ISA
My legs and arms ache. Even my upper back is sore. The Academy does not fool around with these evening elective classes. As we were heading out into the rain, Chrissy reminded me I’ve already been accepted—I’ve got nothing else to prove. I’ll start full time once I finish at Deerwood. Merci, Monsieur Thibault. Except, I do have something to prove. I’ve got to prove they didn’t make a mistake. And when I dance hard, there’s no room to pay attention to anything else. Not massive moving boxes. Not brothers blasting music. Not even unanswered Instagram messages.
I reach for the shiny subway rail and rise up on my toes. I slide my foot behind me to stretch my Achilles. An argument between a man and a woman at the other end of the car filters through my earbuds. I turn up the volume, just like I do at home.
A hand takes my shoulder. My instincts kick in. I whirl, swinging my bag with me. There’s a soft oomph as the buckle of my backpack meets flesh. I skitter away to the middle of the car, my pulse hammering in my throat. I look to make sure I’m not being followed.
Alex stands where I stood. His eyes squint. A hand covers his nose and mouth. His other lifts in a silent hello.
The pounding inside me spikes. Alex?
Tears fill my eyes. I blink them away as I rush back. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know it was you. Are you hurt? Did I hurt you?”
“I didn’t mean to surprise you.” He doesn’t take his hand from his face. “I called your name.”
I motion toward the earphones hanging from my pocket. “I didn’t hear you!” My insides feel like jello. My head feels like a balloon escaped from a child’s hand. Alex is here. I let out a little laugh because if I don’t, I might actually cry. My relief at seeing him overwhelms me. “I can’t believe I hit you.”
Alex tilts his head at me, like he doesn’t know why I’m laughing either. He pinches the bridge of his nose and winces. For some reason, this makes me double over.
“Sorry,” I gasp between breaths. “This shouldn’t be funny. Did I . . . ? Is your nose bleeding?” I paw through my bag for a tissue. “Can I see?”
His nose is fine. But his bottom lip is swollen and split, like the skin of a too-ripe peach.
“Oh.” I inhale through my teeth and offer him the tissue. I drag my gaze from his face, to his arm lingering close to mine. I want to ask if everything is OK with him and his family. I want to ask why I haven’t heard from him. But I’m afraid to speak. I’m afraid of how he’d respond.
He waves the tissue away. “I’ve had worse.”
“Sorry,” I say again.
He shakes his head. “Stop saying sorry. I’m the one who’s here to say that.”
The drumming in my chest quiets.
He touches his tongue to his broken lip. “I’ve been looking for you. I miss you. I wanted to tell you that in person. I didn’t want you to read it on your phone.”
I grab onto the bar and sink against it.
He waits for me to say something. He waits for me to tell him I miss him too. A tear almost gets loose, along with words my heart is trying to push out. I hold on to them. Seeing Alex—my reaction to seeing him—is scaring me.
We pull into Eighty-Sixth Street and the doors open.
Alex stares out onto the empty platform. “Do you hate me? For not answering your messages?”
“No. I don’t hate you.” Hatred and anger make me sad. I don’t do sad. It’s better to convince yourself you feel nothing.
Alex runs a hand over his head. He takes hold of the back of his neck as the train pulls out of the station. “Listen, I’m sorry. For how I left.”
My eyes are getting damp. He starts to say something about my parents but I stop him.
“That night at the ballet—my parents—none of it was about you. Really. They had to leave to get my brother. He was sort of freaking out. Finals and all.”
Alex watches me, like he senses the tiny lie in there. “How’s he doing? Your brother?”
“Fine. He’s fine.” I answer too quickly. I don’t want to talk about Merrit.
Alex nods. He frowns at his shoes. “Your parents—your mother—she didn’t say anything about me? Afterward?”
“No. She hasn’t mentioned you.”
“Your mother didn’t mention me,” Alex repeats.
“Dad said he enjoyed meeting you. He wished he could have talked with you more.”
Alex lets out a long breath. A line appears between his brows. “Even though I wasn’t what he was expecting?”
“What do you mean?”
“He didn’t know about my skin color.”
I grit my teeth. “Alex. That doesn’t matter to me. Obviously.” Did he think, all those times I was with him, when I was kissing him, that I was acting? That I really wasn’t into him at all?
“I’m not talking about whether it matters to you. I’m talking about your parents. You didn’t tell them before. Don’t you think that would have been important? So that this face and this body wouldn’t be what broke it to them?” He’s pointing at himself. His words are quiet. He doesn’t sound angry. But his other hand is clenched in a fist, like he might use it to punch something.
I turn and walk to the end of the car. I clutch my bag to my chest. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it wasn’t fair to him that I didn’t tell my parents, or at least Dad. But Dad’s not like that—I didn’t think it would matter. As for Mom, I was never going to tell her about Alex anyway. I know how she’d react. And I can’t tell Alex any of that. I can’t tell him that he’s right about her.
I drop onto a bench, hugging my knees to my chest. The past weeks have been torture. I’ve been dreaming of this, of Alex coming back to me, since the moment he left. But maybe this is a mistake. I can’t feel his wide arms around me—I can’t see his intense, almost hungry gaze—if he’s just going to disappear. I don’t think I could stand it. I have to be strong for my family. But I’m not that strong.
Alex sits two seats away. He looks worried.
“Isa. Please. Can I touch you?”
I can’t speak—by now tears are streaming down my face—so I just nod.
“I’m sorry,” he says. His hand on my back is warm. I hate that it feels so good.
I shake my head. “No. I’m sorry.” He can apologize for not answering my messages. But the rest of it—all of this—it started because of me. Because of my messed-up family and our complicated life. I can’t be with someone, not right now. It’s not fair to either of us.
“I don’t think I can do this.” I slide out from under his arm and move to stand by the door. Alex comes up behind me; I see his reflection in the window. I feel his hurt, like heat, steaming off him.
We’re coming up on Ninety-Sixth, which is good. I don’t know how much longer I can stand near him and convince myself I don’t want this. Only the train isn’t slowing. We push through my station. The conductor comes on and tells us that due to delays, the train is running express to 137th. For access to all bypassed stops we need to transfer to the downtown train.
Oh no.
We’re rushing along so quickly I can’t think.
Alex offers me his phone. “Do you need to call your mother?” He remembers.
“Thanks, but I don’t need to.” Mom won’t be waiting for me. She’s seeing her doctor tonight.
I rest my head against the bar. I don’t look at Alex’s face, because if you’re starving, staring into a restaurant at people eating steak and lobster will just make you feel more miserable, won’t it? But what if you’re not starving for the food? What if you’re starving for the laughter, for the hands touching across the table? It doesn’t matter. I can’t have any of it.
We’re already passing 116th. Only two more stops to go.
A baby in a stroller starts to fuss. The mother stares out the window, her sleepy eyes widening as we shoot out onto the elevated tracks. She blinks at the twinkling lights, at the raindrops that streak the glass. A fat little hand smacks at the sippy cup lodged beside a pink blanket. I’m so distracted, I don’t notice the train has stopped.
“Isa? Aren’t you getting off?” Alex’s voice is quiet. Almost like he doesn’t want me to hear him.
“Oh!” I swing around. This is where we say goodbye. Only I can’t form the words, not without crying.
The woman with the baby is pushing the stroller out. The wheels get caught in the gap. She mutters and jams at the stroller. The baby falls back against the blanket.
“Can I help you?” I grab hold of the front wheels. I lift them out of the rut. I place them down gently on the platform. “There you go,” I say. Only it’s not the mother’s hands on the stroller. It’s Alex’s. The mother is behind him. He’s talking to her in Spanish.
“There are a lot of stairs at this station,” Alex says to me. “It’ll be hard for her by herself.” He motions for me to step aside. Instead, I take the front.
He lifts the stroller, taking so much of the weight, I do little more than steer. As we put it down at the top of the steps, I smile at the baby. I’m rewarded with a gurgle and a flap of a chubby arm. Alex is watching the mother slowly climb up behind us. Rain pelts us as we exit the station and cross the street.
At the top of the downtown entrance, Alex heaves the stroller up. He waits down at the platform. The mother thanks us multiple times. I give the sweet baby a wave as the mother heads to a bench.
Alex stands beside me. He stomps mud from his sneakers.
“Aren’t you going uptown?” I ask, pretending to myself I don’t care.
His gaze swings to the mother and the baby. “They’re going to Ninety-Six. I told her that’s where I’m going too.” He looks at me. “Do you mind? If I ride with you?”
“Sure, anything to help the baby.” I fling my arm in the air. I mean it to be funny, but it comes out as overly dramatic, like something my mom would do.
Alex takes my hand just before I slip it back in my pocket. “I’m not doing this for the baby,” he says.
I look at his sneakers, white laces now stained with dirt. “I know.” I don’t pull my hand away. It feels too good, right where it is.
“I’m sorry,” Alex says again. His thumb traces my finger, just like he did backstage. Like he’s sad, like he’s saying goodbye. “Your show, it shook me up. Meeting your parents, that shook me up too. But the ballet itself, the story? It made me think about us. How we’re so different. Maybe too different. It made me worry we would never work. That’s why I left.”
He’s comparing us to a peasant and a lord in a ballet that takes place over a thousand years ago?
Alex lifts a shoulder, even though I haven’t said anything. “I know. It’s ridiculous. I can’t help the way I feel. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before.” His hand tightens. He gives my arm a little shake. “I believe you. About your parents. Maybe I’m just too sensitive about it.” His gaze lifts to mine. “Will you give me another chance? Give us another chance?”
The train comes in a rush of wind and grating steel. Alex releases my hand as we step on. I take a seat, drawing in a breath as Alex settles beside me. Our hips touch, but he angles his leg away.
Maybe I can do this. Showing everyone you’re happy and excited about life is so much easier when you’re truly feeling it. I want to tell him the truth. But I don’t know how. Not without telling him about everything.
I think about that time on the train, when Alex asked me what type of guy I liked, and I wouldn’t tell him because I was too embarrassed to admit that he’s my type. He is exactly my type. And then he went and proved it by asking me about dance, about my life, and actually listening to my answers. I didn’t want to get off. I wanted that ride to last forever. But I was afraid to stop talking so I introduced him to that game. He caught on without missing a step.
I clear my throat. “I’ve been lonely. I haven’t told my family. Because they need me to be strong. They need me to be the happy one.”
Alex stares at me. His dark brows are nearly touching.
I don’t look at the mother with the stroller, the one we helped. I don’t want to give it away. “My husband is serving overseas. I send him photos of our beautiful daughter. I write to him that she is the most wonderful baby and that I love being a mother. But I miss him. I worry because being a soldier is dangerous. And being a single mother is hard. I’m tired all the time. But I tell him I’m happy because I know that will make him feel good.”
Alex’s eyes dart to the baby stroller and come back to me. “This . . . this is that game, right?”
I attempt to lift one eyebrow. They both go up, as I knew they would. “The game’s not as fun when there are only five other passengers in the car.” I’m not sure if Alex understood what I was trying to tell him. Still, he reaches out. He brushes a strand of wet hair from my cheek. His mouth curves into a hopeful smile. I slide next to him. I push our legs together until I can feel his hip, his knee, and his ankle. I rest my head on his shoulder.
He takes my hand in his. He understood. I missed him so much. I missed having someone who asks about me and cares about the answers.
Alex follows me out at Ninety-Sixth Street, then waits with me for the bus. It’s still raining. We back into the corner of the bus stop shelter. He wraps his sweatshirt around both of us. My hands reach for each other along his back. I was starving. For all of it. For all of him.