But I shouldn’t touch her. Not when she’s trapped in the car with me. Not when that isn’t what this is supposed to be about. She can touch me all she wants, but I need to keep my hands to myself.
God, let her touch me again.
Instead, she catches her breath and sighs. “So, I’m guessing your mom didn’t tell you you were too good looking to become a French teacher, right?”
I choke on my laughter. “Uh, no.” Even though I’m facing the highway, I can feel her eyes on me.
Did she just say I’m good looking?
I rerun her question. “I think Mom would have loved for me to join a ballet company after high school instead of going to college.”
“Shit, were you that good?” She sounds awed.
I was that good. Val and I both were. But neither one of us wanted that life.
I shrug.
“That’s ayes!”Iris swats me on the shoulder. “Holy shit. Do you know how rare that is? Do you know how many kids take ballet thinking they’ll grow up and be some prima ballerina compared to how many actually make it?”
“Um, probably about as many who grow up wanting to act compared to those who actually make it on television?” I give her a teasing grin and catch her eye roll. But she’s right. “My mom was that good. She was leagues better, honestly.”
And I feel it. The stinging in my chest that always sears me when I think about her career.
Even though it’s not my fault, I still feel guilty.
“Really?” Iris asks. “Like famous?”
“She could have been,” I say with certainty.
Silence falls over the cab. “What happened?”
My asshole dad,I want to say. But instead, I start from the beginning.
“Mom grew up here, studied ballet, and did it all. She found the best teachers she could in the area and then took Greyhounds to study in other cities. New Orleans. Houston. Dallas,” I rattle off. “She spent every summer in high school at ballet workshops all over.”
I look over and find Iris wearing a knowing smile. Yeah, she probably knows all about that kind of dedication. She’s probably lived it.
“She auditioned right out of high school and earned a spot with the New York City Ballet. In 1975, when she was just eighteen, she performed in George Balanchine’s Ravel Festival,Hommage à Ravelat the Lincoln Center.”
“Oh my God,” Iris whispers in awe.
I nod. “That’s how I feel about it.” I wasn’t there, of course, but I’m as proud of her as if I got to see her on stage. The three pictures of Regina Hebert that exist from that two-week festival live in oval-shaped frames on her dresser. When she moved into assisted living, Val and I had to pare down her belongings, but we’d guard those photographs with our lives. They’re Mom’s most prized possessions.
“She and my dad had been dating, but he worked here, lived here, and they tried the long distance thing for a while. He got tired of it,” I say, tasting the bitterness that’s only grown more putrid in recent years. “He went up there for Christmas and sprung a proposal on her one night after aNutcrackerperformance, telling her he couldn’t live without her.”
Instead of tacking on the words,the bastard,I just let the statement hang there.
“And she said yes.” It isn’t a question, but I’m sure I hear Iris’s disappointment in the confirmation. And why wouldn’t she be disappointed for a young woman who worked for years to be at the top of her field. A woman with killer talent and unlimited potential. Who had earned, as she said, what thousands of others merely dream about.
“She said yes. And the dickhead left her after thirty-three years of marriage.” What’s worse than that? Half the time, she doesn’t remember that last part.
“Ooh.” I glance over to find Iris wincing. “Still, she must’ve really loved him.”
I snort. “Too much.” She still does, and it kills me.
She’s quiet for a while. And then.
“I don’t think my parents ever loved each other.”
