She nodded. “Oh yeah, I feel you on the awkward family dynamics. Why do you think I moved out so early? I was twenty when I came to LA.”
“And how long ago was that?” he asked with a grin.
“Three and a half years, and don’t you dare make a joke about me being younger than you, because you are notthatmuch older than I am, okay?”
He held up both hands, chuckling. “I won’t, I promise. But you sure have done a lot in a short amount of time.”
And because he was so easy to talk to, it all came spilling out. Her LA story. How she’d started dancing young, with tap and hip hop, before finding ballroom dance through an extracurricular program in middle school. How she’d racked up junior championships in ballroom and swing while living in Chicago, then decided moving to Los Angeles was the next step.
If only she could figure out what came nextnow.
“Why did you switch to ballroom?” he asked.
She closed her eyes, remembering. “I fell in love with the Viennese waltz the first time I saw it performed, thanks to a class trip. It was so smooth and romantic. From there, I became obsessed with old movies and big dance numbers. Those led me to swing. When I found out about the Lindy hop, I researched the history and learned that it started in Harlem. I was hooked.”
She fell quiet, remembering. Ballroom had been so different from everything she’d ever known for those first thirteen years, when her whole life had been harsh angles and words. Ballroom dance was sweeping curves and intimate connection between the couple and the music. It was, at her core, all she ever wanted.
“I couldn’t wait to get away,” she went on. “Outside of the dance crowd, I didn’t have too many friends. I traveled a lot for competitions, and none of my classmates understood what I was doing—or why. So I never really felt like I belonged there, you know?” She chuckled, but it was with a bittersweet pang. It had taken time, but she could look back with compassion at the lonely girl she’d once been. “I was probably the only teenager in Chicago with pictures of Billie Holiday and Norma Miller, the ‘queen of swing,’ taped to my walls.”
“Hey, look who you’re talking to. We had framed photos of Baryshnikov and Nureyev in our living room, like they were part of the family.”
“At least your family was all into it. Your mom was a dance teacher, right? My parents just thought I was nuts. They wanted me to be a nurse or something else with reliable job security.”
They’d supported her desire to dance, footing the bill for ballroom lessons, costumes, and travel when she started competing and winning, but they hadn’t understood it as a calling or a career until she’d appeared on TV. Now, they were her biggest fans, voting for her every week that she was in the competition, but the memory of those early years still carried a dull ache.
“So, how did you get onThe Dance Off?” Nik asked. “It’s a pretty sweet gig.”
She waved a hand dismissively. “I auditioned for a backup dancer spot on a whim. I didn’t think they’d hire me.”
“Why not? You’re an amazing dancer.”
Jess tugged on the end of one of her curls and let it bounce back. “My hair. I stopped chemically straightening it after I quit competing, and you don’t see a lot of natural hair in the ballroom dance world. But the producers liked my moves and the range of dances in my repertoire, plus they were willing to bring on a new stylist for me. I couldn’t turn it down.”
“I’m glad you didn’t. Otherwise we might never have met.” Nik’s phone beeped, and he checked the screen. “Come on. It’s almost time.”
“Time for what?” But she let him take her hand and lead her along the trolley path. Other people were moving in the same direction, and when the clock hit seven, she understood why.
A noisy whirring filled the air, and as she looked up to find the source of the sound, wonder and surprise had her jaw falling open.
“Nik, is that…is thatsnow?”
He grinned down at her. “You didn’t know they do this here?”
She shook her head, watching in amazement as clusters of tiny flakes flew off the roof and into the dark sky over the shoppers. Around them, children squealed, and even the adults made delighted murmurs. Snow in Los Angeles was impossible, yet here it was.
Nik would say it was the magic of Christmas. And even though she knew it was a marvel of technology, part of her thought he might be right.
She held out a hand to catch some of the flakes, inspecting them on her palm. “What’s it made out of?”
“Snow.”
She shot him an amused smirk. “No, really.”
He heaved a sigh. “You want me to ruin the magic?”
“I just want to know.”
“It’s a foam. Like tiny bubbles, I guess.”
