by Lisa Edward
My feet had a mind of their own as I tentatively stepped onto the smooth surface and propelled my arms to keep balance. Jaz glided around me in circles as I fought for my body to stay upright.
“Would you like some help, old man?” she asked with a grin, reaching my side and taking me by the waist.
I didn’t need help, but any opportunity to get close to Jaz, I’d take. “Sure, let’s do the corny couples skate.”
With tentative strides, we took off. By the second lap of the rink I was fine; I could have sped off on my own, but I enjoyed having Jaz close, her little peach-shaped ass pushing into my hip.
There were couples everywhere, and some were beginning to show off a little, pretending they were Olympic skaters like Torvill and Dean. I glanced at Jaz who had also spied one particular couple who were attempting, without much grace, to do a lift.
“We can do better than that,” she whispered out the side of her mouth. “You can lift me and fling me around with one hand.” She rubbed a hand up and down my bicep. “Especially with these arms.”
I knew what she had in mind. Back in Boston we had actually managed to do a few overhead lifts on the ice without me falling on my ass and dropping Jaz.
“Okay.” I chuckled nervously. “I’m game if you are.”
Jaz skated ahead then circled back. It was the closest thing you could do on ice to getting a good run-up. When she reached me, I braced myself, took her by the waist, and lifted. She went straight up with ease; she was such a feather-weight. I continued skating as Jaz positioned herself in arabesque, arms in fifth.
Getting her up there was the easy part. Getting her down was going to be tricky. With a lot of muscle power, I just managed to set her back down on her skates. If she hadn’t been such an accomplished skater she probably would have landed on her ass.
The show-off couple skated over.
“Wow that was amazing,” the guy exclaimed. “Are you professionals?”
The laugh erupted from my belly before I could contain it. “No, bro, we’re ballet dancers.”
He looked me up and down knowingly.
“And no, I’m not gay.”
Skating had been a blast. Lunch was delicious. Now for the piece de resistance—a carriage ride through Central Park at dusk. I’d booked the ride and asked them to spare no expense, with flowers awaiting us in the carriage and a full-length ride to take in all the sights.
As we snuggled, huddled under the blanket, the driver flicked the reins and two majestic black draft horses pulled us into motion. I’d only been to Central Park for the occasional run, which seemed to be the main way that people used the area. There were usually people sitting under shady trees reading or picnicking, but jogging the path was the best way in my opinion to make use of the parkland in the middle of the city. Until now, of course. I ran my hand over the soft leather seat, taking in the gold accents of the carriage that stood out dramatically in contrast to the lacquered black. The horses, too, were dressed in black and gold, with a black and red feather on their headdresses. The driver, a gentleman who looked to be in his fifties with graying hair, was decked out in an old-fashioned top-hat and tails.
“This is beautiful,” Jaz sighed, as she took in the canopy of trees marking our way. The leaves fell softly as a breeze rustled the branches, and she cuddle in closer beside me. “This reminds me of home,” she whispered. “The color in the trees—just the fact that there are trees. I love New York but I miss Boston.” She glanced up at me. “Is that bad? To dream of being here for my entire dancing life and then when I finally get here, I’m homesick?”
Shaking my head, I squeezed her into my side. “Not at all. I was homesick for a long time, but I knew I needed to be here for you. To set us up as best I could.” My jaw clenched. “I wanted to have a home for us, a job, and be ready for you when you moved.”
Her bottom lip dropped as sad eyes pleaded with me. “I’m so sorry, Bax. Please don’t be angry with me. I wanted to come as soon as I’d graduated, I really did. My bags were packed and waiting. I had my ticket booked.” A stray tear rolled down her soft cheek. “I couldn’t leave my dad. I just … we were told he only had a few months and I couldn’t leave.”
This was not how I’d wanted this evening to go—Jaz thinking I was mad at her and in tears over her dad. The driver was trained to be invisible to his passengers and to tune out conversations, but even he had one ear cocked, straining to hear what was happening in the back of his pristine carriage.
“I’m not angry, Jaz,” I said. Her gaze dropped to the floor, and I tilted her head with a finger under her chin so she would look at me. “I’m really not angry, okay?”
She nodded, but her eyes stayed wide and scared.
“I’m upset. Sad that we lost so many years together. Sad that we could have been living together and dancing together and even married by now.”
Her mouth fell open in surprise, making me smile. “Married?”
I nodded. “Yeah, why not? We would have had six years together in New York. I’m guessing we would have been married after six years of living together.”
Tears welled in her vivid green eyes, and I brushed them away from her cheeks with my thumbs.
“Please stop crying, Jaz. What’s done is done. I went through the denial, anger, and acceptance years ago. You being here is like a gift I thought would never happen. I’m grateful that after all this time you’ve finally come and you want to give me a chance.”
Laughter spluttered through her tears. “I’m giving you a chance? I think it’s the other way around.” The heel of her hand swiped the remaining tears from her face. “I’m the lucky one. I’m lucky that in a city the size of New York, in a crowd of people I bumped into you, Baxter Sampson. I’m lucky that after I’d hurt you so badly you instantly forgave me and helped me, and stayed with me through hours and hours of boring auditions.” She giggled. “I know they’re boring to watch, and you’re scoring big brownie points for being there every day.” A warm, soft, pale blue gloved hand cupped my cheek. “I’m lucky that after so long you are still single and still want to be with me.”
“There’s never been anyone else, Jaz.”
Her eyes widened in surprise.
“I mean, no one serious in all the years I’ve been here.”
“Oh, of course. No one serious, but there have been other girls. How could there not be?” A heavy frown furrowed her brow.
“Sure. I mean, we’ve dated, right? It has been eight years all together since I graduated and you”—her head shook—“stayed on to finish your training …” The end of my sentence trailed off as I realized that for me there had been other girls, random girls I’d met, sometimes so drunk it felt wrong to accept their advances. For Jaz it was a different story. There’d been no one else for Jaz—no one but me. Had she felt that we were still together even though we had been apart for so many years? Did that mean in her eyes I’d been cheating on her? A knot formed in my stomach. “I waited the two years for you to graduate, Jaz, and I waited another year after that just to be sure. But after that when I realized that you weren’t coming, I”—I shrugged—“I kinda thought I was on my own, you know?”
“I understand.” A forced smile pulled at her strawberry lips. “I always knew you wouldn’t have waited for me for eight years.” Her pitch rose. “That would be ridiculous!” Her eyes softened. “To be so in love with someone that you would forgo all others even if you thought you may never see them again. To be so in love that the time you’d spent with that person would be enough to keep your heart fulfilled for the rest of your days.”
My eyes misted over with the realization that Jaz had felt that way for me. “I have only ever loved one woman, and that’s you, Jaz. I never wanted to meet anyone else and have a relationship with them. How I felt about you, how I still feel about you—no one could ever take your place in my heart. No one could even come close.”
The sweetest smile lit up Jaz’s face. “I love you, Baxter Sampson. I
always have and I always will.”
“And I love you, Jasmine Wilkinson, with all my heart.”
We sat in silence snuggled together, the clip-clop of the horse’s hooves and movement of the carriage lulling us into a sense of calm.
Finally, Jaz spoke, her voice gentle and dreamy. “This is nice. I think it’s the first time I’ve felt truly relaxed since I came here.”
I stroked her silken gold hair. “This is our first real date.”
“No, surely we …” She sat up and turned to face me. “I think you’re right. We met while dancing. Got to know each other while rehearsing and grabbing a slice after a long day.” She giggled. “Wow, I’m a cheap lay. A slice of pizza and I’m yours.”
My laughter carried on the night air. “You are anything but cheap, Jaz. We had so much in common from the start that we slotted into each other’s lives without any effort.”
We had somehow fitted in from the very start, as if we had known each other all our lives. That worried me, because we had connected over dance but I wasn’t dancing anymore. So far I’d been attending rehearsals so I could talk to Jaz about her day and the role and the other dancers, but that couldn’t go on indefinitely. If dance was no longer our common ground, we needed to connect on a different level.
The carriage came to a stop, and I looked around to see that we were back at the starting point. I’d wanted to point out interesting sights to Jaz, like the Central Park Zoo and the carousel, but this had been better. In the space of one hour we had talked, cried, cleared the air, and confirmed our love for each other. It was the best hour of my life because from here we were both ready to move forward with absolute certainty that we wanted to be together.
“HEY, JAZ, a few of us are going out for a drink after rehearsals. Do you wanna come?” Tiffany asked in between gulps from her water bottle.
“Yeah, sure. Sounds great.” I tried to sound casual but I was doing backflips inside. This was the first step toward making friends with the other cast members and making friends in New York. Some of them had worked together on other shows so had been involved in a tight clique from the start. I’d tried in my awkward, dorky way for three weeks to infiltrate the group, but had always received a lukewarm response. So why now?
Who cared? I’d been invited for drinks with some of the girls, and seeing as Bax was working, there was no reason why I shouldn’t accept.
The end of the day couldn’t come quickly enough. Not that I was a big drinker, far from it actually, but going for drinks didn’t mean I had to get smashed. It was the perfect chance to get to know these girls away from the stage and spotlights.
“Where are we going?” I asked Tiffany, catching her as she shoved her dance shoes in her bag.
“There’s a bar around the corner called Pointe that’s always full of dancers. We can go like this.” She indicated to her sweatpants and hoodie. “It’s like standard dress-code for that place.”
I gave myself a once-over. Sweats and zip-up track top should be fine then. I sniffed under my arms before screwing up my nose.
Tiffany laughed. “Here.” She tossed me her deodorant from her bag. “Never leave home without it.”
A loud whistle made me jump, and I spun around to find the source.
“Anyone coming to Pointe, we’re leaving now,” Becca announced from the stage. “Let’s go, ladies. I, for one, need a drink.”
I couldn’t wipe the broad grin from my face as seven other dancers, six girls and one guy, made their way toward the stage door. So this was my chance to make friends with all of them, to not only be another dancer in the show but someone they might consider socializing with. During breaks I’d heard them talking about going shopping in the East Village together, or a Broadway show a couple of them had been to. I wanted to be a part of that. I wanted to be able to walk up to Tiffany or Becca or any of the others and invite them out for lunch or a jog in Central Park without feeling self-conscious and like a try-hard.
We were filing through the door when a familiar voice called out. “Wait for me, my little doves.”
I didn’t need to turn to see whose voice that was. I had heard it barking out steps and whispering in my ear for weeks now.
“Is Pierre coming?” I asked Tiffany in a hushed voice, already knowing the answer.
She rolled her eyes. “Apparently.”
I giggled at her response, feeling the same way.
She giggled back. “I can’t stand him. He’s such a sleaze, but he’s a brilliant choreographer and if you cross him you’ll never work again, so, you know.” She shrugged, leaving what I was supposed to know unsaid.
I nodded, hopefully convincingly, because I had no idea what she was talking about.
A nondescript brownstone hid what was a treasure trove of stage memorabilia. I would have walked straight past Pointe and never known what gems the walls concealed. The girls smiled knowingly as I slowly walked the circumference, reading the signed pictures and plaques on each framed piece of costume or small prop that hung on the wall.
There was a fan from Madame Butterfly. A mask from Phantom of the Opera that had been signed by Michael Crawford. A pair of red glitter shoes from The Wizard of Oz. The list was endless and I ohh’ed and ahh’ed in awe with every new piece I discovered. How had I never heard of this place before? I could spend the entire night just absorbing the plethora of keepsakes from the world’s most famous Broadway musicals.
A friendly hand rested on my shoulder. “Pretty impressive, isn’t it?” Tiffany asked. “First time I came here I was worse than you. I’d been dreaming of being Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz since I was six, and to see those shoes …” She indicated with a nod to the glittery pumps on the wall. “I burst into tears.” She laughed. “Yes, I know, I’m pathetic.”
“You wanted to play Dorothy. Do you sing as well as dance?”
She smiled. “I do sing, but I actually wanted to not only play Dorothy, but be Dorothy. I grew up in Kansas and watching that movie was a Sunday afternoon staple in my house. I used to dream of being Dorothy and being whisked away to the magical land of Oz.”
“I’ve wanted to dance Odette in Swan Lake since I first put on ballet slippers at the age of three.” I sighed. “Maybe one day.”
“Come over here. This will blow your mind.” Tiffany grabbed my hand and led me across the bar to the opposite wall. There were ballet pointe shoes in a box frame with a brass plaque beneath that read ‘Galina Ulanova’s ballet shoes, worn for her performance of Odetta in Swan Lake, 1932.’
To any regular person they were just a pair of second-hand ballet shoes, the ribbons tied in a bow, the toes dirty and worn. But to me they were priceless pieces of historical art. These shoes had been worn by a famous ballerina who had danced one of the most famous ballets, and I felt their significance from the ache in my chest to the ball in the pit of my stomach. One day, if I was ever lucky enough, I would have shoes hanging on the wall in this little brownstone bar, and a starry-eyed dancer would gaze upon them and feel all her dreams could come true, just as I now was.
“I know, right? That’s how I feel about Dorothy’s ruby slippers,” Tiffany said, reading my expression. “It will come true one day for both of us. You’ll see.”
Nodding, a rush of determination soar through me. “It will, and I’ll do anything to make it happen.”
Becca’s piercing whistle disturbed my perusal of souvenirs from many other Broadway shows. Tiffany hooked her arm through mine. “Come on. We must be way behind the others.”
Our group had secured a corner booth nearest to the bar, and Tiffany and I squeezed in either end of the red padded seats. Pierre wasn’t sitting and I hoped he’d had a change of heart and decided not to join us, but just as I was feeling myself relax, he appeared with a tray of tequila shots.
“Ah, there you are, my little star.” He placed two shot glasses in front of me before leaving the rest on the tray in the center of the table. A chair was dragged over beside me so I was trapped in the
booth by Pierre. “You need to catch up. Here. We will drink together.”
I’d never had tequila before but it looked like water, so how bad could it be? Pierre raised his glass and waited for me to do the same. “Cheers, mon etoile brillante.”
I was way in over my head, but I smiled and threw the clear burning liquid down my throat. I had no idea what he’d called me as I didn’t speak French, but that was the least of my problems as fire burned my throat and chest, and I stifled a cough.
“Another?” Pierre was already raising another glass and indicating to the second shot glass in front of me.
“Cheers,” I said apprehensively and downed the second shot, the heat in my throat now so intense I couldn’t even muster a cough. Grabbing one of the many glasses of water on the table, I gulped it down, then refilled and emptied the glass for a second time.
“So tell me, ma jolie, where do you come from? Where did you first discover you had such grace to match the beauty of an angel?” Pierre’s hand came to rest on my knee beneath the table.
The tequila was already going to my head, and I felt flushed. I wanted to remove my jacket but was only wearing a crop top underneath. I needed to escape the confines of the booth and Pierre’s hand, but didn’t want to make a scene. Tiffany sat across from me on the end of the other bench seat, deep in conversation with two other girls. I kicked out not too gently, hoping I was connecting with her leg and not someone else’s.
She jumped and looked over at me. As subtly as possible I nodded toward Pierre, hoping she could read my distress signal. She grinned. “I need the bathroom. Anyone else?” It was a general question, but she was looking directly at me.
