Page 8 of When Hearts Ignite

She was a beauty queen in her heyday, fawned over by hundreds of men on the Broadway stage even though she was never the main character. Her talent, as she told me, was somewhat lacking, but her charm and energy more than made up for it. Now she works at a small burlesque club off Broadway helping take care of the dancers.

“Mom, things are on the up and up.” I can see the finish line ahead and damn it, I’ll reach it even if it takes my last breath.

“It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have listened to him—”

“Mom, Carl is an asshole and an abuser. You believed him because you’re kind. This is on him, not on you.”

Mom purses her lips but doesn’t say anything. I know she still blames herself for putting us in debt, even though technically it was Carl who put us there. There’s nothing she can do at this point.

“And when I get the full-time offer, I’ll be able to get us a new place in a better neighborhood and pay off our debt.” Clearing my throat, I look away. “So, why are you up so early? Another breakfast date? Who is it this time? The new man from the theater? It better not be Carl, right?”

Mom flushes, her pale cheeks taking on a beautiful bloom and her eyes sparkle. My heart sinks at the lovestruck expression on her face, one I’ve become too familiar with over the years. All I hope is the man putting that smile on her face isn’t her last boyfriend, Carl, a snake of a human being who was obnoxious and slimy, who also had a nasty streak of violence. Then there were the leering glances I’d see him sneak Taylor’s and my way when he thought we weren’t looking. My stomach churns when I think of him.

If this is what beauty gives you, then it’s definitely a liability and not an asset.

“No, this is someone new. I really think he’s the one, Grace. His name is Peter, and he’s a doctor. He loves me. I’m sure of it.” Her eyes take on a faraway look, something I’m also too familiar with. “He’s tall and has the most beautiful eyes…”

Mom is addicted to love. Or to the pursuit of her one true love.

She’s the type of woman who can’t survive being single for too long, always needing the validation of a man to make her whole. The men would come in droves, drawn by her beauty and positivity, but then they’d show their true colors, and the relationships would end. With the exception of Uncle Bobby, her one ex-boyfriend who treated us well in the past, who gave me a taste of what having a father would be like, most of the men she dated were assholes dressed in the finest suits.

Despite all these years of men passing through our lives like we were a revolving door, her many excruciating heartbreaks, and the colorful scumbags she has dated in the past, she still wholeheartedly, desperately believes in love. She still thinks she’s the main character of her fairytale and her happily-ever-after is waiting for her just around the corner. It’s almost as if she was chasing something or someone she lost, and her heart wouldn’t settle unless she found him again.

She used to say, “A heart wants what it wants.” I’d fight the urge to roll my eyes. It felt like a cop-out.

Giving my reflection one last glance, I smooth a stubborn cowlick sticking out of my hair. The cursed strands refuse to stay in place. After half a minute of fiddling with it to no avail, I shrug, giving up.

It doesn’t matter. I’m at Pietra to learn and to get that job offer, to be financially independent, so I don’t need to depend on the support or love of any men, because the only person who’ll never disappoint you is yourself.

“…Maybe we’ll get married one day and you’ll finally have a stepdad. Didn’t you always say you wanted a father?”

Mom’s question draws my attention back to her and I swallow a laugh bubbling in my throat. I did want a father growing up because I never had one. For as long as I can remember, it has only been the three of us—me, Taylor, and Mom. Taylor and I don’t even know who our biological father is and Mom refuses to tell us despite our years of pestering her. I wonder if this man broke her heart and that is why she’s so desperate to repair it, seeking comfort in the arms of asshole after asshole, hoping to recreate what she once experienced.

“Not anymore,” I reply. “I only want to know who my birth father is.”

She stays silent, and I wish I could say I’m surprised by her lack of response.

Every time I’d ask her about my birth father, a shadow would fall over her face. She’d turn away and tell us he’s no one of importance and we should stop asking her. Then, she’d fake a laugh and change the subject, but the pain would linger in her eyes.

So, over time, we stopped asking but there’s an aching hole in my gut and I feel like I’m missing part of my identity. Maybe someday she’d tell us. A familiar weight returns to my chest, and I inhale a deep breath, releasing it slowly when I feel the knot loosening.

I shake my head softly at the thoughts before turning away and walking into the living room to gather my purse and my reading tablet for my bus ride and the 4 train to get to Wall Street.

A loud yawn follows us into the living room and my lips quirk into a grin before I turn around, finding Taylor, my younger sister by less than a year—Irish twins they say—trudging out from the bedroom we share, her long hair piled up high into a messy bun as she rubs her eyes.

“Why are you up so early, Tay? I thought you had at least five more hours of sleep in you.”

Her nose piercing—a tiny black skull this morning—glints in the soft light from the one lamp we turned on in the small living room, the size only marginally bigger than the copy room at Pietra. But this tiny two-bedroom apartment near Melrose in the Bronx is rent-controlled and isn’t in the projects. It’s considered quite a steal in the current economy, which is probably why the landlord is evicting us in a few months when he sells the building to a large developer. Gentrification of the city is alive and well and now we’ll need to find a new place to live.

Despite the less than ideal surroundings and the small space, Mom did the best she could to liven up the apartment—hanging artwork we made when we were younger over the faded floral wallpaper, draping chenille blankets and thrifted pillows over our gray sofa to cover up the ruined fabric from a mishap I made when I was in fifth grade and decided to decorate it with glitter and permanent marker.

Wonderful memories are held within these walls, and I wouldn’t trade them for the world. But as I stare at the overdue bills on the countertop and the red paper sticking out from the pile of mail—the eviction notice our family has been trying to ignore for the longest time—I know our time in this little slice of heaven is ending soon. Unless you get the damn job, which you will, Grace.

“Auditions are at fucking eight this morning at Petit Jeté, which means I should probably be there by seven at the latest. What motherfuckers have auditions so early? Crazy people,” Taylor grumbles, her lips curling into a half snarl. She sticks her middle finger in the general direction of the door.

“Taylor Gianna Peyton! Your language!” Mom scolds, but her voice barely holds any venom. Tay has the potty mouth between the two of us, quite at odds with her elegant ballerina persona, but Mom still makes it a point to try to “correct” her coarse language.

Taylor smiles sheepishly and mumbles something sounding like an apology before yawning again. She stretches her hands overhead, her large sleep shirt riding up her thighs. “I don’t even know why I bother. It’s not like I’ll get in and even if I do, it’s not like we can ever afford it.”

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