Dare Collection October 2019. Margot Radcliffe
I’m doing.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to understand this, Mom.” My voice was harder than it needed to be, maybe. But I wanted to get my point across. “I hope you’ll support me either way.”
My mother blinked. “Darcy.”
I braced myself for the lecture, but she only shook her head as if I was a mystery to her. It made my heart hurt.
“Of course we’ll support you,” she said, with that cultured certainty that had always made me feel grubby and unhinged in comparison. “You behave as if you think your father and I don’t know how difficult it is to be a professional dancer. But of course we do. We see exactly how hard you work. If you see any hesitation on my part it’s because I thought you loved ballet to distraction. Why else would you dedicate your life to it?”
“I do love ballet.” Though I felt unsteady, suddenly. As if I’d never seen my mother before. As if I’d broken my own heart. “But it doesn’t love me back, Mom. It never will. And I think there’s only so long you can live with that.”
Maybe I wasn’t talking about the ballet anymore. Not entirely.
“I know it’s the fashion to tell young people that they should do what they love, damn the torpedoes, and so on,” my mother said, after a moment. “But you’ve done that. And you’ve always combined your passions with intense discipline. It’s why you’ve made it as far as you have.”
“But not far enough,” I finished for her. Before she could get the jab in. “Not a soloist.”
“Will you be a soloist at your new company?”
“Yes.” It was amazing how much satisfaction it gave me to say that. “I believe I’ll come in—assuming I nail the addition—as a principal.”
“It’s what you’ve always wanted,” my mother said. “It doesn’t surprise me, Darcy, that having gone so far down one road without getting where you wanted to go, you decided that you might prefer another. You were the most determined child I’d ever encountered. While my friends’ children were getting into trouble, with drugs and sex and all the rest of it, you never wavered. Ever.”
“I’m wavering now.” Though really, the only thing wavering was my voice. “I guess if professional ballet is a game of chicken, I lost.”
“Nonsense.” And this time, when my mother’s brow rose, I felt that she was doing it for me, not at me. “Ballet might be rigidly hierarchical, but love is not. Or it isn’t love. It expands. It changes when necessary—that’s called growth. And so will you.” She even smiled. “I will look into season tickets for your new company at once.”
And in case I thought that she had been body snatched, when my tears welled up she looked aghast, produced a tissue from her bag, and told me to pull myself together.
I couldn’t remember ever feeling so at peace after an interaction with my mother before. I walked back to my apartment afterward, feeling…solid. Connected. I would dance out the rest of my contract at the Knickerbocker. I would nail my audition. And I would start a whole new chapter of professional dancing.
I would grow. This was growth. It was good.
The only thing stranger and more dizzying than not getting what you wanted, I was discovering with every step, was actually getting it.
I was going to have to figure out a way to be all right with center stage for a change.
I thought of Sebastian then and sighed. But I refused to let myself dwell on the things I couldn’t change. On the man who loved me—because I knew he loved me, so far as he was able—but couldn’t admit it.
And when I came around the corner of my street, I was so busy not dwelling that I almost slammed into the person standing there. Standing still in the middle of the sidewalk, as a matter fact, which should be illegal on New York City streets. Everyone knew that.
“Sorry—” I began.
But I knew that blue gaze, bright and beautiful.
And this time it was real, not a dream.
It was Sebastian. Live and in person and in the glorious flesh. And he took my breath away as surely as the periodic gusts of frigid wind rushing in from the East River. He cut through me that easily. He turned me inside out without laying a finger on me or saying a word.
“You can’t come back here and do this to me again,” I threw at him, hoping I sounded fierce enough to hide the sharp kick of longing inside.
“Quiet,” he told me, bossy and stern the way I liked him, though he wore an expression on his face I’d never seen before. “This time, little dancer, I’m going to do it right.”
And then, to my astonishment, he sank down onto his knees. Right there on the dirty, frigid February street.
It took me a long moment to realize that he’d reached into his pocket and pulled out a box. A small box in a recognizable shade of blue. He cracked it open, momentarily blinding me with the manic sparkle of the ring within.
A ring.
“Darcy James,” he said, dark and certain and still delightfully bossy. “I’m an idiot. I don’t deserve you, but I can’t seem to manage without you. I can’t think of a single reason why you should marry me, but I’m hoping you will all the same.”
I wasn’t sure my heart could take it. It was the hope that about killed me, swelling up inside and making my eyes tear up.
“I already told you why I can’t.” I wanted to touch him. I wanted to love him, forever. It was possible I already would. And did. But I wanted everything. Everything. I couldn’t stop loving myself, the way I knew I would if he didn’t love me back. “I just can’t—”
“I love you,” he said, low and urgent. “Of course I love you. You electrified me the moment I laid eyes on you in Paris. I would have paid six times what you took from me for another taste. I love you, Darcy. Madly. Impossibly. There’s no point to any of this without you. You don’t just make me wish I was a better man, you’ve already made me one.”
“Sebastian…” I whispered.
“Marry me, because I’ve never loved anyone else,” he urged me. Ordered me. “And I have the feeling I have a lot to make up for. I can’t promise you that I won’t drive you crazy. I’m sure I will. But I can promise you that the makeup sex will always be fantastic.”
“I love you,” I said helplessly. “I can’t help it. And I love that you keep showing up here and making these sweeping pronouncements. But a big, dramatic showstopper isn’t real life. If you want a ballerina doll of your very own, you should know that I can’t do that anymore. I’m not that person. I’m quitting the Knickerbocker.”
“I don’t care if the only place you dance is naked, for me,” he growled at me. “In fact, I encourage it. You look fierce and happy, and that’s what I want our life to feel like. You don’t have to be ready to marry me today. Just give me someday, Darcy.”
He took the ring out of its box and slipped it onto my finger.
A key into a lock.
It fit my finger the way we fit together. Perfectly.
“I want it all,” I whispered. “I want everything. With you.”
His smile broke my heart again, smashing it into pieces, then knit it back together again.
“Then everything is what you get,” he promised me.
He rose then, pulling me into his arms, and it was like coming home at last. I was vaguely aware that we’d drawn a crowd, but I didn’t care about them. I