My heart squeezes. I wish Scottie were here.
I knew he wouldn’t be. I knew the Hawkeyes had a road game in Salt Lake City. He has playoffs to make this season, and I would never stand in the way of his dreams, just like he’d never stand in the way of mine. We’ve talked about it for a week. But still… when I walked into the theater tonight, some stupid, soft part of me looked for him in the lobby, in the aisles, backstage—just in case.
But of course he’s not here. Not that it will keep me from looking for him in the audience… I absolutely will. But knowing that he thought of me and had my pre-show beverages delivered was just like him. Wanting me to know that he’s thinking about me.
“Places,” the stage manager barks again, sticking her head into the dressing room. “Curtain in two.”
I stand.
Whatever is happening with my life, with my family, with my marriage, none of it matters for the next two hours.
For the next two hours, all that exists is the stage.
I roll my shoulders back, slip my feet into my shoes, and walk toward the wings.
Time to dance.
The performance is a blur and yet agonizingly, vividly clear.
The first entrance is all bright lights like a wall of heat. The orchestra vibrates under my feet and through my skin. The first sequence of turns, my body settling into the choreography like it’s been waiting for this moment for years.
There are tiny things I’ll pick apart later: an arabesque that was a breath too low, a landing that wasn’t as silent as I wanted, but overall?
Overall, it goes well for opening night. I’m proud of it.
By the third scene, my muscles stop screaming and start singing. Every lift lands, every turn finds its spot, every breath lines up with the music. When the curtain comes down for intermission, I’m shaking, sweat slicking down my spine, chest heaving, but I’m smiling.
By the final curtain, when we go out for bows, my name gets its own burst of applause. It’s not New York-level yet, but for a first night with a new company, it’s strong, and that’s the best feeling I can ask for because it’s mine.
And more importantly, it feels like the beginning of something. Something tangible… something grounding me here, in this city.
Back in my dressing room, I peel off my costume with numb fingers, every muscle screaming now that the adrenaline is wearing off. I sit for a moment in my camisole and tights, staring at my feet. Blood on the tape. Blisters are blooming under the skin. It’s totally worth it. Battle scars that remind me I’m doing what I love. What my mother loved, and I can feel her tonight.
There’s a soft knock at the door.
“Come in,” I call, expecting a stage manager, maybe another dancer.
The door cracks open. One of the interns peeks in, eyes bright. “There’s someone here to see you,” she says. “He’s… uh… gorgeous, by the way.”
My heart lurches.
Scottie.
It’s ridiculous, logistically impossible, unless he somehow managed a helicopter and left in the third period of the game, but I wouldn’t put it past him, and that makes my pulse spike at the thought. He’s one for grand gestures. Maybe the game ended early, and since he thought about the drinks, maybe he has another surprise up his sleeve. I stand quickly out of my seat,ready to pounce on my husband the moment he comes through that door.
“Oh, and he has roses,” she adds.
And just like that, my fantasy shatters.
Roses.
Scottie’s never brought me roses. He listens when I talk. He knows I hate them.
My stomach goes cold.
“Send him in,” I say, anyway.
A moment later, the door opens wider.
