Page 21 of Second Position (Astor Hill #2)
Grant
It’s been three hours since I dropped Sloane off at the Boston Ballet.
Not only did I get in a solid two hour workout, but I showered and grabbed lunch for myself.
Even so, when I pull into the parking lot of the ballet I can’t help but feel like some kind of stalker.
Gen and I have been texting non stop, but the past few times I’ve surprised her with my presence I could tell how uncomfortable it made her.
Like having to explain whatever was going on between the two of us caused her to question it too.
If I’m being honest, I’m worried that the more that question enters her mind, asking us to articulate exactly what we mean to each other, the less likely she’ll want me to mean anything at all.
I’m fiddling with the radio, trying to pass the time when I hear a sharp knock on my driver's side window. I’m about to jump through my skin when I see Jean cackling outside.
I don’t know Jean well, other than that he’s friends with Gen and dating the newspaper editor, Ian, who seems to be in everyone’s business .
I roll the window down, clearing my throat. “Uh, hey…”
Jean is still snickering at my sheer terror from his knock.
“On edge there buddy?” He gives me a knowing smirk that I don’t exactly love.
“I—” He instantly interrupts me.
“What are you doing out here in the parking lot? It's actually much creepier than just coming in.” He gestures to the large old building in front of us, beautiful and ornate like it was meant for royalty.
“I’m just waiting for my sister…” I say, annoyance creeping into my tone at the realization that Jean can see right through me.
“Sure, because Uber isn’t a thing.” He crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow with a smirk. “Why don’t you come in with me? Sloane’s been watching the dry runs. You might as well join us. I think Gen’s about to do the Pas de Deux.”
“I don’t…want to intrude.” I look down at my steering wheel, trying to hide the uncertainty written all over my face. Jean smiles, sensing my discomfort.
“Listen, I’m going to tell Gen you were lurking around here anyway so you might as well get a show out of it.
Besides, you've never actually seen Gen until you’ve seen her dance.
” His hands are on his hips and I can tell that this is the last time he’s going to offer.
I sigh, turning the key and stepping out of my truck.
Jean smiles triumphantly. “That’s the spirit, loverboy. Now follow me.”
We move through the heavy doors of the auditorium, the lights dim and the place eerily silent save for the mumbling of what I’m assuming is the choreographer backstage, their thick French accent coming in waves.
I hear Gen’s voice respond quietly in what initially sounds like gibberish but what I quickly come to realize is also French.
Jean leads us to the middle of the theatre.
Three of the rows are taken up by dancers in ballet garb, a few using scissors to violently destroy their ballet shoes.
I give Jean a confused look and he just giggles.
“It’s both a beautiful and brutal sport,” he explains, ushering me to a seat beside Sloane and she looks up at me and beams.
“Grant!” she whispers. “Sorry—I turned off my phone to watch and honestly lost track of time.” She points to the stage as I wedge myself between her and Jean.
“I can’t believe you guys are doing dry runs already. Didn’t you just get cast like two weeks ago?” I whisper to Jean who chuckles under his breath.
“Most of these dancers have been working toward these roles their whole lives, Gen included.” With that, the orchestra members in the pit in front of us take their seats and the quiet conversation around us comes to a halt.
“Okay—it’s starting!” Jean says excitedly, his eyes now tracking the stage in front of us.
The soft melody of a familiar song begins to play and Gen enters.
It’s Gen but also it’s not Gen at all. Her body seems longer, leaner as she shuffles in on the tips of her toes, her limbs stretched taut as she wafts across the stage, and something about her seems almost swan-like.
As if she couldn't possibly be human, each movement she makes like a memory from my childhood that I’m unable to hold onto, making me both happy and sad.
Her leotard hugs every curve and a light pink tutu wraps around her waist. Her beauty is almost incomprehensible and I realize I’ve never seen anything like it.
A man joins her shortly after her entrance and I instantly become enraptured with their movements, the way they both seem to flow into each other like water in a river, giving and taking exactly the right amount from the other.
The music begins to crescendo and I can’t help but lean forward in my seat.
My eyes go wide as Gen’s body seems to be immune to the gravity holding the rest of us down, as if with each twirl she might just float away.
Her partner quickly turns into a shadow beside her, merely there to support her magnitude.
It’s clear, as my eyes track her, that she’s got a gift others in the audience recognize as well, apparent by the occasional dreamy sigh by the dancers in the row in front of me.
The music dips in tune with her body and I feel like I’m both falling in love and getting my heart broken.
I hear Sloane let out a small gasp beside me as the music falls into what I’m assuming is the final crescendo—the booming instruments only fractionally adding to the emotional response Gen’s body seems to be giving to myself and those around me.
Gen is lifted into the air weightlessly and tears prick my eyes, unable to see anything but her.
It’s like she is somehow able to make the rest of the world melt away.
Like I’m living in a dream and watching the greatest love story ever told played out by her body.
Jean leans into my side, his voice barely audible as the blare of the orchestra consumes us. “Now you see her. That is Genevieve Dupont.”
The music ends on a final, softer note, Gen posed in the air in a move that is intended to appear effortless, but as an athlete I can tell requires years to achieve, her smile lighting up the entire theatre.
I hear Sloane sniffling beside me, also moved by Gen’s talent, as her fellow dancers begin to applaud what was just a rehearsal.
She slowly clamors off her partner's shoulder and melts back into the Gen I’ve come to know, her smile again familiar, her eyes proud, and I realize what I sort of knew all along.
What I’ve been avoiding since we made this stupid deal—that it would never be enough.
That one night with Gen would completely ruin me.
That I could spend the rest of eternity with the woman on stage in front of me and even then, I would want more.
Sloane disappears backstage with Jean once rehearsal is called, so I try my best not to pace the back aisle of the conservatory, waiting to see Gen.
When the three of them emerge, she’s all I can see.
I know she feels my eyes on her because she breaks from Sloane’s gaze and locks with mine, a smile slowly spreading across her face.
“So don’t hate me…” Sloane’s making this weird face at me, hesitant and pleading all at once. Jean and Gen bracing themselves at her side, amusement shading both of their expressions. “You don’t have, like, practice or anything, right?”
“Just ask me, Sloane,” I tell her, already exasperated.
“I need to take pictures…at the beach?” She gives me a face splitting smile. “And Jean is going to be my assistant, and Gen already said she’s free and she’ll come with, so you can’t really say no.” She waits, knowing she’s got me. My sister is perceptive as hell.
“Which beach?” I say, giving in.
“I knew you’d be useful to me,” she giggles, pulling Gen into a giddy hug. Her eyes catch mine over Sloane’s shoulder, and something like anticipation lights her gaze.
The sky is painted in orangey, sherbet-like hues as Sloane and Jean flit along the coastline, catching the sunset.
She’s starting this mixed media piece, and the sunset was going to set at a specific angle, or the planets were going to be aligned—truthfully, I didn’t completely understand her reasoning.
Whatever it was, I’m glad Sloane’s flighty mind brought us down here.
Gen is reclined on her forearms next to me, her legs straight out in front of her, head tipped back as she catalogues all the different types of clouds in the sky.
“See, that’s a stratus cloud,” she tells me, pointing straight above us. “It might rain.” She spares a glance my way before looking back at her clouds.
I watch her, obsessed—just like Sloane said.
The upward slant of her eyes, the way the hazel hues of them fracture like kaleidoscopes when the light hits, the perfect bridge of her nose, the long, lean, incredibly sexy lines of her body, the way she glides in and out of spaces—they’re part of it.
But they almost distract you from the beautiful stillness you find when she lets you in, behind all of that.
Knowing her is like wading into the center of a lake, not a current or a ripple in sight. It’s a peace I’ve never known.
And it’s temporary, I remind myself, forcing myself to look away.
“Is meteorology your hidden hobby?” I ask her, so as not to get lost in my head again.