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According to the Oxford Dictionary, the definition of dance [da:ns] is “to move rhythmically to music, typically following a set sequence of steps.” Technically, that’s true, but dance is so much more. What the dictionary doesn’t mention is that the movement comes from within you, from the very depths of your soul, that place that holds all your hopes and fears, all your loves and losses. Dance is a form of expression, of all the emotions that make us who we are.

Jasmine Wilkinson

I’ve finally made it … only six years later than expected.

New York promises to be the experience of a lifetime, and if I’m lucky enough, a chance to dance on Broadway and fulfil a lifelong desire.

After graduating from Boston Conservatory, I’d intended to meet the love of my life, Baxter Sampson, in the city that never sleeps, and share the rest of my life with him. But sometimes dreams don’t go as planned, and we have to make new ones. I know Bax would have made it big; he was such a phenomenal dancer. I wish I could have been there to see it happen, but I can’t wait to catch a Broadway show and see his name in lights.

Maybe he’ll still remember me.

Baxter Sampson

Eight years in New York have all but stolen my dreams from me.

After years of auditioning for every contemporary ballet production in New York, I had to admit defeat. I wasn’t good enough to make it on Broadway. I wasn’t good enough for Jasmine, the only girl I’ve ever loved, to keep her promise and meet me here after she graduated six years ago. So my plans changed—they had to. But when there’s an inexplicable force driving you to perform, you have to catch the spotlight wherever you can, even if it’s in the last place you expected to find it. My life had always revolved around Jaz and dance, my two true passions. I’ve already lost one—I can’t lose the other.

This is for anyone who is driven by their passion. Maybe you can’t explain it. Maybe no one else understands it. It doesn’t matter what it is, grab hold and don’t let go.

W
HERE DID
all these people come from?
Weaving between the men in suits and ties and women in suits and sneakers, with coffee in hand, I tried not to collide with anyone. Checking my watch for the fourth time in the last ten minutes, I picked up the pace. If I wasn’t on the subway platform in fifteen minutes I would miss my train and be late for the audition, and I still had five blocks to negotiate through the never-ending throng of blank-faced professional robots.

I pitied them. Their expressionless faces matched their gray characterless clothing. Yet as I darted through the obstacle course of people in my bright red yoga pants, black puffy jacket, and huge bag filled with various pieces of costume for every eventual style of dance I may have to perform, they didn’t seem to notice me.

After only three weeks of living in New York, I was still finding my feet. Stopping at an intersection, I craned my neck to read the street signs, then checked the tourist map I held clutched in my hand like a lifeline that showed the entire neighborhood. I was sure I was heading in the right direction, although reading a map had never been my strong suit, and I cursed my stupidity for forgetting to charge my phone so I could use GPS.

Standing in one place was a mistake. As a wave of people who were waiting to cross the street stepped from the curb, I was shuffled along with them, jostled and bumped as they went, without a single apology.

But I guessed that was New York in a nutshell. It was nothing like Boston, the town I’d lived in for the entire twenty-six years of my life, up until my recent move. New York was a melting pot of culture and indulgence mixed with poverty and desperation. It really was the city that never sleeps or at least never stayed the same for any length of time. And I was the girl way out of my depth who’d had the foolish notion that I was ready to leave the Boston Ballet Company and try my luck in a city that was sure to swallow me whole.

Diverting my focus to check my watch again, I cursed under my breath as I ran smack-bang into another wall of people. The contents of my bag were strewn across the pavement and being trampled by pedestrians who didn’t have the foresight to look down and avoid them. My eyes darted around, trying to account for my meagre possessions as they were kicked from my reach, and I scrambled on gloved hands and my knees to catch them.

“Do you need a hand?” A shadow was cast as someone squatted down in front of me, and strong male hands clutched at my spare tights, Band-Aids, and hair brush.

“No, it’s fine. I’ve got it,” I barked a little too sharply, worried that this stranger was about to take off with my ballet shoes.

“You haven’t changed, Jaz—always so independent. You know for a dancer, you’re a real klutz.”

My head snapped up, my eyes locking on a ghost from my past. “You haven’t changed either,” I whispered as my heart leapt to my throat and swallowed my voice.

Baxter Sampson, the love of my life, looking every bit as delicious as he had the last time I saw him, smiled back at me. Those gray eyes that used to captivate me were now holding me prisoner as if the last eight years apart had never happened.

“Hey, Jasmine.” The rise and fall of his chest increased. “Long time, no see.” With a sweep of his hands he gathered up the last stray items from my bag and shoved them in, then took my hand as he helped me to my feet.

As Baxter stood to his full height, I realized how much he’d filled out over the years since I had last seen him. His navy knitted long-sleeved tee pulled tightly across his filled out chest and shoulders. His arms were huge, and peeking out from beneath his pushed up left sleeve were lines of script that I couldn’t quite make out.

“Where are you running off to?” Bax asked. Our hands were still entwined, the warmth permeating through my woolen gloves, and even though it had been so long since we had laid eyes on each other, I felt a phenomenal pull toward him, to kiss him.

His palm felt so familiar in mine, soft but firm, comforting yet terrifying all at the same time.