Page 65 of Stuck With the Best Man

Katia Nikov is retiring. That’s the same dancer that Ruby was supposed to take over for inGiselle… before I unknowingly screwed everything up.

I jog to my car, thinking of nothing but Ruby. The raw ruby in my pocket seems to grow heavier as my mind hums out the syllables of her name like a metronome. I’ve been carrying the stone with me for the past week. I’d rather trust the guidance of the wise woman of the beach than take my chances with disobeying fate.

The drive to her apartment is torturous. From Tribeca to Little Italy, it shouldn’t take more than a few minutes, but I idiotically forgot about the reality of rush hour. I fidget in the seat, suddenly understanding how Ruby feels when she’s too anxious to sit still.

Katia is gone. There’s a spot open for a new principal dancer.

It has to be Ruby. The company might want to poach another dancer who already has experience in principal roles, but if they’re eager to give a soloist a life-changing promotion, then Ruby will definitely be the first choice. I’m not biased when I say that everyone in the higher levels of the company knows her name.

She has promise, Gerald himself said just last month.

They have to promote her. I know Ruby would kill me if I interfered, so I refrain from calling Gerald myself. He probably wouldn’t even listen to me, despite the weight of the Hawthorne name, since I’ve now resigned.

Instead of waiting another moment in traffic, I parallel park on the avenue in a residential spot that will probably earn me a ticket, but I don’t care. I leap out of the car, dodging a taxi as I do, and start running toward Ruby’s apartment.

Ru-by. Ru-by. My feet pound out the sound of her name.

As I round a corner and spot a bodega’s sidewalk overflowing with fresh flowers, I skid to a halt.

I can’t show up to her place empty-handed.

“Think,” I mutter to myself. “Think, think, think.”

I stare at the flowers. Surely, she must have said something at some point about what her favorite kind is. Maybe she mentioned it in passing last year when we met for the first time.

If she did, I can’t remember. I curse my useless memory.

There are bouquets of red roses. Red like rubies. But is that too romantic? Too presumptuous? Too cliché?

Does she like peonies? The only pink I’ve ever seen her wear on purpose is the soft pastel pink of her pointe shoes, but that doesn’t mean she dislikes the color.

What about hydrangeas? Orchids? Sunflowers?

Does she even like flowers at all?

Am I fretting over this only to make a fool out of myself in the end?

My eyes land on a bouquet of heavy lilac stems.

Lilacs. Of course. A smile curves my lips as I recall her stunning performance as the Lilac Fairy this past spring. Perfect.

I grab the flowers, toss a twenty-dollar bill at the bodega guy, insist that he keep the change, and then carry on down the street.

I dodge tourists and residents alike as I go, weaving through the crowds as they form lines for the countless Italian eateries in this neighborhood. Strings of tiny Italian flags wave in the hot summer breeze overhead. Across the street, a portly man shouts to a younger man aboutGetting the damn dough started. I laugh to myself. It’s so different from Ruby’s hometown, yet somehow still the same. Small town or big city, there is so much life to witness, share, and participate in. So many people to appreciate, avoid, and admire.

Leaping over the back wheel of a rusted bicycle as a teenage boy locks it up, I narrowly avoid clipping the side of a table from a dining area that has overflowed onto the pavement. Someone hurls a curse in my direction, but I ignore it and clutch the lilacs close to keep them safe.

Flinging myself around the corner of Ruby’s street, I pause for a moment to catch my bearings. At least I can remember which stoop is hers. I walk to it, grateful that this tiny side street is emptier than the others. If this goes badly, there will be less witnesses to my shame.

Climbing the steps, I stare at the array of doorbells. The nameSullivanis printed on a tiny strip of paper next to apartment 3FE. I press the button and hear the dull buzz of the bell echoing all the way up on the third floor.

There’s no answer. One more glance at my phone tells me she hasn’t answered my text yet, either.

What do I do now? I hop back down to the street and start pacing. A woman with a stroller, yapping away on her phone, gives me a wide berth.

Back and forth, I pace in front of her stoop. Will she be at the studio late tonight? How long is it reasonable for me to wait out here before someone reports me for suspicious activity? Is Ruby close with her neighbors? Are they protective of her?

Am I completely and utterly insane?

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