A Wright Christmas

Bebe raised her chin and moved past Katelyn to take her position. My heart was thumping for the girl. I couldn’t imagine what Bebe must be feeling. But I sure as hell knew that someone needed to put Katelyn in her place. She hadn’t chosen this moment for no reason. She wanted to embarrass Bebe. She’d succeeded, but none of us would forget it either. Kathy was going to have to nip that in the bud before it went any further.

Bebe, to her credit, didn’t falter once through the turn sequence. She ended to an even louder round of applause than I had gotten, which was good. She needed the confidence boost and the proof that Katelyn was wrong.

Kathy gestured to all of us. “One more round of applause for our wonderful dancers.” Once the audience quieted down, she continued, “There are refreshments in the main lobby after this, and our dancers will be out there to mingle with you. Thank you so much for attending and for your generous support of the Lubbock Ballet Company.”

We all ran back into the wings and started for the dressing rooms to get into street clothes for the rest of Open Barre.

“Katelyn Lawson,” Kathy snapped, stopping the girl before she could scamper off.

“Yes, Miss Kathy?”

“Here. Now.”

Katelyn walked over to the artistic director without fear in her heart. I sure hoped that she learned an ounce of humility from this moment.

I left Kathy to deal with it and changed into a long black romper that tapered at the waist and ankles. I left the ballet bun and stage makeup, grabbed my purse, and went to see if Isaac had ever made it. My stomach fluttered at the thought. I’d been reckless to invite him to this, but I couldn’t bring myself to regret it.

But as soon as I walked out, I was bombarded by wealthy donors, some that I recognized from my time with LBC.

“Peyton, you were spectacular,” an older gentleman said.

“Yes, we went to see you perform the same role in New York City a few years back, and again, we saw you recently in Giselle,” his wife said.

“I’m so pleased,” I told them. “It’s such an honor that you came all the way to the city to see me perform.”

“We’re huge fans,” the man said. “We remember watching you when you were just a little thing. It’s been amazing to see you transform.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Oh, Peyton,” another woman in her middle years said, drawing my attention away. “I read that article you did in Time magazine.”

Oh God, here we go again. I still cursed myself for ever being in that article.

When Macy had approached me about my injury and the work I was doing to recover, I’d thought it would be a fun, easily dismissed fluff piece. But her editor loved it and decided to make it a full four-page spread in the magazine. There was an entire page of just me sitting on the stage at Lincoln Center, putting my ballet slippers on.

I’d done other magazine pieces before, of course. The publicity was part of the job. It helped keep dance and culture and the New York City Ballet in people’s minds. But this felt different. This hadn’t really been about my dancing; it had been about my biggest downfall. I’d felt vulnerable and exposed. Even though everyone else loved it, I still cringed, thinking about how low I’d fallen.

“It was just incredible, reading about your road to recovery,” the woman said. “Truly inspiring.”

“Thank you.”

“And you’re all healed up now?”

I nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s good. I can’t wait to see you on opening night.”

“Excuse me,” a voice cut through my latest flock of admirers.

I turned and found Isaac’s handsome face. My heart fluttered. He’d made it.

“Do you mind if I steal Peyton for a minute?”

The woman looked between us with a coy smile on her face. “Not at all.” She patted my hand. “It was so nice to meet you.”

“You too.”

Isaac gestured for me to walk before him, and I did so as quickly as I could without looking like I was scurrying.

“Thank you,” I whispered to him.

“For what?”

“Saving me.”

He stopped when we were far enough away and met my eyes. “Always, Peyton. Always.”8Isaac“As much as you love the spotlight onstage, you truly hate it in person,” I said to her, grabbing two glasses of champagne off of a passing tray. I handed one to her.

She mumbled, “Thank you,” and took a fortifying sip. “Yeah, well, I always have.”

“I don’t know how you even handle the life you live.”

She shrugged. “Most times, I don’t know either. But I love ballet more than anything, and it’s not always people rushing me to discuss the Time article. I should have prepared myself for that.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

She tilted her head to the side and looked off, away from me. Her face was carefully blank, but I could read her like no other. Even all these years later, she gave the same tell. A part of her thought that she should have known what to expect here. She’d always been hard on herself. Perfectionist to the core.