Page 96 of The Perfect Mistake

He leans back in the chair and makes a chiding sound with his tongue. “You’re leaving already? Something I said? Come on, have another glass. You can drink now—you’re not dancing anymore!”

I wonder if that was his thinking. If he’s done this with other ballerinas who’ve left the company, if there’s a whole roster of them, and if he dangles the promise of a new job before them all.

I feel too hot, and I need the cool of November air. I need to get out.

“Thank you,” I say. “Goodbye.”

I hurry out of the restaurant with my coat thrown over my arm. Don’t cry, I think. Get away from here. My eyes sting, but I force back the tears and keep walking. I can’t wait at the front entrance of the restaurant.

Not if Antoine will leave soon, too.

I text Mac with numb fingers. Waiting outside the fast-food place on the corner.

He’s there three minutes later. I sigh in relief at the familiar black town car. Mac opens the door for me with a smile, and I sink into the plush leather seats, hidden behind the tinted windows. Odd how it’s starting to feel like a second home. There’s an iPad tucked into the seatback pocket, the one we use on longer trips with the kids, and a small backpack with after-school snacks I keep stocked here.

Mac pulls us out into traffic. I focus on breathing, but it hurts. My chest feels too tight. Like I can’t take a full breath and get enough oxygen.

He looks at me in the rearview mirror. “Are you all right, Isabel?”

“Yes,” I say. But I’m shaking my head, staring at the intricate stitching on the back of a leather seat in front of me. “No. That didn’t go as I’d hoped.”

Mac’s voice deepens. “Did someone hurt you?”

“Well, yes, but not physically. I…. God, I feel so stupid.” A tear slips down my cheek. “So stupid.”

“There are tissues in the center console,” he says. The car subtly increases speed, heading back toward the Upper East Side. “And if you ever want to talk, I’m a pretty good listener.”

The drive is short. I’m more composed when we say goodbye, but not by much. It’s only 10 p.m. The kids are long since asleep… but Alec won’t be.

I don’t know if I want him to see me like this.

I unlock the front door as quietly as I can. The apartment, with its soft recessed lighting in the entryway and the wide doorway into the living room and kitchen, welcomes me in. I have to walk through it all to get to my room.

There are muffled voices on the TV; it sounds like the news. Quiet clicking of a keyboard. He’s working from the couch.

I take a deep breath and walk through the living room.

Alec sees me. “Hey,” he says. But then his face darkens. “Isabel?”

“I’m okay, really.”

He puts the laptop away and rises in a single smooth movement. “What happened?”

I shake my head, and the tears start to flow. I can’t seem to stop them this time. “I’m just such an idiot.”

“No, you’re not.” He wraps an arm around my waist and uses his free hand to brush along my cheek. His voice hardens. “What happened? Who hurt you?”

“Myself, and my stupid hopes.”

His eyebrows furrow, and concern flashes through his eyes. “Not possible.”

I rest my head against his shoulder and let the tears stream unabashed. Why had I thought this meeting would result in my return to ballet? The hopes feel so foolish now, and so naive, in retrospect.

There might not be a way back for me at all.

Alec strokes his hands over my back, holding me tight against him. “Sweetheart,” he mutters. “Come. Let me… here.”

He leads me to my bedroom and closes the door behind us. I head for my bed, and he follows, stretching out beside me. I shift over into his arms, and the tears keep falling. I can’t seem to make them stop.

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