Page 64 of Stuck With the Best Man

“Maybe the Hawthornes want to switch their donations to ABT instead? Everyone always favors the classical companies,” muses Isabelle.

Katia scoffs. “Screw them if that’s the case. But anyway, I just thought I’d let you girls know. And congratulations, Ruby. I’d bet everything I own on you being promoted to principal by the end of this season.”

I should smile. I should throw myself at her feet and weep my gratefulness for her recommendation. I should hunt down Ben right now and ask him what on earth is going on.

But all I can do is stare at Katia and Isabelle in complete and utter shock.

Chapter Twenty: Ben

DearMr.Hawthorne,

Thank you for your application to the NYU Summer Poetry Intensive. We are pleased to inform you that you have been awarded a spot in the program. Please see the attached materials for information on fees payment, the program syllabus, and required reading. The Intensive begins on July 27 and concludes on August 29. We look forward to meeting you.

I stare at the email for several long minutes—a habit I’ve developed over the past couple of days since it first appeared in my inbox. I can hardly believe it.

I wasn’t expecting to get in. I wasn’t even expecting a response—rejection or otherwise.

The day after Ruby and I returned to the city, I knew I had to shift my life around. I thought about what it might be like to devote myself to the board at the NYC Ballet for the next decade or two of my life. I would enjoy it, of course, but making big decisions while wearing a suit doesn’t sound like my idea of a truly rewarding career.

I kept thinking about what I admitted to Ruby—what I’ve never said aloud to another person before because it felt stupid and whimsical and pointless.I like poetry, I told her. Even though she laughed at me, she agreed that she could see it happening for me.

It’s all because of her. Whether she knows it or not, she’s inspiring. She made me feel like I have a real purpose in life. Like I don’t have to just sit back and watch other people do beautiful, artistic things. I can create too. Maybe people won’t like what I create—maybe people won’t even likeme—but it’s worth it.

As soon as I received the email from NYU, I fired off my resignation letter to the Board of Directors. It took a grand total of twelve minutes before my father was blowing up my phone. I received an earful about wasted opportunities and how much I’ve embarrassed him, but I took it all in stride. I am a Hawthorne, but I am also just Ben. My siblings might be satisfied with the paths they’ve chosen, but I need something more.

Maybe after this summer program, I’ll apply for an MFA. Maybe I won’t. Maybe I’ll decide that I actually hate writing poetry and I’ll switch directions. Maybe I’ll become a painter or a violinist. All I know is that I want to do something meaningful.

I stare at the email for a moment longer.

Then I reach for my phone.

When I call Ruby, it goes straight to voicemail. I check the time and see that it’s half past three. She’s probably in rehearsal. Or in a costume fitting. Or meeting with the company’s massage therapist.

Or maybe she’s just ignoring me.

For a while, all I can do is pace around my apartment. In all honesty, I hate this apartment. I bought it when I turned twenty-one and the full depth of my trust fund became available to me. It’s the sort of real estate that many people covet—a penthouse in a high-rise with advanced tech and sleek design. Obviously, it’s nice, but I’d rather live somewhere like Ruby does. Somewhere more authentically New York, with exposed brick walls and rickety stairs and the persistent scent of old dust. That sounds like the kind of place a writer should live.

At half past four, I try calling her again. It rings and rings, then goes to voicemail. I think about leaving a message, but what I need to say can’t be explained within ten or fifteen seconds.

Ruby,I text her.Are you busy? Can I see you?

I go back to pacing. Half an hour passes. I check my phone again and see that she’s read the message, but hasn’t responded. Has she already heard about me leaving the board? Word travels fast in a ballet company, even when it’s something as mundane as one of the many administrative roles leaving.

Is she angry at me for it?

At five o’clock, I decide that I can’t wait around another minute. I have to see her. I have to explain myself. If I don’t have the bittersweet benefit of being stuck in a car with her, then I need to go find her myself.

In the elevator on the way down, I tap my foot impatiently and scroll idly through my email. There’s a newsletter from an international ballet news website that I subscribed to when I joined the board with a headline that catches my eye.

Beloved Prima Ballerina Retires Early…

I click on it, thinking it’ll keep me distracted at least long enough for me not to completely implode on the walk through the parking garage to my car.

The article is short and simple.

Katia Nikov, famed principal dancer at the New York City Ballet, has announced an early retirement this week. The dancer, who was already out for the season due to a minor wrist injury, states that she’s leaving the sport in order to start a family with her husband, celebrated costume designer Jack Brown.

“What?” I whisper aloud to the empty elevator. It hits the bottom level with a cheerfulding—the doors sliding open as I try to remember how to move my legs.

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