Break

“We’re in charge now, Sam. Nobody can break us,” he whispers.

I had a long way to fall, and Dashiell Cunningham had a long way to climb, but here we are together, about to bring down the house.

Before we can regain our breath, we’re back out in the spotlight again.

Spinning across the stage and falling into Dashiell’s arms is what I was born to do. We dance in a symbiosis knit by the very universe, where we’re an extension of one another’s bodies, our energy united like its own force field. He’s right there when I need him for every lift, for every turn, for every synchronized dancing passage. Just like in real life, he shows up for me like no one else ever has.

We end the piece to a raucous standing ovation, long-stemmed roses tossed in our direction, and enough curtain calls to make us crazy. We are winded and exhausted and so full of joy we’re delirious. I’m crying happy tears, a giant bouquet in my arms, when Dashiell gets down on one knee on the stage in front of the entire audience. The diamonds from his single-strand tennis bracelet sparkle under the stage lights. He never takes it off, says it’s a symbol of our undying love and our commitment to one another.

Lizzy runs up one of the side stairways and puts a small black box in Dash’s hand. The audience delights in the scripted help from his mom.

“Natayla Koslova, aka my sweet Sam, would you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

I bring my hand to my face to try to contain the emotion. “I will,” I say through the tears.

Dashiell stands and puts the stunning diamond on my hand. We take another bow together and the audience goes wild.

Dash pulls me into an embrace and whispers, “Hey, we made it.”

I never once dreamed as a little ballerina that I’d grow up to share the stage with the love of my life or that true love could find a person like me. I knew that dancing was my passion, but it always brought me pain. Now I know that loving myself is the key to my happiness and success, and it took a self-taught breakdancer to teach me what it means to commit to your art. Dancing never broke me. It brought me to Dash. I gave him half a sandwich and gained his whole heart.

Epilogue-Ten years later

Dashiell

“Where are you? No, I’m here already. Don’t be late. I’ll get two programs. Hurry up!” The performance is about to start, and my two dates are nowhere in sight.

Tayla’s never late, but she insisted on flowers. They’re four, I told her. Four-year-old’s prefer cupcakes. But she said something about pressing and drying in a scrapbook, so I let her do her thing.

My phone buzzes and I look down and try to answer it discreetly. “Yeah, Ma. Park in the garage. Don’t forget to bring the ticket. What is it with you women? This thing starts in ten minutes.”

I wave when my mom runs in, looking flustered and panicked. She scans the audience without seeing me, so I wave my program from where I’m sitting and she rushes to our seats.

Natayla walks in just as the house lights go down. She’s holding two dozen red roses over her baby bump and looks stunning with her blonde hair in a French twist and simple diamond stud earrings. A few heads turn in recognition. She’s a soloist with The American Ballet Company now, while I mostly produce TV dance shows that give kids who are in my kind of situation a standing chance in the field. I rise and wave my program, and Taye comes rushing over. I stay standing and offer her a hand to make it down the aisle.

“Oh, my God, I just made it,” she exclaims, giving me a peck. “Hi, Lizzy!” She sits and grabs my mom’s hand and her eyes are already sparkling with tears.

“I brought tissues,” Lizzy says and hands them to me. That’s when I realize my eyes are already tearing up, too, before the curtain’s even come up.

“Our girls first performance,” Taye says excitedly, squeezing my hand in hers. Then she rests our joined hands on top of her swollen belly. I reach in my pocket, pull out an energy bar and hand it to her.

The music starts and my heart is in my throat as Iris and Eden bourré out in pink tutus, their curls tamed into buns. Eden has my brown eyes, and Iris’s are blue like her mother’s. They both look comfortable and proud, not scared or out of sorts. Iris spots me and waves, and I can’t help but wave back to her.

We didn’t present dance class to them as a necessity, but something to try out if they were interested. They both took to it right away and stand out in the crowd of fifteen baby ballerinas, now doing soutenu turns, their arms in fifth position.