Page 54 of Halo

We stumble across a channel showcasing dance styles from around the world, watching everything from hip-hop to Irish step dancing to flamenco.

Much to my surprise, ballet captivated Grady the most, his eyes widening every time a ballerina effortlessly spun across the stage or balanced on the tips of her toes.

With his eyes trained on the television, he slips off the couch. He stretches onto the tips of his toes, his brow furrowed in concentration as he tries to imitate the ballerina. “How do they do that?”

“Lots and lots of practice, partner.”

He looks up at me. “Practice?”

“Sure, they take dance classes at a dance school, and then they have to try and try and try again. That's called practice.”

Grady quietly takes in my words before turning back to the television. Stretching his arms out to either side, he rises onto the tips of his toes and wobbles through an awkward little turn before he stumbles and catches himself. He glances back at me. “Can boys be ballerinas?”

“Yes,” I say. “Of course, they can.”

He looks at the dancers on the television again before sheepishly peering up at me. “Can I be a ballerina?”

The corner of my mouth curls. “Partner, you can be whatever you want to be.”

Grady beams, slowly turning back to the television and promptly wobbles through another clumsy spin.

Leaning back on the couch, I laugh quietly to myself as my beautiful boy commits to each unsteady jump and kick. He stumbles more than he succeeds, but even when he loses his balance, he giggles—and instantly tries again.

My son is resilient.

The afternoon slips into evening, and I still haven't heard from Tiffany. Anger simmers beneath my skin as I find myself hoping there's been an emergency—not because I want anything bad to happen to her, but because I can't stomach the alternative that she actually forgot about Grady. That she dropped him off and abandoned him. I refuse to believe she's capable of that.

I need answers.

After making Grady's dinner request of buttered noodles, I consider contacting the police for a wellness check, but I think better of it, not wanting to get the law involved unless absolutely necessary. Instead, I contact the diner.

“Vinny’s Burgers, this is Tiffany.”

My pulse detonates. I don't care if she gets paid to sound cheerful; hearing her answer the phone like it's just another shift—like she didn't just abandon our son on a day that meant the world to him—unleashes a fury that blurs my vision.

“What the fuck, Tiffany?” I whisper-scream.

“Nick—?”

“Where the fuck were you today?”

She's silent as the roar of the diner fades to her footsteps and cricket chirps. “I know you're mad—”

“Are you fucking serious right now, Tiffany?”

“I'm sorry, I just—”

“Just what, huh?”

“Listen, I—”

“No-no-no, you listen. Do you have any fucking clue what you have done?” I sigh. “He was so excited to go today because you were going.”

“I know, I know—”

“No, I don't think you do know. He was devastated, Tiffany. If it wasn't for his teacher—”

“I dropped the ball, okay? I feel terrible—”