Break

“Hey, Taye!”

I look up to see my friend Bronson throwing cash down for two cans of energy drinks. I give him a wave as he walks my way, and glance back at my choices, still paralyzed with indecision.

“Get the mochi. It’s a no-brainer,” Bronson says.

“Good idea,” I say, but go with the Edamame.

“Sorry I couldn’t come to your folk’s party the other day. Thanks for inviting me.” Bronson says. He slips an arm around my back after he cracks open one of his cans.

“I’m sure Mother will throw another soon,” I reply with an eye roll.

“Well, I’ll be sure to come because from what I hear, the place was lit, the food was off the charts, you and Lance-Boo called it quits, and you and Cunningham had enough chemistry to light up the skyline,” Bronson says.

“Who’d you talk to, Page Six? It was a long time coming with Lance, although I might have to beat him over the head with it if my voicemails are any indication of how he took it. And my chemistry with Cunningham is limited to the dance floor. Off it, it’s more like he wants to kill me.”

“Kill a Koslova? Never!”

“You’d be surprised, Bronson.”

Bronson walks me to the commons and we part ways for our separate rehearsals. I pop open the edamame, stick it in my mouth, and pull the beans out by scraping the pod with my teeth.

Heading toward the fifth-floor studio, I pass another large studio with a base beat echoing through the floors and hitting my feet. Although it’s not preferred etiquette to stop and gawk at the dancers, I both love and envy street-style dancers enough to shirk the rulebook and gawk away like a tourist in my own neighborhood.

What I’m not prepared to see is Dash Cunningham grinding on a petite redhead who’s so into it, she’s on cloud nine. He has her pinned against the wall as he gyrates his way down her toned body. His body is a wonder to behold in a white tank top and slim grey joggers—he’s all man and no longer a boy. He’s ripped, but not like a bodybuilder with short bulk. Dash is all elongated muscle, grace, and strength married in his bones.

I can’t tear my eyes away as he practically makes love to this other dancer while they do a sexy Bachata to the beat. He spins her out only to yank her back in closer, and when their mouths nearly touch, I hold my breath in rapture. The redhead looks like she’s in love with Dashiell, and if not, her stage face is convincing. Captivated, I forget about my snack, my pas de deux, and my peeping as I lean against the doorframe and drink them in.

Before I can snap out of it, Dashiell looks away from his muse and spots me. He does a grand jete making eye contact with me, and immediately shifts in my direction when he lands.

“Sam!” he shouts.

That’s when I notice that Dash isn’t taking class or rehearsing—he’s teaching this show. I fix my posture, dust my chest for crumbs, and hide my snack behind my back as I stand in B plus. This is the posture I answer Mother and all ballet teachers with, a lifetime in the making.

“Let’s improvise!” he calls to me as he drags me onto the dance floor. “Our focus today is on connection, and you’re the perfect person to help me demonstrate.”

“I’m supposed to be in rehearsal,” I protest as he drags me front and center with a group of star-struck freshmen.

“The incredible Natayla Koslova, ladies and gentlemen,” he tells his students.

I immediately redden. They clap, and I feel ridiculous.

Hands shoot up for questions, which Dash ignores as he fiddles with his phone and speakers, searching for whichever song he likes.

“I’m not a hip-hop dancer or a breaker,” I mumble to the students. “I mean, I wish I could dance like Dash, and…and… you!” I say to the gorgeous redhead who’s now seated. “I truly admire your skills—”

Dashiell comes up behind me, grabs my dance bag and snack, and sets them on a chair as the music starts to groove. He stands behind me, slipping one arm around my waist and the other across my sternum like a seatbelt. Then his face is in my neck, and I’m overwhelmed with his scent, one I remember from days long ago at Haverton. His breath is cinnamony and warm on my neck, coming fast because he’s still winded from dancing with the redhead.

“Feel the beat, Sam, and follow me,” he whispers.

Chills race up my spine as the beat drops and he lifts me effortlessly. I respond, driven only by the sound of the music and the soft command of his hands on my body. I think I can dance anything for Dash because my body listens to him.