Emmy
En avant [ahn a-vahn] a—Forward
After three movies in a row, Evie decides it’s time for a dinner break. She rifles through the cupboards, the fridge, the pantry, and then declares there’s nothing to eat and that she’s going to get takeout. “Need anything before I leave?”
“Actually, I do.” While Evie spent the last hour watching Ridge fall in love, I was thinking about ballet. Listening to André’s words ringing in my ears. Fight for yourself, for your career. Pete’s voice also whispers in my ears. Baby steps. You can do this. “Will you get my ballet bag down from my closet for me?”
Evie doesn’t waste a second running upstairs. My closet door squeaks on the tracks as it opens, and a moment later, she’s back and sets the bag in front of me. “Need anything else?”
“My kit?” I’ve spent years toting my ballet bag and kit around, and I miss them. Maybe it’s crazy, but I just want to see them, to touch them.
“Right. Of course.” She jogs back up the stairs and returns a minute later with my kit.
“You good?”
I nod. “Great. Thanks.”
“Be back in thirty with food.” She grabs her keys off the kitchen counter and walks to the door. “Don’t forget it’s your turn to pick the next movie.”
She’s about to step outside when I call out, “Hey, Evie?”
She turns back.
“I know these past several months haven’t been easy on you. Thank you for being here for me. I love you.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t touch her eyes. “Love you too, Em.”
“Thanks.” And then for the first time since the accident, I open my kit. The smell of resin and hair spray swirl in the air, beckoning me home. Back to the stage. Back to ballet.
My fingers caress each item. Pink thread, bottles of glue, moleskin, and tape. I’ve spent countless hours refining which items I carry in here.
I open my duffel bag next. My well-loved leg warmers and practice pointe shoes sit on top; beneath them are a new pair of pink tights and a pair of new pointe shoes. I’ve always carried two pairs. Pointe shoes are hardly more than papier-mâché slippers and don’t last very long. These arrived in the mail the day before my last performance.
I stare at the satin shoes. The stitching is precise. Handcrafted to my exact specifications. What choreography might I have danced in these? How many hours of rehearsal would they have had to endure? What would I have learned with them on my feet? My vision blurs with tears, and instead of reaching for my pointe shoe, I pick up my cell phone to turn on some music. I power on the screen, and my wallpaper, a picture of Rhys and me, illuminates the screen. I can’t bring myself to change the image.
My biggest regret of our relationship is the way it ended. I’ve tried calling countless times to apologize, but he never answers. I’d like to tell him I don’t hate him—that I could never hate him—and that I understand his decision to leave.
I stare at the image of our foreheads pressed together. It’s been nearly two months, but losing him still hurts. I love him. I will always love him. I’ll forever cherish the memories of us. But that’s all they will ever be. Memories.
I grab my earbuds and put them in my ears, then slide my thumb across the screen to open a music app. The last song I listened to pops onto the screen: “Divenire,” by Ludovico Einaudi. The song I danced the pas de deux to with David the night of the accident. I played this right before going on stage.
Music flows from the speakers, and choreography invades my mind. I expect it to hurt, knowing I may never again dance like I did that night, but it doesn’t. Instead, the music swells inside me, awakening hope deep within my soul. Last week I took a step. It hurt, but I did it. I will dance again too.
My heart races as I reach for the first pointe shoe. I don’t know if I’ll ever dance ballet like I used to, but if I don’t try, I’ve already failed. I have to fight for myself.