Page 123 of One Last Encore

"You and Broadway," Ingrid said, shaking her head fondly.

"I thrive on sequins and melodrama," Sylvia declared. Then, with a pointed look, she added, "Unlike some people, whose audiences are just wealthy insomniacs in pearls looking for an excuse to power nap in public."

Ingrid gasped in mock horror. "You dare insult ballet in the sacred safe space of Joe’s?"

Joe Coffee had been their go-to haunt since college, first for Sylvia, because it was close to her old apartment, and now for Ingrid, ever since she’d moved to the Upper West Side after leaving France.

Sylvia rolled her eyes. "You say artistic expression, I say two-hour mime crisis. With pointe shoes."

"Hater," Ingrid accused, pointing at her with her own croissant.

"Truther," Sylvia shot back, pointing to herself.

"So, Swan Lake 2.0. How are we feeling?" Sylvia asked, her tone casual but Ingrid caught the underlying tone.

Two weeks until opening night, and she had been practically living in the studio, fine-tuning every step, every leap, every microscopic detail. The daunting 32 fouetté turn sequence? At this point, she could probably do it in her sleep. She trusted her dance partners, their onstage chemistry undeniable. And yet, despite all that, a flicker of doubt still lingered. The fear that history might repeat itself, that it could all go wrong again.

"The pressure’s on this time," Ingrid admitted, shaking her head. "Two weeks left, and I am running on pure caffeine and muscle memory."

"Ah, yes," Sylvia nodded sagely. "The pre-show spiral. How long until you start hallucinating swans in your apartment?"

"...Give it a week," Ingrid sighed.

"Alright, smartass, I already know you’re an amazing dancer. But how do you feel?" Her voice softened, the teasing giving way to something more sincere.

Ingrid exhaled slowly. She knew what Sylvia was really asking. Was she ready? Ready to step back into this role, into the spotlight, into the moment that had nearly broken her?

For years, she’d replayed that night on an endless loop, agonizing over what she could’ve done differently. It was her greatest talent, really. Taking full responsibility for things that weren’t entirely her fault. And back then? That pressure had crushed her, filling her days with guilt and nights with restless self-recrimination.

But she wasn’t that dancer anymore. That person anymore.

"Aimee’s producing the show, and she wants me to do the lift again at the end," Ingrid admitted, absentmindedly tracing the edge of the table with her fingertip.

Sylvia’s expression shifted instantly. "Do you trust your partner?"

Ingrid nodded. "I do. Hugo is great, and I trust him completely. But that doesn’t erase the fear."

Sylvia reached across the table and squeezed Ingrid’s hand. "This is your chance at redemption," she said firmly. "It’s like you’re rewriting history–again, but better."

Ingrid blinked. Sylvia quoting Aimee? That was unexpected.

Again, but better.

The phrase echoed in her head, a familiar mantra. Aimee had said it often at Juilliard. It was vague enough to be flexible,sharp enough to push her forward. Now Aimee was producing the same show, and it seemed she was determined to make her confront everything she’d buried. There was a strange kind of symmetry in that.

"Again, but better," Ingrid echoed, a wry smile creeping onto her lips.

But Sylvia was no longer paying attention. Her eyes had locked onto something or someone behind Ingrid, her expression shifting from concern to mild horror.

"…Are you seeing the future?" Ingrid asked, immediately suspicious.

"No. The past," Sylvia muttered, before abruptly straightening. "Okay, don’t freak out."

"That is literally the worst way to start a sentence."

"Just stay cool. And whatever you do, do not turn around."

"Okay, well, now I have to turn around," Ingrid deadpanned, already twisting in her seat.

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