that’s a hard thing to let go of. At least it used to be.
I flick the orange tulle at his waist. “Apparently I didn’t hide them well enough.”
“Canaan got me this one.”
“Garage sale,” Canaan says, diving into a slice of cherry pie. “I honestly didn’t think he’d put it on. Had I known . . .” Canaan winks at me.
“You have to admit, omniscience would have been helpful here.”
Jake feigns offense. “What are you saying? That I’m not tutu material?”
“Don’t be sad,” I tell him. “You’re good at so many other things.”
“I blame you for these two left feet.”
“Me?”
“Yes. You said if I got a tutu you’d teach me to dance.”
“So?”
“So. Teach.” He scoops me into his arms and spins me full circle. “Am I doing it right?”
“Not even a little bit.” I laugh.
We bump into a slew of people. I try to pull away and apologize, but they’re kind and clap for us. Spurred on by their support, Jake prances me around the food table, around the easels set up promoting the various programs, refusing to stop until we reach center court. He dips me, all dramatic and ridiculous, but I play along, snapping up hard and fast, our faces just inches apart.
More clapping. More whistles.
“Has anyone ever told you how hot you are?” Jake says, his words nearly inaudible in the chaos.
I’m breathless and heady and trying far too hard to come up with a new response to Jake’s favorite question. Before anything remotely intelligent occurs to me, I feel a hand on my elbow.
“Elle, could you come over here for a minute?”
It’s Dad. And he doesn’t seem nearly as amused as the rest of the room.
“Um, sure.”
Jake loosens his grip and nods at my father. “Mr. Matthews.”
“Kid,” Dad says, his lips a tight line. He takes my hand, pulling me from Jake. I do my best to cast Jake an apologetic look, but Dad places a hand on my back and leads me away.
“Everything okay, Dad?”
He squirms, twisting his neck against the top button of the dress shirt I bought him for Father’s Day. He’s already shed the new tie. “Everything’s great, baby. I just wanted you to myself for a second. I’m so proud of you, little girl. You know that? Most people wouldn’t have been able to do what you did up there today. Not after . . .”
“Dad.”
“No, Elle. I’m serious. You were . . . heck, kid, you were . . .” His eyes glaze over. “You remind me so much of your mom.”
The thought makes my throat tight. He’s been talking about Mom a lot lately. A lot.