“—them has an excellent record. I admit, the notes in boy cursive are my favorite part.”
His lips press together, but laughter leaks out silently. “Boy cursive?”
Oops. My internal phrase just became external. “Mm-hm.”
“I know someone who went to a classical prep school. They only taught him cursive, poor guy. Never learned print. Now he’s handicapped. Maybe he’s the one”—he almost laughs—“procuring them?”
“Good detective skills, but it’s certainly not a handicap,” I say.
“No?”
He isn’t the least bit insecure—I don’t need to say anything else.
“No, it’s ever so charming.” I suppress the instinct to cover my face. Who am I, Cinderella?
“Lucky guy,” he says.
I read about a study that showed tiredness has a similar effect on the frontal lobe as alcohol. They are definitely onto something.
“Have you thought any more about dancing?” he asks.
He’s so selfless to remember the things I might be thinking about. I want to be more like that.
“I couldn’t stop dancing at home. I kept finding myself stretching, doing piques from room to room. It’s your fault,” I tease. “You made me realize how much I miss it all.”
Earlier today, Mom texted me a picture. As she flipped through old photos in motherly nostalgia, she came across one of my first year of dancing. My tiny arms stretch stiffly into an adorably atrocious arabesque. My chubby three-year-old cheeks are bright with deep dimples, my eyes barely visible because I’m smiling so hard.
Am I brave enough? I inch my phone out of my back pocket, open the picture, and hand it to him. The Levi laugh I expect will be too good to miss.
No laugh. Instead, delight engulfs his face. My heart skips.
“You’re so happy,” he murmurs.
As I return my phone—and vulnerability—to my pocket, commotion surrounds us. A1 blue and A2 red flit around campus.
“What are they doing?” I ask him.
“Albert Hall Capture the Flag. Flooders play winner next week.”
He pushes the sleeves of his Henley to his elbows, uncovering the four-inch tattoo on his forearm I’ve somehow never asked about. He starts to say something, but I pick up his right arm with both hands to read it upside down. “HSMS.” Something’s wrong, but I can’t put my finger on it. This arm is incredible. Strong and smooth and covered in veins. There’s a box of Tic Tacs still?—
Ah! I drop it like a hot potato and yank my hands to my chest. What was I thinking?! My knees lock, breath goes jagged. I brace for the worst—for the darkness to pounce, for the memories to claw at me.
But nothing happens. My heart pounds, but I’m still here. Somehow, I’m still here. And Levi stopped with me. Shuffling to catch up to the others, I shake out my hands andthen squeeze them together. I peek at Levi’s face—pleasure and amusement. He really has no idea what goes on in my head.
“And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength,” he says, pointing at the letters for heart, soul, mind, and strength. Those veins poking up through his skin and wrapping around his forearm—I just felt those with my own fingers. A restless ache washes over me. The way he chose to remember to keep first things first is amazing. He’s amazing.
I want to pray, but I don’t know what to say. I try to release my anxiety, my wants, my fears to God.
I’m always here.
“I love it,” I finally say.
Those eyes. They’re tinged gold-green even at dusk.
“Rock!” Sophie calls for Haymitch.
And then I trip over it.
