Page 97 of The Perfect Mistake

It feels like another death of my career. Maybe that’s a hyperbolic feeling, but it’s what I’m thinking now.

The door has closed. The path is blocked.

Isabel Morales the ballerina. It’s an identity that will slowly be worn away, like the tag on a well-used piece of clothing. It’ll fade, and, gradually, I’ll get a new one. Isabel Morales, the nanny. The yoga instructor. The college student.

But right now, I’m just Isabel, and I’m lost.

Alec’s hand drifts over my hair. His chest is firm beneath my cheek, rising and falling with steady breaths.

“Tell me,” he says.

I close my eyes. “He didn’t want me to dance for him again, not in New York or Paris.”

“Then what did he want?” Alec’s voice grows rough as he asks me.

“He just wanted to sleep with me.”

His body beneath mine stiffens, and his voice turns sharp with anger. “He wanted what?”

“Yeah.” I chuckle, but it’s entirely humorless. “I didn’t… I couldn’t even imagine that’s why he’d called. I thought he remembered my dancing. That he wanted to check on my hip. But I’m just another girl he tried to get into bed.”

Alec mutters something against my temple, and his arms close tight around me. “I’m so sorry.”

“I won’t dance again,” I say. The words send a fresh wave of sadness crashing over me, and I bury my head against his neck. It’s the second time I’ve cried in Alec’s arms over this. Two more than I’d ever planned on.

The first time had been very different from this. It was all immediate sadness, the loss of my everyday profession. This feels more like the loss of an identity.

The realization that there truly isn’t a way back to the stage.

“Have you considered other options?”

“Yes,” I murmur. “But every single one feels like defeat.”

“Other professional ballerinas must have changed careers,” he says. He reaches down and grabs my knee, pulling my leg over his body until I’m half-draped over him. “What have they gone on to do?”

That question makes my tears slow. “Their lives are pretty varied. If they were fairly famous, some have become… experts in the field. But most… I don’t know.”

“Can you contact one of them? Ask for advice?”

I blink against his shirt. “Yes. I suppose.”

“Good,” he murmurs. His right hand drifts over my head, my hair, down my back. “And while you’re at it, give me the contact details for this choreographer.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to make sure he never works again.”

I chuckle weakly against his neck, but he doesn’t laugh. I take a deep breath, and then another. Let the last of the tears ebb.

I push up onto my elbow and look into Alec’s eyes. They’re steady, concerned, and just a bit enraged.

I run my free hand along his jaw. “How did you handle it?”

“Handle what?” he asks.

“You lost the future you had planned for, the future you thought you’d have. Your… identity as a husband. How did it not tear you apart?”

He swipes his thumb over my cheek, catching the tear. Tucks my hair behind my ear. “It did tear me apart,” he says quietly.

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