Page 62 of Stuck With the Best Man

“Let me help you with your—”

“I’ve got it,” I insist, hauling my suitcase out onto the pavement before Ben can do the chivalrous thing. I don’t need my stupid heart pitter-pattering over him again.

Ben rolls down the passenger side window. I stare at him from the sidewalk. It feels like we should say more. Do more. We just spent twenty-four hours together—slept in the same room as each other—and yet we’re just going to say goodbye and that’s it?

Yes, that’s it.And it’s for the best, I remind myself.

“Bye,” I say.

Ben smiles. “Bye, Ruby. I’ll see you around.”

I nod. “Yeah… okay. Bye.”

I’m all too aware of Ben idling there on the curb as I climb the steps of my stoop and, as usual, find myself fighting with the outdated lock on the front door. When I step inside the dingy, narrow hall of my building, I dare to turn back and look through the dusty window at the street. He’s still idling there. When he sees me looking out at him, he waves and then finally pulls away.

He’s gone.

For a long moment, I stare at the empty hallway. I can hear old Ms. Saltz’s two Pomeranians yapping away in the apartment to my left. Upstairs, the sounds of Mr. Pomar’s twin daughters bickering float down to me. Just outside, a car horn blares, an engine revs, and someone shouts a greeting to someone else. The sounds of New York City are so different than that of the small town where I was born and raised, but I love the music of this place. I love both of my homes.

***

“Ah, that feels good,” I sigh as another soloist in the company, a sweet French girl named Isabelle, steps on my toes. My pointe shoes make a subtle yet satisfying crunching sound as she does.

Angeline lets out a breathless laugh. “Me next.”

I nod in agreement. Against the barre, we switch positions so that I can press the heels of my feet, and the full weight of my body, onto her toes. To any outside observer, we probably look insane. But at this point in rehearsal, our toes are so numb that stepping on them is pretty much the only way to get any sensation flowing back into them.

“Ow, that’s amazing,” Isabelle says, cringing yet smiling at the same time.

I stifle a giggle, knowing that this particular instructor isn’t a huge fan of displays of happiness in his studio. He’s tough, but also a genius, so we hide our smiles and keep on dancing.

As soon as I lift my weight off Isabelle’s toes, the instructor claps his hands together sharply. “One more time! One! More! Time! Let’s go!”

I feel like I’m going to collapse into a puddle of sweat and agony on the floor, and I’m not entirely sure I’m ever going to be able to catch my breath even once this rehearsal is over, but I obediently find my position as the music begins again. Isabelle shoots me a wink and takes her place next to me.

The music begins again and we come to life once more.

It’s been a week since the storm that changed everything and nothing. I haven’t seen Ben, though I’ve foolishly expected him to appear around every corner in the company building. The members of the board don’t just wander around this place.

He hasn’t texted me. Or called. I tell myself that it’s for the best, just like the first time.

Yet, pretty much every waking thought I have is invaded by him. He’s like a parasite, and I should hate him for it, but I think I know by now that I never actually hated him in the first place.

When our aspiring drill sergeant finally decides that we’ve doneadequately, he releases us for the afternoon and sweeps out of the room without a single nicety. We’re all used to it by now, so it’s easy to shrug off. Chilliness from an instructor doesn’t mean you’ve done poorly. In fact, if you’re dancing badly, you’d be told loudly and without hesitation in front of everyone else.

I drop down to the floor to undo the knotted ribbons of my pointe shoes. I’ve been dancing for the past six hours and now I have a hot date with the company’s physical therapist to help work out some stiffness in my left hamstring.

Maybe I can ask him to recommend a good lobotomist who can force the persistent thoughts of Ben out of my brain.

Isabelle chatters beside me, telling me all about her niece that was just born. While I listen, I shove my numb feet into a pair of socks and reach for my sneakers.

“Oh, what’s Katia doing here?” Isabelle whispers.

I glance up immediately. The studio is emptying out steadily, but everyone notices when a principal dancer enters the room. Katia smiles warmly at a few people, then scurries over to me. Her wrist is in a stiff black splint—evidence of the minor surgery that has her out of commission until September. The reason that I was almost cast as Giselle.

Katia skids to a stop in front of me and Isabelle, then plops down on the studio floor with a conspiratorial grin on her face. She glances over her shoulder, as if to check that nobody else is close enough to overhear.

“Aren’t you supposed to be on bed rest?” I ask her.

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