Page 65 of One Last Encore

"Can you believe he tried to give me last season’s Gucci?" her mother’s voice squealed over the phone, the pitch climbing higher with every syllable. "The audacity! Does he think I’m some basic American hussy on a vacation? It is abso–"

Ingrid sighed, zoning out as her mother launched into yet another tirade about a man who had apparently failed to meet her impossibly high standards. This time it was Jacques, and his crime was gifting her a bag that wasn’t from the latest collection. Truly, humanity at its worst.

It was ironic, really, that after Beck found out about her scars, the first person she called the next day was her. No, her mother hadn’t been the one to put those marks on her skin but she’d certainly helped build the emotional scaffolding that led there. A real team effort.

"Ingrid, are you even listening?" her mother demanded, suddenly slipping into the exaggerated French accent she adopted whenever she felt particularly dramatic. Ingrid had to press her lips together to keep from laughing. Seven years inParis and Genevieve acted like she had been personally sculpted by Rodin in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower.

"Of course, Mother," Ingrid replied dutifully, her tone smooth as silk. She leaned back against the couch, biting back a smirk. The trick was to stay agreeable. Disagreeing would only prolong the conversation, and laughing? A death sentence.

But there was another reason she was treading carefully. Ingrid needed to ask her mother for a favor, no small feat. Winter break was coming up, and Ingrid had been accepted into an intensive ballet program in Paris. She’d managed to scrape together enough money for the flight, but room and board were still out of reach, even with everything she’d saved from teaching dance over the summer. Asking her father wasn’t an option; her pride wouldn’t allow it. Which meant she’d have to stay with her mother for a few weeks. God help her.

"Listen," her mother continued, still deep in the Jacques tragedy. "I’m not saying he isn’t charming. But darling, charm doesn’t pay for couture."

"Of course not," Ingrid said lightly, resisting the urge to bang her head against the armrest as her mother’s laugh rang through the phone. Finally, Genevieve wrapped up her thirty-minute monologue of social triumphs and designer-related betrayals.

"Anyway, enough about me," she said, which was the biggest lie ever told. "Are you still a size 2? Jocelyn said she saw you at Whole Foods last week and mentioned you looked…healthy."

Ingrid inhaled deeply, pressing her fingers to her temple. She was going to need more than a favor. She was going to need more therapy.

That pause before "healthy" hit harder than the word itself.Classic Mom.Ingrid gritted her teeth, her grip tightening on the phone as she counted to three in her head. Of course, they were back to her appearance because why talk about anythingremotely interesting or meaningful when there’s a perfectly good body to dissect?

Growing up with her mom was like being under a microscope, every little thing picked apart, every screw-up treated like a disaster. Nothing was ever good enough unless it madeherlook good. Compliments were as fake as the knockoff handbags on Canal Street. And the minute she stepped out of line or didn’t play the "perfect daughter," the disapproval came fast and sharp.

"Mom, it doesn’t matter what size I am as long as I’m actually healthy," Ingrid said, her tone full of barely restrained irritation.

"And the danseurs are going to lift big girls now, right?" Her mother’s laugh echoed in Ingrid’s ear, hollow and laced with enough sarcasm to drown a small village.

"Seriously?" Ingrid snapped before she could stop herself. Her patience was slipping, worn thin by years of navigating these conversations.

"Oh, don’t be mad, ma chérie," her mother cooed, and Ingrid could practically hear her flipping her hair through the phone. "I just don’t want you to lose your roles if you’re putting on weight. You know how picky directors can be. And once you leave that ridiculous school, you’ll need to be the best, physically."

"Just leave it, please." Ingrid exhaled, her words coming out in an exasperated breath. The familiar ache of frustration clawed at her chest, but she was too tired to engage. Why did she always do this? Every conversation was like déjà vu in hell.

Nothing Ingrid did ever seemed to measure up. Her weight was either too high, too low, or "could be a little more toned." Her career choices were "reckless" or "uninspired." Her independence was either "rebellion" or "a lack of gratitude." And don’t even get her started on the subtle hints that she could "do better" if she just took a different path entirely.

"I wanted to ask if I could stay with you over the winter break for an intensive at the Paris Opera Ballet School. It’d just be for a few weeks."

"So you only want to see me when it’s convenient for you? Not because you actually miss spending time with me?" her mother said, voice tight with accusation. There was a pause. Then, as if on cue: "Well, I guess wecouldgo to Louis Vuitton on?—"

And there it was. Another deflection. Another shopping trip pretending to be quality time.

Ingrid let her head fall back against the couch, eyes tracing the ceiling as her mother launched into the usual spiel about boutiques, overpriced cafés, and how she really needed to start wearing more scarves.

She responded at the appropriate moments, her "Mm-hmm"s turning into a meditative mantra, the verbal equivalent of white noise as she braced herself for the emotional gymnastics ahead.

She could endure this. She had developed thick skin over the years, a survival skill when dealing with her mother’s backhanded compliments and uncanny ability to change the subject when things got too real. A few weeks of jabs and judgment? Manageable. Worth it, even, if it meant chasing her dream.

Still, her thoughts kept drifting back to Beck. Specifically, to the moment his fingers had brushed over her scars. She could still see the look on his face, how alarm melted into something softer, something close to understanding.

No one had ever touched them before.

Her father had insisted on a doctor’s visit when he first found out, but that had been clinical. Detached. No one had really seen them, let alone traced them with their fingers like Beck had.

The sensation had tightened her chest with a confusing swirl of emotions. Part of her wanted to run away, to throw up her walls before he could see too much. But another part, a quieter, more stubborn part, wanted to stay still. To let him.

"What do you think?" her mother’s voice crackled through the phone, yanking Ingrid back to reality.

Ingrid blinked. Crap. What were they talking about again? The guest room? The hydrangeas?

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