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A group of boisterous women fills the box to our right, smiling and waving at us as they take their seats. It turns out my grandmother knows them, which isn’t surprising. Some days it feels like she knows half this town.
A waiter comes around to ask if we need anything. Diana and Victoria opt for a second round of champagne, but I hold off for now and go back to observing. My grandmother is pointing out a story in the program highlighting one of the dancers, tilting toward me to show me the picture, when there’s movement in the box to my left. I’ve been wondering who would fill it and when. The ballet is due to start any minute.
I look over in time to catch sight of the first two men walking in, and I know right away who will follow after them. It might be well over a decade since we were all at St. John’s together, but even today, Heath and Harrison are never far from their fearless leader. And ah, right on cue, there he is, walking in just behind his brother, the last man to fill the box.
It’s not a shock to me that Emmett wears a tuxedo so well. The fitted jacket clearly has a designer touch, and his black bowtie is so spot-on I wonder if he stood in front of a mirror for thirty minutes trying to get it just right, or if he’s just that good at tying them.
Alexander notices me first, and his wide smile and big wave don’t quell the swarm of butterflies filling my stomach.
I press my hand against my belly and try to find my bearings, but when Emmett’s cool gaze meets mine, I might as well be laid bare for him, every nerve ending exposed and humming.
“Well don’t they make a fine group,” my grandmother notes.
Yes, they could be a Ralph Lauren ad. Oh wait—Ralph Lauren couldn’t afford them.
Emmett veers off from the rest and heads toward the edge of his balcony, closer to us. He drops his hands on the railing and nods first toward my grandmother.
“Mrs. Davenport, you look enchanting this evening.”
“I was just going to say the same to you. Who designed your tuxedo? It looks custom.”
“Tom Ford.”
She hums in appreciation. “Nicely done.”
“Lainey,” he says, turning his dark gaze on me. I’m pinned in place, paralyzed by the weight of his attention. He tips his head, a coy expression playing on his lips. “Have you been enjoying my gifts?”
I flush with warmth and hope beyond hope that the low theater lighting helps conceal my reaction to him. I’d hate for him to see the effect he has on me, still. It negates everything I’ve tried to do these last few weeks.
“Some more than others,” I say, batting his question away with a simple shrug.
His mouth curls with amusement and then he steps back to claim the seat behind him, the one closest to me. From balcony to balcony, we’re only a few feet apart.
I wonder how he managed to snag the box right beside ours. Was it a coincidence or a carefully laid plan? My grandmother has held this same box for the last two decades, and everyone who frequents the ballet knows that.
Once he’s said hello and settled into his seat, Emmett doesn’t ask me any more questions. In fact, he doesn’t look in my direction. A waiter comes around to collect their drink orders just before the lighting dims further and the orchestra begins to play.
I feel a jolt of excitement when the curtain slowly starts to lift to reveal the opening scene of Swan Lake.
This is my favorite ballet, and I’ve seen it performed in London, New York, and San Francisco, but never in Boston. My favorite part is in act II, when the four shortest girls in the corps de ballet dance together holding crisscrossed hands and moving their feet and heads in perfect sync. They’re meant to be four little swans, sticking close together, curious about exploring their new world. It’s a moment of levity in an otherwise dramatic work.
Soon after, I feel a tap on my shoulder.
“From the gentleman,” the waiter says, nodding toward Emmett’s box.
I thank the waiter and take it, feeling Emmett’s eyes on me as I lift the glass of champagne to my lips. It’s decadent, both the taste and the feeling of him watching me while I sip it.
The orchestra’s sweeping score makes the moment feel all the more intense, Tchaikovsky’s haunting “Flight of the Swans” like a signifier of fate. It takes everything I have not to look over at him. I know what I’ll find, and it’s already been hard enough to sit in this box and try to focus on a ballet filled with passion, longing, and doomed lovers without comparing it to my own life.
