Page 6 of The Perfect Mistake

She walks ahead of me through the lobby. “I’ll get my bike.”

“I’ll wait by the curb with the car,” I say and watch her retreat quickly down the steps to the sidewalk. She heads toward the bike rack while wiping her face with the back of her left hand.

It must be her hip. I’ve heard of the pain dancers experience. Injuries, fractures… Is she hurting that much right now? I frown at her back, thinking through what solutions I have.

Mac pulls the Bentley to the curb and steps out. “Sir?” he asks, looking down at the hiking backpack I’m holding.

“Put this in the back,” I tell him. “Do we have space for a bike?”

He frowns but doesn’t question it. “Yes, if we fold down one of the seats.”

“Let’s do it.”

I join Isabel by the rack. “You okay?”

She finishes unlocking her bike and gives me a wide smile. Her eyes glitter but her cheeks are dry. “Yes, feeling better already. Sure the bike will fit?”

“Yes. Look, I can take you to a doctor’s office instead.”

“No, no. I’ll be fine. I just need rest.” Her smile remains in place. “Trust me, this isn’t the first time the hip has acted up.”

Mac and I lift her bike and wedge it into the trunk. “To the Greystone,” I tell him.

He nods and pulls out into the busy traffic. Isabel and I don’t talk until the car finally arrives at her building. It’s familiar, located on a street I’ve visited often enough while Connie still lived here, too.

Mac lifts her bike out, and I move to assist when Isabel puts a hand on my forearm. “Alec,” she says.

I pause. “Yes?”

“Thank you. Truly.” Her smile has softened, and her eyes don’t shine with tears anymore. “I really appreciated this.”

I clear my throat. “Anything for a friend of Connie’s.”

Mac and I help her into the lobby of the Greystone with her bike and bag. We both watch as the elevator doors close behind her, and she disappears from view. The sight of her dancing stays with me, but so do her tears. The vision of her crying lodges in my chest uncomfortably, a memory I know I won’t be able to shake.

My throat feels too tight, and I undo the top button to pull my collar loose. Inconvenient, I think and know it to be true. But knowing it won’t stop the attraction.

It’s not until the car pulls away from the Greystone Building that I realize I never did talk to the junior ballet director about my daughter’s classes.

Isabel

I stare at the letter that arrived in my mailbox a few days ago. After opening the envelope, I’d left the papers on my two-seater couch, unfolded and poised to strike like a cobra.

I expected this would come, just not this soon. It’s been just over a week since I left the Company, with all the contents of my locker in my backpack and a throbbing hip. Ice packs and rest had taken care of the pain, but now that I’m out of a job, my injury is far from my most pressing issue.

I’ve lived in my little one-bedroom apartment for six years. It’s one of several properties around New York that’s sublet to the New York Ballet on ninety-nine-year lease agreements. A remnant of former times, when wealthy patrons showed support for the art by offering affordable residences to ballet principals in their newly built properties. I bet whoever commissioned the Greystone has their name on the small golden plaque in the hall of the New York Dance Academy.

When I joined the corps, I was allotted a place to stay at a comped rent. For six years I’ve paid what in New York City can only be called a nominal fee.

I should have cherished it more while it lasted.

My phone vibrates against the wooden top of my coffee table. Once. Twice. Three times. The group chat with my younger siblings has been blowing up all morning, which isn’t unusual for them. My silence is, though. I haven’t told anyone about being released from the Company. Just stayed holed up in the tiny, rent-controlled apartment I’m about to lose.

I haven’t even been able to relax by reading. My Kindle lies next to my phone, just as unused. There’s been no escape from the single, all-consuming question. What the hell am I supposed to do now?

There’s a knock on my door and a cheery “Hello! You in?”

I startle off the couch. It sounds like Connie. But she hasn’t lived in the Greystone for months, not since she married her nemesis turned soulmate.

---