Page 79 of The Unraveling

After the curtain call, we head up to our dressing rooms to take our makeup off, releasing our bones from the beautiful costumes, all the while knowing that outside, the audience is pouring onto the chilly street, chatting about the show or about where they’re going for drinks. Most people don’t know Balthazar across from the theater says they close at eleven p.m. but that’s just a lie they tell tourists.

A week ago, I sat there until two in the morning with one of the guys in the company. We shared green beans and wine as we bonded over ballet faux pas. His was accidently asking a principal to move barre spots. He thought it was a new corps member, not the new guest artist.

Now, as we all remove our costumes and makeup, I feel warm at the memory. Like maybe some things are falling into place.

Natasha, another soloist, announces to the dressing room that it’s snowing outside.

There’s an excited din at the news and everyone starts to get ready to leave a little more quickly. There’s a day off tomorrow, so people are talking about their plans. As I head to the showers the soloists share with the corps girls, I overhear that Arabella invited a group to her flat. I feel a little embarrassed. The age-old feeling of being left out. I quickly replace the feeling with a peaceful gratitude, knowing that Arabella is just jealous and bitchy. Plus, I am going home to a gorgeous flat, and soon I’ll be in Manon rehearsals.

Plus, I think, as my ear burns with the memory of her bite, who the hell wants to go hang out with Arabella when she’s clearly been possessed by the still-living soul of Mike Tyson?

If I wanted a booming social life, I could have flitted around with Jordan or sucked up to Arabella, but that’s not my focus right now. I’m a ballerina. That means work is my life. I have plenty of time to hang with filler friends the rest of my life.

I bundle up for the cold and prepare to walk home. It seems like my Louisiana blood might never get used to cold temperatures despite my living in New York City for six years.

I leave the dressing room and start walking down the hall, when I hear my name.

I turn to see Luca. He quickens his pace, smiling that absurdly gorgeous grin. He reaches me and says, “Congratulations.”

I’m a little stunned by his beauty. I don’t even know if I’m attracted to him. He’s just one of those people who is so undeniably gorgeous that he is everyone’s type.

“On—oh, on Manon?” I stutter.

“Yes, I’m dancing as Des Grieux. Your penniless lover.”

He has a strong Spanish accent, and I crumble a little under how beautiful the words sound.

It’s just laughable how hot he is.

“Yeah! I can’t wait. It’s really exciting.”

As I step out of the stage door, I think back to a few years ago when I met Sylvie for brunch on the Upper West Side. It was snowing then, too, and I was even less prepared for the cold than I am today. That day, I remember distinctly that I was idiotically dressed in a short skirt and sheer tights.

“Okay, I’ll see you soon for rehearsals,” he says, giving me a friendly wave, and then heads off in the other direction.

I blink after him for a moment, watching him go, seeing that he’s meeting up with a group of people. Not dancers, just friends waiting for him.

I breathe in the air, which has that distinct snow smell, and take off down the road. I already know tomorrow, Sunday, the streets will be peaceful and quiet, everyone tucked into their little flats.

Yet there it is again. That sad little ping in my chest.

There’s a chance I’m kind of lonely.

I hate that word. Lonely. It’s so pitiful.

I think about my mom, then wonder why. If she was alive right now, I’d be staying as far from her as possible, not hunkering down to endure the storm with her. I guess it’s just that there’s something lonely about losing family, no matter how estranged. Besides Mimi, and whatever random rich dude my mom was fucking, she was my only known relative. So now Mimi is all I have, and she doesn’t seem to recognize me most of the time.

Yeah, that’s probably a pretty good reason to feel lonely.

It doesn’t hurt that I can’t stop thinking about Jordan and also Alistair. I can’t stop thinking about what either one is doing.

I sigh. There’s no use thinking about Jordan. He has a new girlfriend. That fucking blonde. I need to remember that. And I really shouldn’t be thinking of Alistair.

I need to stay in good spirits. It was such a good night. I don’t want to sit here, dragging myself down, remembering all the things that should be depressing the living shit out of me. I’ll call Sylvie later. We always have something to laugh about.

I get back to the building, Ivory Towers, and am allowed in by the doorman, who then calls me the elevator. I thank him, and he tells me to have a good night.

Once in the flat, I take my coat off and hang it in the coat closet by the front door, kicking off my shoes and letting my aching feet relax on the plush rug that sits in the entryway.

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