She smiles for the cameras and inclines her head toward mine for the photos, but it’s perfectly apparent that this woman has spent her whole life running from her reality, and that’s not a good feeling. She’s so fake for the media that it makes my heart hurt.
I snake my arm around her back and pull her to me until her hips touch my side. She arches away, a dramatic pose for the cameras, and I hold her fast to me.
This photo will be shared and plastered on every news outlet by tomorrow morning. People will think we’re an item. Lance and Katerina will look stupid, and there’s nothing like a little scandal to start a good ballet season.
“To a season that will rise above everyone’s expectations!” I raise my glass to the crowd. Then I easily turn my head and nip my lips on Sam’s jawline.
I work the room for hours while Sam seems to do nothing more than guzzle Champagne, argue with Lance, and later with her mother in the corner of the living room where all the furniture has been pushed aside to convert the giant space into a ballroom.
I network and mingle but never let Sam stray from my watchful eye. She’s fucking miserable, and the irony is steep when every dancer in this room would pay to trade places with her. She might be an indomitable dancer with infinite wealth and natural beauty, but she’s starving inside. She’s empty, and ironically, her hunger is the only thing keeping her alive. It’s obvious to me, but I think her pain is invisible to everyone else.
My mom hovers by my side and chats with other parents while taking iPhone pictures of me with the other dancers whenever they ask and shove their phones her way. But my distraction is apparent to her.
“Dashiell, you’ve never stopped caring. Go rescue her.” She gestures with her chin toward Sam in the corner in a heated argument with Lance the douchebot.
“Right, right, because the Koslova’s showed us so much compassion in our moment of need,” I say to her.
“That was never Sam, and you know it. Don’t punish her for her mother’s dysfunction. You’re better than that.”
“I’m better than them in a lot of ways, and that’s exactly why I don’t want to get involved in their toxic garbage. The Koslovas are bad news, and I’ve carved my own path, Mom. I don’t need their help. Nor do I need their drama to sully my self-built success.”
The DJ who’s been setting up stops the Chopin abruptly and drops his first beat. I put down my glass and automatically start moving while unbuttoning my shirt. Mom says I’ve always been like this, ever since I was in diapers. When I hear a beat that moves me, I can do nothing but dance. It’s what I was born to do.
Besides, most of these people came to see me dance anyway. The crowd clears and I give them what they want, performing a backflip immediately followed by a front flip. I land a couple of feet away from Sam, and I beckon her with a finger. She shakes her head “no,” but I’m not taking that for an answer. She might say one thing, but her energy tells me something entirely different. She’s trapped in a glass box, and the only way she experiences freedom from it is when she dances.
I grab her arm and yank her hips to mine, guiding her into a backbend with my arm leading her port-de-bras. Her body melts into mine as she finds the rhythm, and I slip my thigh between her legs and let her circle her back again. I think we can both feel the whole room hold its collective breath.
With her neck and clavicle exposed before me, begging me to touch her, I spin her out and yank her back even harder so our chests are flush. Sam gazes into my eyes, searching, checking to ensure that our connection still holds despite the years of separation. The cameras come out, and everyone is recording.
I freestyle to the music and Sam responds to my every cue like a pro, like her body was made to fall into movement with mine. I don’t think she gets to dance like this much, but her training and talent are so impeccable, she responds like we spent hours and came up with the choreography together. Contemporary dance may not be in her wheelhouse, but she improvises perfectly.
Our bodies are so in sync that I can’t believe we haven’t seen one another in years. And Katerina is filming enthusiastically, meaning her greed for clout and followers is greater than her disdain for my lack of classical training or my unknown family name.
The beat is Latin, so we fall into a modern Samba, and some other new company members join us on the floor. At some point midway through the song, Lance storms out of the room.