Page 101

“There was music and dancing at beach bonfires and the house parties your friends used to throw.”

“Then why didn’t we dance?”

“Too busy kissing, I expect.”

Kissing. I remember the kissing. I bite the inside of my lip because I’m not sharing that.

We fall quiet as we move to the music, my hand on his shoulder, his on my hip. I feel tiny in his arms. I mean, I am comparatively, even in my heels. But there’s such a sense of solidness about him, and I’m not just talking about his physique. He feels grounding. Or maybe a good place to land. It’s hard to explain, except I feel safe in his arms.

I almost laugh, given the tension in our reacquaintance. Was that really only a week ago?

“What’s funny?”

“Just this. Us. What’s supposed to be happening between us.”

“It shouldn’t be hard, Clara. We were mad about each other for a reason.”

But that’s just it. If it’s so easy, shouldn’t it frighten us? Frighten him.

My body sways to the rhythm of Troy’s as he leads us around the dance floor like we’ve been doing this for years.

“What about that time we went to a club with your friends.” His mouth gives a tiny curl as he returns to the previous conversational thread. “We almost danced there.”

“We didn’t go to a club . . . oh my gosh! I forgot about that. I got carded.”

“Yeah, because your fake ID said you were nearly a foot taller than your actual height.”

My laughter draws the attention of an older couple dancing by, and they smile so sweetly at us. I find myself wondering how long they’ve been married. I mean, they look like they are. Like the older couple I once imagined Troy and I would be.

“Do you know them?”

Troy shakes his head.

“They smiled like they knew one of us.”

“Maybe they smiled because we look good together.”

I catch a glimpse of our reflections in the glittering mirrors. The way his hand rests on my hip. The straight blade of his nose and the graceful curve of his cheekbone as he looks down at me. Hands clasped, bodies pressed so close.

“We would never have danced like this. Danced to anything like this,” I comment as the song ends and the singer begins her own version of “Cry to Me.”

Is it a good omen or bad that I know this song from Dirty Dancing?

“Just as well we didn’t. I didn’t know how to dance like this back then.”

“Did you have lessons?” Because he moves remarkably well. I was just thinking that that old adage had some truth to it. Good on the dance floor, good in bed. Only, my knowledge is in reverse.

“Hannah taught me.”

“Oh.” That tiny response feels like a sinking stone.

“It’s not like that.” The way he looks at me, it’s like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. And at that moment, the song reaches a particular point, and something seems to flash in his eyes.

“No,” I whisper, and I’m just about to add Don’t you dare when he does, pulling me impossibly close.

“Just go with it,” he says huskily, his expression a mixture of devilry and delight as he slides his thigh between my legs. I inhale a little gasp as his hips begin to imitate the tempo. And, oh my Lord, I bet he’s learned some things between our then and our now.

I’m laughing on the outside, having fun, taking his advice, but underneath all that, Troy is kind of stoking my fire. There’s nothing especially salacious about the moves. We’re just dancing—dirty dancing PG style as Troy’s palms glide up my ribs, when he dips me backward as though pressing me to a bed.