Why don't you Stay ... Forever - Jennifer Ashley Page 0,3

covering the sound of rustling programs.

This ballet isn’t a classical one—Clarice, the company manager and chief choreographer, writes her own shows. It’s a modern composition that employs mostly classical moves with some modern dancing. Clarice is very good, so even people who prefer the tried-and-true ballets like Giselle, Swan Lake, or The Nutcracker, usually like her offerings. We always have a full house.

As the overture ends, the corps de ballet—a group containing most of the company—flutters on and goes through a lovely dance, which I’d been in before Julia got injured. Now I wait in the wings to go on as a principal.

I always considered the opening dance long, but tonight, it seems very short. Soon the dancers are rushing off, transforming from ethereal creatures to panting, sweating human beings as they run from the stage, and finally it’s my turn.

I’m on.

Alone.

In front of Ben McLaughlin, an amazing man I’ve had a crush on since the first moment I met him.

Chapter Two

Ben

It’s safe to say I don’t know shit about dancing. But when Erin enters the stage in a series of gliding leaps, her long legs reaching, it doesn’t matter.

People around me applaud in admiration. I can’t bring up my hands to join in, because I’m stunned.

Erin, the woman I can watch clicking a mouse all day, has been transformed. Her glasses are gone, her long hair slicked back from her face into a bun held by a glittery net. Her stage makeup makes her eyes pop, and her lips are a kissable red.

She’s wearing a skin-tight, allover thing that bares her arms and lower legs. The costume looks tie-dyed in light colors, reds and yellows. It draws attention to the elegant lines of her body, no tutus or whatever to distract from the beauty of her.

As I say, I don’t know shit about dancing. I don’t know the names of the moves Erin makes as her arms sculpt the air and her legs scissor-kick. Her jumps put her in midair for a split second, before she lands softly on her ballet shoes. No what-do-you-call-them—toe shoes—just regular slippers.

She rises high on her right toe, her left leg going straight up, then she pivots in the move I recognize. The one that slammed her foot into my groin.

I chuckle, which earns me a stern frown from the lady in front of me. I choke off, hoping Erin didn’t hear me.

I see a little twinkle in her eyes as she comes out of it and looks right at me. I grin back.

She spins abruptly away, moving faster and faster, her arms coming up like an ice skater’s as she twirls.

Erin finishes her pirouettes at the far end of the stage, then comes running back, does a few more spins in place, and ends everything in a low, leg-extended bow.

The crowd goes wild and applauds like crazy. I’m joining in, my palms tingling, and I hear, Bravo! escape my mouth.

What the fuck? I’ve never said anything like that in my life. I sound like Jean-Luc Picard.

But it’s appropriate. Erin is incredible. I do a fist-pump for her, which earns me another frown from Mrs. Hoity-Toity in the first row.

The applause only dies down when the orchestra starts up again. Now a guy comes tearing out from the wings. Erin retreats to the back of the stage, standing in a quiet pose while the guy leaps around. He pretty much flies. If ballet were an Olympic sport, he’d be ranking perfect 10s.

Erin lets him have his glory. The crowd loves him, clapping at every move he makes. I find myself doing it too, because I’m impressed.

Finally, he ends his dance by twirling in the air a few times and landing on strong feet. The cheers swamp him.

Then he turns around and spies Erin. His face crumples as though Cupid’s arrow has just shot through him. He runs joyfully to her and pulls her into a dance.

I enjoy it at first—two talented people showing off what they can do. But I start to not like this guy’s hands all over Erin. I tell myself it’s nothing—he has to lift her in the air and assist in her gravity defying moves. When I was a little kid, Ryan, a pre-teen then, used to put his hands under my chest and thighs and raise me high, and I’d pretend I was flying. The male dancer—Dean Whitaker, the program says his name is—does much the same thing with Erin.

But I’m hoping he’s not having too much fun up