Even two hours ago I would have laughed this off, said absolutely not, and meant it. But now I was suddenly thinking about what Cary had said about grape soda and kickball, back in the bodega. About pushing away things we loved when we were younger, for no reason. And the idea that maybe you didn’t have to.

“Yeah,” I said, hearing the surprise in my voice. “I do.”

There was a crescendo in the music—the moment that signaled my solo, and without even knowing I was going to, I was bending backward, sweeping my arm overhead, and starting to dance it full-out.

The room spun all around me as I moved across it, taking up space, and as I danced—as I jumped and turned and balanced on one leg, as I gave myself over to it, I felt the freedom I’d only ever really felt while dancing, the moment when you’re not even thinking about the steps—you’re just moving. I did a double pirouette and a quick jump. I could hear the steps in my head—extend your hand and yes I will…

I came to a stop in B plus, one leg tucked behind the other, my arm extended.

“What?” Cary asked, after a moment, taking a step over to me. “Why did you stop? That was great.”

“It’s—” I was catching my breath and coming back to myself, back to the moment. I knew I should probably be embarrassed, to be dancing in my socks in a yoga studio, but I wasn’t, somehow. “That was when the pas de deux started—when my partner came in.” I lowered my arm.

“What did he do?” Cary asked. He walked slowly across the studio to me, his eyes on mine.

“Not that much,” I said, not looking away. My heart was pounding, and I knew it wasn’t just from the jumps. “A turn and then a lift.”

“Want me to try?” He closed the distance between us and held out his hand to me, one eyebrow raised slightly.

I placed my hand in his, our fingers fitting together, his thumb rubbing a slow circle on my palm, sending a shower of sparks exploding through me. “So it’s just a turn,” I said as Cary raised his arm and I spun under it, then extended my leg into an arabesque, feeling his hand gripping mine, steady, supporting me. “And then—a lift that turns…”

He put his hands on either side of my waist and lifted me up, and began to walk slowly in a circle, like he had done this a thousand times before, a natural Nutcracker prince. And I caught a glimpse of us in the mirror, Cary in his white T-shirt and jeans, looking like something out of an eighties dream, lifting me high in this studio in Manhattan—dancing in the dark.