Home to You

Chloe buckles herself into her booster seat, talking a mile a minute about whatever happened at school today. Apparently, there was glue, a marble, and someone’s nose, but I struggle to follow. I pull into the parking lot for Dancing in the Light, the small-town studio where Chloe takes beginners ballet every Monday. It’s a thirty-minute class with Mrs. Simone, a local legend in the dance world. She’s a former Broadway dancer herself before returning to her hometown, and many of her students have gone on to further their dance careers.

I swallow over the lump in my throat and ignore the familiar ping of regret that slides through my blood every time I’m here.

I take Chloe’s hand and her bag and lead her to the front door. We step inside and find an available cubby for her belongings. She pulls out her slippers and carefully places them on her feet. I help her tie them, something else I’ve learned to do in the last few months, and make sure she’s all set for class. Of course she is. She lives and breathes ballet. In her little pink tutu and white tights, I’d say she’s ready to go.

“Did you hear about Mrs. Simone?” one of the dance moms asks as I sit down on the bench. Chloe goes over and starts to do some stretches before their class heads back.

“No, what happened?”

“She fell last week and messed up her hip. I think she has to have surgery,” she says, sliding a little closer to me on the bench.

This is something else I’ve gotten used to.

Horny dance moms.

“Wow, that’s terrible,” I reply, subtly moving away from the mom a few more inches. “So who’s teaching the class?” I ask, glancing over to check on Chloe.

“One of her former students,” the mom replies, flipping through her phone. She sets her hand down on her leg, her fingertips very close to my own leg. The absence of a wedding ring is prominent, and I can’t help but think she planned it. You know, flash your ringless finger in a single guy’s face in hopes of getting an invite to coffee or maybe a date? I’ve seen it a hundred times, and no, I’m not just being cocky.

The Fox, remember?

“Well, I’m sure her former student will do just fine for a while. I’m grateful someone is able to help Mrs. Simone out,” I reply as the class before ours starts to file out of the back studio.

The waiting room is bursting with activity as the previous class gathers their belongings to leave, and the new ones are awaiting their time to go back. I grab my phone and scan through a few emails while we wait. I wish I had my bag with me, but with the other moms hanging around and talking, I’ve learned it’s hard to get any work done in here. So, I stick to doing what I can on my phone and leave the paper grading to later at night when I’m home.

“That must be her,” the mom says, elbowing me in the arm and grabbing my attention.

I look up to see a short, slender woman, her back to me. Her brown hair is long and curly but pinned high on her head. She’s wearing black tights and a pink leotard that accentuates her perfect heart-shaped ass.

Why am I thinking about her ass?

Because it’s a nice fucking ass and I haven’t had any in about five months?

I clear my throat and watch, an odd sense of familiarity washing over me. The woman hugs one of the young students before the girl takes off out the door with her mother. Just as she turns around, Chloe runs up to me and gives me a hug. “I’ll be back, Daddy.”

“Okay, sweetheart. Have fun in class. Make sure you listen to your teacher.”

“She’s new. I don’t know her name,” my little one says, her expressive eyes so full of excitement and worry.

“It’s okay. I’m sure she’ll introduce herself.”

“Are my little ballerinas ready?”

That voice.

I’d know it anywhere.

A chorus of “yeses” echoes through the waiting room as my blood swooshes through my ears. It can’t be… can it?

I look up, shocked to see the face before me. Her green eyes are just as bright as I remember, her smile as wide and alluring. She’s casually giving her new ballerinas high-fives while I worry about whether I’m actually breathing or not. My daughter’s new ballet teacher grins warmly at her class and says, “I’m so excited to be here with you tonight. My name is Miss—”

“Haven.” I finish her sentence.

Her gorgeous face registers shock first as our eyes meet for the first time since high school, since post-graduation when she left our hometown to pursue her dream of dancing, breaking my heart in the process. Haven Decker was my first girlfriend—my first everything—until it was time for her to go to Juilliard.