Etched in frost, p.20
Etched in Frost, page 20
Lark and I could care less about skiing. She just wants to do something nice for Delilah since she trekked all this way and took time off from work. I’ll be there to keep Lark company and…there might be an unfounded hope wriggling at the back of my mind that I’ll get to see Jax.
Even if there’s no snow on the ground, it is technically winter in Australia. Jax said they worked year-round, all in different regions. He hoped to be allowed back to my world after hibernation. Was Australia’s winter enough to warrant the Frosts’ attention?
It might be a long shot, but I can’t help my excitement over the prospect of seeing him. Wouldn’t it be kismet for us to both be here? If he is out of hibernation, how close would I need to be for him to sense me?
I’d hoped I’d see his rabbit friend again before spring ended, but I never managed to run into him. I even had a note that I carried with me everywhere, just in case, telling Jax about my trip to Australia. Then maybe he could have planned to be here too.
As much as I wanted to tell him about his family in the note, I left that off. Not that it mattered since he never read it, but I figured it’d be best to tell him about it in person. While he doesn’t remember everything about his mortal life, I’d want to know my family is still out there if I were in his shoes.
I lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling, still in my grungy travel clothes. My body’s exhausted. The effort it would take to hunt through my suitcase for pajamas is more than I’m willing to commit to, so I curl up with the covers and fantasize about a future that seems much too far out of reach, maintaining my belief in the impossible.
But hasn’t everything been just that since Jax came into my life—impossibility made reality?
A few hours later, we groggily grab dinner, so thrown by jet lag that we barely speak. Instead, we stare at our waters and food as they arrive at the table. I’m not even hungry. Nerves bubble up in my belly, riding on a tide of nausea. In less than twenty-four hours I’ll be performing. In an unfamiliar city on an unfamiliar stage. It doesn’t help that so much is at stake with my position at Ballet Potomac riding on tomorrow night’s performance.
This is my biggest meal before then, so despite my lack of hunger, I ordered a soup, sandwich, and a salad, figuring anything extra I can store in the hotel fridge. The last thing I want is to be starving before the showcase. After I eat my soup, I nudge at my salad with my fork between bites, finally deciding to box up the rest and take it with me.
The sun hangs low as we walk back to the hotel. I snap some photos with Sydney’s cityscape as we stroll, the theater and surrounding buildings illuminated under the hazy glow of streetlights.
“Get over there and let me take a picture of you.”
When I don’t move at her request, Lark nudges me forward and spins me by the shoulders to face her and Delilah. I force my best smile as she snaps pictures from different angles.
“Now, one facing toward the sign. Reach up and point your other foot behind you,” Lark directs, kneeling low to capture whatever it is she’s envisioning.
Bright-white lights beam down from the marquee, Ballet World Summit in big, block letters.
My chest pinches. I stare up at the illumination and hold my pose as my chin wobbles. Despite the bustle of people on the street and Lark and Delilah being right here, I feel utterly alone. There’s an empty space beside me that’s awaiting someone who’ll never fill it.
The person whom I most wish was here to see this with me isn’t.
I’m in Sydney without Mom, making this core memory that we should have been sharing, but instead she’s gone. Just when I think I’m starting to pull myself together, I’m struck again by the harsh reality of her loss.
Lark doesn’t say a word, just ends the mini photoshoot and pulls me into a hug. She holds me, letting me sob against her shoulder. Delilah reaches from behind her and places a firm hand on my back, patting it a few times.
“I love you guys,” I sniffle out. I don’t know what I’d do without them here with me on this trip. Delilah grabs a tissue from her Redhots fanny pack and hands it to me. Once I’ve wiped away my tears and snot, we head up to our rooms. I shower, then stretch, running through the variation a few times with music, then again in silence, waiting for sleep to pull me under. Tomorrow will be here before I know it, and everything needs to be perfect. Not just for me, but for the woman I wish was here to witness it firsthand.
Morning comes much too soon, and I wake with a shiver.
“Jax?” Popping up out of bed, I swing my legs over the side, gaze darting around the room for him or his wolf.
I stand up quickly, legs wobbling under me at the abrupt shift in my position. The thin carpet creaks beneath my feet with each step toward the window. Pulling the curtains to the sides, I search for any sign of him.
No breeze. No glittering eyes. No words frosted on the glass.
Nothing. The room is empty.
Everything is exactly how I left it when I went to bed. In the sunbeam from the slat between the curtains, I stride over to the desk, checking the hotel’s stationary, then snap my gaze to the mirror, only finding my reflection. Disappointment begins to get the best of me, so I peek into the bathroom and do one final sweep before I admit defeat.
It’s all in my head.
A few tears fall, and I grab a tissue from the nightstand to blot them away.
This is what you get for hoping, Jolie. Snap out of it.
I could reach for my mark, could try to summon him, but then what? I need to prepare for my performance. The future of my ballet career hangs in the balance. There will be time to chase Jax’s ghost afterward.
I sniffle, attempting to stifle any more tears. Throwing on my solo music, I mark through the piece a few times, then start to get ready, putting on my warm-up clothes and a light layer of makeup. We’re meeting an hour before our company’s rehearsal slot to do some barre and stretching, going over the final details for tonight. Tossing my phone, room card, water bottle, and last night’s leftover sandwich into my bag, I head for the door and take a last deep breath before everything flips into performance mode.
Soon, I’ll be under those lights, and once I am, I need to dance like I’ve got nothing to lose, even if it’s the furthest thing from the truth.
32
JOLIE
That night at the Summit, I slip my arm through the top of my dress and shuffle to the mirror. My body’s still sore from rehearsal, but I do my stretches between things so I can go into the showcase refreshed.
The nerves continue to thrum through my body. They haven’t stopped all day. I inhale, running my fingers along the creamy chiffon of my dress. Pale blue and gold trim crisscross my chest, looping over my shoulders and supporting a set of delicate, double-layered ruffles in the same material as the skirt that hangs over a matching leotard, falling to just below my knees.
I twist back and forth, and the scars slashed down my shoulder and upper back glint under the buttery dressing room lights.
“Did you want help with your makeup?” Lark asks.
I spot her reflection behind me in an emerald corset with sparkling rhinestones covering the entire bodice. Her attention trails along my scars, not in a way that’s pitying, but one that says she genuinely wants to help me. There are some areas that are very hard to reach, so it’s easier for someone else to do it for me.
Since summer has been focused on conditioning and preparing those of us going to the Ballet World Summit, I haven’t felt the need to cover them up on a daily basis. Not like when I first returned to dancing. I normally had Lark assist with it when Giselle was in performance season, not wanting to stand out from the corps. Right now, though, I’m dancing a solo. There’s no one else I need to match. No one else to be but myself.
“I think I’ll leave them be today,” I tell her with a smile that’s reflected back at me in the mirror.
We stare at each other a moment, then I turn, taking in her full costume. The gem detailing is stunning, trailing down her ensemble and scattering onto the stiff, mint-colored tutu jutting out around her.
“You look incredible.” I give Lark another once-over, admiring the shimmering elements that go all the way up to her emerald-encrusted tiara poised in front of her high bun. “I can totally see why you picked the piece.”
She gives herself a nod of approval. “Right? So worth it.” Lark slips her hands in mine and her tone softens. “You’re going to do amazing tonight. Momma Wilder would be so proud.”
“Thanks,” I rasp. Not wanting to ruin my stage makeup right before the performance. “That means a lot.” It means more than a lot, but I can’t get the words out. It’s a significance that cuts so deep, the only way I can let the emotions out is to let them bleed into my performance where they can’t overwhelm me.
We lace our pointe shoes, Lark spending extra time beating hers up. The green dye makes them stiffer, needing more attention to get them supple. Giving each other a long hug, we part ways and head to meet our respective companies. Everyone is quiet once Mistress Maral and the director go over the order of the showcase, imparting their final words of wisdom.
My heart pounds so wildly, I can’t retain any of it.
Once they finish, we split off into our own pre-performance rituals. I warm up my body a bit more, working through the stretches and exercises Heather gave me. With my earbuds popped in, Juliet’s Variation plays over and over so I can immerse myself before I go on stage.
The next thing I know, they call the show and we are lining up in the wings. Lark waves to me from across the stage, and I wave back, my hand halting when Blake dares to smile in my direction from behind her.
Asshole.
His blond hair is slicked back, and he’s dressed in just a pair of relaxed pants that cuff above his ballet shoes, muscles proudly on display. I don’t return his attention, instead dropping my gaze to focus on the building crescendo in my earbuds. The fact that he can smile at me when I’ve blocked and ignored him for months just solidifies the fact that he’s an arrogant jerk. The prince I once idolized is nothing more than an ant I look forward to crushing beneath my proverbial pointe shoe.
The burble of chatter from the other side of the curtain grows until the instrumental introduction plays over the sound system, hushing the audience. They announce the first piece to kick off the Summit, and the ballet dancer from the Royal Ballet takes his place on the stage.
I go back to listening to my music a few more times before tucking the earbuds into a small bag at the corner of backstage. There are only two more pieces until my routine. I’m grateful I don’t have to wait long. Every passing minute my nerves riot, the routine slipping from memory, as if I haven’t spent weeks preparing. Nausea mixed with the sudden urge to pee—all the usual pre-performance jitters—come out tenfold. Not that I’d expect anything less. This is how it always goes.
Come on, Jolie.
I wiggle out my fingers and toes, bouncing back and forth atop my pointe shoes before pressing them into the pile of rosin, cracking it into shards and dust until the tips are perfectly coated.
Something I love about portraying Juliet is her hopeful grace. This variation is from when she’s dancing at the ball. At first, she moves by herself, showcasing her lightness. Her joy. It’s such a stark difference from where she ends up at the end of the story, joining her lover in death.
This dance comes before all the tragedy, and if only for a moment, when I dance it, I can pretend I’m in the before.
Before my injury.
Before the accident.
Before each shattered piece of me was hacked into existence.
For these few minutes, I’m that young ballerina again and the world is bright and full of possibilities.
The stage manager ushers me over, nodding as she talks into the headset. I gracefully walk out onto the stage, arms carried softly in front of me as I set myself into my starting position. The lights are low, so dim that I know the audience can only make out my silhouette.
It’s time. Everyone’s watching.
Before I can finish one deep breath, the intro begins.
The lights come up, like the first burst of morning sun, and I move.
Each spin atop my toes is light and delicate. Each sweep of my leg reaches the skylights. Each brush of my arms moves through its arc, graceful and smooth.
There’s no ballroom of spectators like in the ballet, so I carry myself around the stage, utilizing its entirety. I gaze over my arm, flirtatiously, admiring each line I perfectly execute. My confidence grows along with the music. It propels me into a grand jeté, and I leap so high that I might collide with the night itself.
I’m spinning and dancing my way to where my invisible Romeo stands. The one Juliet’s been dancing for, hoping to catch his eye. It’s an all too familiar feeling. Both in the weeks leading up to the performance and now. I stare off and extend my arm toward the corner of the room, picturing twin panes of glittering glass in the audience, reaching back for me.
How I wish he was.
I continue to dance for him. Continue to pretend. I strike my final pose, the moment Romeo has found Juliet, and I can’t help but imagine it’s real. That Jax is here, taking the form of the invisible man I’m embracing.
I barely realize the music has stopped. My attention is pinned to the back of the room and those eyes staring back at me.
In a flash, they disappear.
Snap out of it, Jolie. He’s not here.
I don’t have a moment for that to disappoint me, though, because just like magic, the crowd erupts in applause, standing before me in a wave of fancy suits and gowns. My smile widens as it echoes through me, vibrating deep in my soul.
I did it.
33
JOLIE
I’m still floating on cloud nine the day after my performance when my phone buzzes.
Lark:
Still rallying from last night’s celebrations.
Feel better.
Lark:
We’ll try to meet you there.
She tosses in a few sickly emojis for good measure. I know her well enough to know that’s code for she won’t be going anymore.
Well, I’m not missing out, even if I have to watch Blake perform. This is something Mom and I always talked about doing.
I carefully avoid the sequins of my champagne dress, tugging up the zipper slowly. The neckline hugs the slight swells of my breasts. One nice thing about being small chested—no need for a bra. I’m forgoing underwear as well, thanks to the slit of the dress slicing dangerously high on my thigh. Better to avoid underwear lines or a panty flash. It wasn’t like anyone would be looking at me in the private box Delilah had splurged on anyway.
Grabbing my clutch, I slip my key and phone into it. Then I move into the hallway, waiting for the door to shut behind me before I walk toward the elevators.
The theater is only a couple blocks away, and the lobby is bustling when I arrive. I wave at a few of the passing ballerinas I hung out with backstage yesterday while I stand in line to get in. Whipping out my phone, I hold it out for the attendant to scan my ticket, then traipse to the bar to grab a glass of chardonnay. At least if I accidentally spill my drink, it’ll blend in with my dress. I double check that my slit is in its proper place before walking on, enjoying how the sequins caress my curves, glittering like diamonds under the buttery chandeliers above.
The chimes ring, signaling the doors to the theater have opened. I spot the sign corresponding to my ticket on my right and steer away from the crowd. Gripping my skirt in the same hand that’s holding my clutch, I use my other to stay balanced as I walk up the staircase to the upper level where the private boxes are. I follow the arrows until I come to the curtained-off box F.
An usher rushes over, holding the black velvet to the side so I can enter. “Anyone else joining you tonight?”
I give them a gentle smile. “Nope. Just me.”
“Well, I’ll be at the end of the hallway if you need anything at all, dear,” they say, tipping their head.
“Thank you,” I call over my shoulder before heading toward the front of the box and picking a seat in the center. There are two more boxes on my side and three across from us. I’m in the farthest right, closest to the stage. Curtains swag either side of the row, hanging like a set of long bangs, casting the intimate space in darkness compared to the well-lit theater. I sip my wine, watching people move between rows, finding their seats and making room for each other. I admire my favorite gowns and ogle a few famous faces. Famous for the ballet world, that is.
The emcee’s voice booms over the theater, and the last of the audience takes their seats. They welcome us and remind everyone not to use flash photography, record on their cell phones, or walk out while a performance is taking place. Everyone, including myself, nods along. Each spectator is either a former, current, or loved one of a dancer. We know the drill.
First to take the stage is The Australian Ballet, performing the opening number with their two premiere principal dancers playing Carmen and her Don José, captivating us with their passion-filled pas de deux full of lifts and heavenly extensions. I watch, entranced, experiencing each step alongside them. It’s a beautiful piece, a moment captured in a ballet about desire and how jealousy can turn to tragedy. The story of Carmen has been around for ages, told in a million ways. You know in the end that he will root his own destruction, but the way they are moving, vibrant and enamored, you can almost forget, can almost believe they will make it—even when the story never changes. The happy ending never comes.
