Page 70 of The Perfect Mistake

“Yes,” he mutters. “It was. Look, I already know that I’m not enough. That I can’t be everywhere, do everything, and make everyone happy. That’s not as big a revelation as you seem to think it is.”

“That’s not what I meant.” I shake my head, struggling to find the right words. A way to express it. “They need you present, too. Emotionally present. Willa needs you to validate her—”

“You’ve been with us for a little over a month,” he says. His voice is sharp, his face drawn. “I’ve known them their entire lives.”

“That’s why she doesn’t like nannies!” I say. “Because she thinks we take you away from her.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s kid logic,” I say. “And you have kids, so their logic matters.”

He glares at me. I stare back at him, and the air between us draws tight. I don’t know what to say. What to add. And it doesn’t seem like he knows, either.

But then something softens around his eyes, and he looks tired rather than angry. “Seems like I can never feel enough of it,” he says.

“Enough of what?”

“The guilt.” He runs a hand over his face, and his voice turns dry. “I can’t have this conversation right now. Not while I’m fighting—”

A door creaks open. Light patter of little feet out into the kitchen, and we both turn to Sam arriving at the threshold. He’s in his superhero pajamas.

He blinks at the light. “Daddy?”

Alec’s face goes blank, returns to the stoic expression I’m used to seeing. “I’m here,” he says and bends to pick up his youngest child. “What happened?”

Sam rests his head against Alec’s shoulder with the droopy flop that only kids are capable of. “Can I sleep in your bed tonight?”

“Yes. Come, let’s go.”

They retreat down the hall without another word. I’m not even sure Sam saw me, and Alec doesn’t turn around.

It takes a long time for my heartbeat to calm down.

Isabel

Working out usually saves me. It gets the body moving in a way that quiets the mind, and makes my overthinking halt. But it’s not happening today.

I lie on my back, doing a hip bridge, and stare up at the recessed ceiling lights. Alec’s home gym is…

Impressive is an understatement.

Each piece of equipment here is state-of-the-art. The selection of weights impeccable. The air conditioning is unrivaled.

I should have used it before.

The physiotherapist, the one Alec had insisted on, had laid out a rehabilitation program for me to strengthen the muscles around my hip. No intense movements. No ballet.

Five to six months.

Not surprising. I’d known it for weeks already, for months, so hearing the proclamation out loud didn’t hurt as much this time because what I’d feared to lose had already happened.

I miss the scent of pine resin and the dusty dance studios. I miss the sound of applause and the orchestra. The coordinated movements on the stage, like flowing water, rippling and crashing. I miss the adrenaline after a finished performance, when all the dancers collapse into the dressing rooms, panting and giddy with another night done.

I miss feeling like I’m good at what I do.

I miss the high of pushing myself to do better.

Five to six months. Maybe I could come back. Not the New York Ballet Company. That dream feels too dangerous to hope for. But maybe to another company. Maybe… there’s still hope. A faint, thin thread of it, but it’s there. I can’t do this job forever. And judging by what happened last night, I might not be doing it much longer at all.

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