Third Position

by Melody Grace

  At first, I panicked. Leaving the company was the right thing to do, but my future stretched out in front of me, full of uncertainty. But Raphael took my hand, and didn’t let me go. He won the spot with the Collective, and even better: they were relocating to New York. So we both moved back here together, to the city I’d always called my home, but it turns out I hadn’t even begun to discover it.

  I hop off the subway at my stop downtown and walk briskly through the familiar neighborhood, stopping at my usual deli on the corner across from our building.

  “Annalise!” The owner, Gio, is Italian, and after meeting Raphael, he now greets me with a kiss on each cheek. “What can I do for you today?”

  “I’m not sure.” I run my eyes over the crates of fresh fruit, my mind turning. “I was thinking maybe a fruit tart, or a cake...”

  Gio brightens. “The dark plums, so sweet. With a pastry, light as air...” He kisses his fingertips.

  I laugh. “OK, sounds good.”

  I load up on supplies, and balance the bag in my arms as I cross the street and climb the six flights up to our apartment. It’s a tiny one-bedroom with a view of the alleyway, but it’s all ours: decorated with framed dance prints, vintage art, and furniture thrifted from the local stores. The galley kitchen is barely big enough for one person, but that doesn’t stop Raphael from whipping up his favorite meatballs and spaghetti, or gnocchi, or any of the other amazing dishes that I can now eat without the crushing weight of guilt poisoning every bite.

  I let myself in and set the groceries on the kitchen counter, switching on some music and getting out my cookbooks as I set to work on one of my new discoveries: baking.

  Maybe it was inevitable, after spending my life ignoring dessert, to find a new love for sweet things. Now, there’s nothing I enjoy more than spending an afternoon here with the buzz of the city outside, surrounded with flour and butter and sugar: whisking and mixing and making something of my own. I teach myself from the cookbooks I find on the used book carts and secondhand stores around town, trying out new recipes with whatever I like the look of in the bodegas and delis.

  Sometimes, I play my Italian language lessons, or practice my vocabulary with Raphael. I’m taking an Italian class at one of the community colleges here, along with courses in literature, art, and history. I’m not sure if college is for me, but I want to try it out: to start exploring all of the things I missed out on, being so single-mindedly focused on dance all these years.

  There’s a whole world out there, and I want to taste it all.

  I’m just checking the plum tart in the oven, bubbling with sweet juicy syrup, when Raphael enters.

  “My God, I could smell that all the way down the hall.” He comes up behind me, wrapping his arms around my chest and leaning over to smell the dessert. “It looks like heaven.”

  “It needs another ten minutes.” I twist around so I’m facing him, reaching up to pull him into a kiss. He relaxes against me, a bundle of thick winter coat and red-tipped ears. “You’re cold!” I place my hands over his cheeks, feeling the bite of winter.

  “I’ll never get used to this winter,” Raphael frowns, but his dark eyes are teasing.

  “Yes, but it’ll be spring soon,” I remind him, stroking along the stubble on his jaw. “Blossoms and green. Central Park. Picnics...”

  He wraps me in a bear hug. “I don’t know, I kind of like hibernating...” Raphael dips to kiss down my neck, his hands sliding lower over my curves.

  I shiver, melting against him.

  “It’s the weekend tomorrow,” I whisper playfully. “That means we don’t have to get out of bed all day.”

  “Technically, it’s already the weekend.” Raphael’s smile flashes with wicked intent. He slips his hands up underneath my sweater, the shock of cold against my skin making me yelp.

  He swallows my protest in another kiss, deeper this time, his tongue plunging into my mouth, sliding over mine in a gorgeous caress.

  I groan, falling back as he pushes me up against the refrigerator, all hard muscle and roving hands. I grab at his shirt, reveling in the feel of his bare skin beneath, the ridges and planes I know by heart.

  Mine, all mine.

  He knows just what to do to take me there, stroking me, teasing me, until I’m breathless and gasping under his touch—

  The oven timer rings out through the tiny space. I break away, gasping. “The tart!”

  Raphael laughs, stepping aside and passing me a dishcloth to protect my hands as I lift the dessert from the oven. “Perfect!” I clap my hands together, proud.

  “I know you are.” Raphael leans in to kiss my cheek.

  I melt.

  “Hey, I almost forgot.” Raphael reaches over to the stack of letters he put on the counter. “We got mail.”

  “It’s probably just junk...” I flip through the circulars, then stop on a postcard: the South of France. “It’s from Rosalie!” I exclaim happily. I scan the brief note. “She’s in Cannes with Mademoiselle…oh, it doesn’t sound like it’s going well.” I sigh. “I wish she’d leave her. Mademoiselle takes her for granted so badly, she walks all over her.”

  “Everybody in their own time,” Raphael reminds me, reaching to sneak a corner of the tart. “Mmm,” he groans, a happy sound. “This is amazing.”

  I glow with pride. “Maybe I’ll take a pastry course,” I muse. “There’s only so much I can do on my own.”

  “You can do anything.” Raphael kisses me. “Especially if it means I get to eat more like this. Wait, what’s wrong?” He notices the change in my expression.

  I stare at the thick envelope in my hands. “It’s from Mom.”

  “What does it say?”

  “I don’t know.” I take a deep breath, but I can’t bring myself to open it.

  “Hey,” Raphael’s voice is soft. He moves closer, wrapping his strong arms around me. “Whatever she says, it’ll be OK.”

  I nod and gather my strength, ripping open the envelope. The notecard is short and to the point. “She wants us to come for dinner,” I say slowly, not quite believing my eyes.

  “Us, as in me and you?” Raphael takes it, raising his eyebrows as he reads. “That’s something, right?”

  “That’s huge.” I say, realizing that something has changed. My heart lifts. “Do you think she wants to make up?” I ask hopefully. Even though leaving was necessary, it still cuts me to have her gone from my life entirely. I’d like to have a chance to get to know her, without ballet looming so large over us; to see her as more than a coach and task-master, but as my mother, too.

  “I think she misses you.” Raphael smiles gently at me. “And how could she not?”

  I hug him, swift and strong. “Thank you,” I whisper, suddenly feeling tears sting the edge of my eyes. Not tears of sadness, but of joy, relief, and thankfulness to have him in my life. A life we’ll live together. “When I think, if I’d never met you...” I stop, trying to imagine the other reality, the one where I never knew this happiness or freedom.

  This love.

  Raphael holds me tight, then pulls back slightly to look down at me, his dark eyes shining bright with love. “It was always going to be this way,” he promises. “You’re my destiny, amore mio. My only love.”

  I hold him tight, full of wonder. I used to think my destiny was set. I thought I knew for sure what I wanted. And then I met Raphael, and everything changed. Because he showed me I was more than I ever thought possible. That we’re more, together.

  And it’s only just the beginning.

  THE END

  Read on for an exclusive look at the first chapters of Unexpectedly Yours, Melody Grace’s new holiday book!

  Chapter One.

  Christmas Eve

  Sophie

  Christmas in New York...

  Ever since I was a girl, snuggling in to watch holiday movies, I’ve dreamed about the day I would experience it for myself. The lights, the store windows, ice-skating at Rockefeller Center, the sleigh ride
through Central Park... Growing up in LA, with fake confetti snowfall and balmy 75 degree weather, I couldn’t wait to wrap up warmly in mittens and walk hand-in-hand through the softly-falling snow with the man of my dreams--

  “Watch it, red!”

  A stressed-looking man shoves past me to the baggage carousel. I leap back, right into the path of the other three hundred people all charging to get their luggage.

  “Sorry... Sorry... wait!” I try and duck out of the stampede, but there’s no escape. The afternoon before Christmas, and the airport is madness: kids screaming, businessmen wielding their laptop cases like shields, hoards of tourists squinting at their phones. Last year, a friend of mine dragged me to a sample sale at a wedding dress warehouse. You haven’t seen chaos until you’ve watched five hundred wild-eyed brides-to-be fighting over the same 70% off Vera Wang strapless sheath. They had to call in riot police, and the whole thing wound up on the evening news.

  But this? This is whole other level of insanity.

  I grip my case tighter and fight my way to the exit. The doors slide open, and I step outside into a blast of icy frigid air and the sound of horns blaring in traffic.

  Holy crap, that’s cold!

  I bite back a gasp of shock. Just remember, you can’t have moonlit walks in the snow without actual snow, I remind myself, wrapping my vintage red wool coat tighter. I look around, but the sidewalk is packed with people.

  “Excuse me,” I flag a passing security guy. “Where’s the taxi rank?”

  “You’re looking at it.” He hurries on, rushing to separate two guys about throw punches over the next cab in line. Behind them, the impatient crowd stretches around the block.

  Plan B then.

  The Departures level is right upstairs, so I drag my case into the elevator and head upstairs, hoping to snag a cab from someone just arriving to fly out. As the elevator fills, I slide my phone from my pocket and check to see if Matt has arrived. I wanted us to travel together, get the full romantic getaway experience from the minute we left LA, but he had a medical conference scheduled this week, so we had to fly out separately. Three romantic, snowy days in New York for Christmas, then on to Connecticut to meet his parents for the first time.

  I can’t wait. My case is heavier than an anvil, bouncing along behind me, packed full of ‘seduce me’ slinky dresses for my candlelit dinners with Matt, and demure, ‘love me’ dresses to wow my future in-laws. I shopped for weeks at my favorite vintage and thrift stores in LA, and since I’m a stress packer, I couldn’t leave anything behind. I want this trip to be perfect. I’ve planned every minute of our New York adventure: all the sights I’ve been daydreaming about ever since my babysitter slid ‘Serendipity’ into the old VCR and I fell in love with the city for the first time.

  “Hey babe, just checking in.” There’s no new messages, so I leave him a voicemail. “My flight landed fine, so I’ll see you at the hotel.”

  I duck out of the elevator and head outside again, but this time, the sidewalk is blissfully empty. Everyone is rushing straight inside to catch their flight, leaving their cabs free. I spot one just about to pull away from the curb and wave.

  “Wait up!”

  The driver sees me and stops, popping open the trunk. But I’m just dragging my case over when someone hurries past. It’s a sandy-haired guy wearing a dark wool jacket and a pair of cowboy boots. His bag catches my shoulder hard, knocking me off-balance.

  “Hey!” I stumble, slipping on the icy ground. The world tilts as I flail for dear life, but gravity wins.

  I go crashing to the ground, ass-first, feet in the air.

  “Oww!”

  The guy doesn’t even hear me. He opens the door of the cab -- my cab! -- and slides inside. The driver sends me a sympathetic look, but he doesn’t stop to help. They drive away, leaving me in a heap on the ground with my belonging scattered all around me and muddy ice slush soaking into my pants.

  Welcome to New York City.

  By the time I’ve managed to find another cab and haul my shivering, wet body into the car, the glow is definitely off my holiday spirit. Matt still hasn’t called, and his flight was supposed to arrive a couple of hours ago. I leave him another message, and cross my fingers that he hasn’t been delayed by snow somewhere.

  “Here for the holidays?” My elderly driver makes small-talk from up front as we speed away from the airport. There’s a fake holly branch swinging from the rear-view mirror, and he’s got the radio tuned to a golden oldies station; Elvis crooning about it being a blue Christmas without you.

  “Yes,” I reply, trying to squeeze the ice water out of my jeans.

  “Just you?” he frowns.

  “No, my boyfriend is coming.” I say quickly.

  He relaxes into a smile again. “Good, good. Can’t have a pretty girl like you alone on the holidays. You need someone to kiss on New Year’s Eve!”

  I smile, and quickly check my phone to see if Matt’s flight was on time. It’s listed as arriving on schedule. I feel a surge of relief, finally relaxing back into the seat. Matt’s probably already checked us in and is relaxing in the tub. Or, more likely, he’s sprawled out doing what every sleep-deprived doctor loves most in the world. Sleeping.

  He’s been under so much pressure recently, I’ve hardly seen him at all. He warned me when we started dating five months ago that his surgical residency at one of the top hospitals in LA didn’t leave him any free time. I didn’t mind: I’m still in school too, I just started a masters degree in psychology, and sometimes I lose sleep over my reading lists and deadlines, not to mention the days I volunteer at a crisis hotline as part of my research. I understood that his career and my school-work wouldn’t leave much time to be together, but we had such a great connection, we both swore we’d make it work.

  The first few months went by in a whirl, stealing moments together: a breakfast here, a late-night movie there. It was fun, snatching whatever time together our crazy schedules allowed. I would drop by the hospital to grab lunch with Matt in the cafeteria, and he would deliver triple-shot coffees when I was pulling all-nighters in the library. One night, he even showed up at my apartment just to kiss me, before turning right back around and heading to the hospital for another twelve-hour shift.

  It was romantic and thrilling to begin with, but I have to admit, the novelty is wearing off fast. I want something more than fleeting kisses and trading texts. I want something real. I told my friend Tegan that it feels like we’re in a long-distance relationship, even though we live a couple of miles apart. And more and more, whenever I make time for us and plan a special dinner or date, he gets called back in on some emergency and I’m stuck alone at a table set for two.

  I try to be understanding, but still, I wonder how much longer we can keep this up. I’ve been hinting at moving in together so we can take the next step, and I’m hoping that having this time together over the holidays will give him that spark to make a change.

  Can’t wait to see you, I type out a quick text. I have a special night planned!

  I look up just as we approach the Brooklyn Bridge. My heart catches. The Manhattan skyline is sparkling under the grey, cloudy skies. Towering buildings and glittering lights, already shining in the darkening afternoon.

  It’s perfect.

  As the cab drives closer, I hug my arms around myself and smile. This is going to be the trip of a lifetime, I can just feel it. Matt will finally relax, and then everything will be OK. I’ll finally have the Christmas I’ve been dreaming about.

  And maybe it will even snow.

  Chapter Two.

  Austin

  I’ve never been filled with the Christmas spirit, but this year, I’m officially done with the holidays.

  Keep your merry reindeer. Tell Santa where he can shove it. What I need is a soft bed, a stiff drink, and a willing playmate -- and not necessarily in that order.

  “Are you sure you can’t make it?” My mom’s face fills my cellphone screen, messaging all the way f
rom London. I can see a huge Christmas tree behind her, and the mantle in the hotel room covered with wreaths and stockings.

  “I’m sorry. I was stuck at the airport all morning, but they cancelled my flight and every plane crossing the Atlantic is booked solid.” I explain. “You’re lucky you flew out yesterday. You guys will just have to celebrate without me.”

  “But this vacation to England was your gift to us...” She looks upset, so I reassure her with a grin.

  “Don’t worry about me, mom. I’ll have plenty to keep me busy. You guys just have fun.”

  I hang up, sending thanks to whatever higher power sent freak ice-storms raging over London. I’m sorry not to spend time with my folks, but I can see them back home in Texas all the time. No, this was a lucky break. Instead of sitting through a week of jet-lag and enforced holiday cheer, I have nothing but time. No carol concerts, no Christmas dinner, and no watching schmaltzy movies for the hundredth time. Just a perfect, no-stress, zero-bullshit Christmas in New York: me, a bottle of bourbon, takeout pizza and ESPN.

  What more could a guy ask for?

  Back at the hotel, the woman at the front desk, Patrice, lights up when she sees me. “Mr. Kelly,” she beams. “I thought you were all checked out.”

  “Change of plans.” I drop my bag and flash her my best charming grin. “Any chance you can squeeze me in to my old room? Turns out I’ll be staying a couple of days longer.”

  “Let me just take a look...” Patrice clicks at her computer a moment. “Actually, there’s someone scheduled to check in tonight.” She pauses, looking around. There’s nobody but us in the lobby, so she gives me a wink. “But we just had a cancellation and our executive penthouse suite is free.”

  “Darlin’, as long as there’s four walls and nobody around to hear me snore, I’m all set.”