How will he feel about my mess? No idea.
He’s only getting half the Aidan experience. I did my best over the last two days to put every item somewhere. It might not be the right place, but it’s out of sight. As long as he doesn’t poke around opening closets and cupboards, we’ll be okay.
I stack a couple of plates on the table for us. Our food’s still a few minutes away, and Covey should be here any minute.
When my doorbell rings, I freeze—food or Covey?
My nervous system must go temporarily offline, because the next thing I know, the bell rings again. It must be Covey because the delivery person would leave it on the porch.
“Hey.” I open the door to find Covey holding two massive bags of food—yes, I ordered too much.
“Hey, I thought maybe I got the wrong house.” Both times at his parents’ house, he’s been dressed up. Not a suit or tie or anything, but slacks and a button-up or sweater. Tonight, he’s wearing sweatpants and a hoodie, both of which are plastered with ballet company logos. Only the sweatshirt is from Green Mountain, and the pants say something in a language I don’t recognize. Both are at least two sizes too large, practically swallowing him whole.
“Sorry, I was in the back,” I lie as though my house is big enough to have a back. It’s got two bedrooms and a single bathroom. Not amazing, but it’s all mine. I love having a home after spending several years in dorms and apartments—a place where I can paint the walls or change the flooring at my whim. I don’t. But I could.
“No worries.” He rocks back and forth on his feet. “Can I come in?”
Wow. I’m already screwing this up, leaving him standing in the dark and freezing. “Of course, sorry.” I usher him into the house and point him toward the kitchen table to put the bags down. He unpacks the containers slowly, looking up at me after he finishes the first bag. I shrug. We don’t need that much, but I didn’t know what he’d want. At least this way, I’ll have leftovers for the rest of the week. Cooking is not my thing. Thankfully, more places in town are starting to deliver, or I’d probably starve to death.
“What do you want to drink? I’ve got water, soda, beer…” I trail off, trying to think if I have anything better to offer.
“Water’s great. Do you need help?”
I wave him off. “Sit, I’ll be right back.” It’s not like he can’t see me. The fridge and sink are a whole four feet away from the table. I use the tiny bit of distance to give myself a stern talk. Why am I nervous? It’s not an actual date. We need a chance to get to know each other again. It’s still Covey.
“Everything okay?”
“Yep. Be right there.”Get. It. Together.
I return to the table with two glasses of water. Not fancy, but at least it’s from the chilled filter on the fridge. I even added ice cubes.
“So, what did you do today?” It occurs to me that I have no idea what a professional dancer does. I mean, I assume it involves dancing, but beyond that, I’m lost. They can’t possibly do that all day. Right?
“The usual. Dance classes, rehearsals.”
“You still take classes?”
He grins. Talking about ballet was always his favorite subject. “They’re essential. We’re always working on keeping up our technique and improving. I usually have about ninetyminutes of class every day, sometimes more. Think of it like professional development.”
For me, professional development means a week a year in Boston for a conference, not daily classes. And then I usually try to sneak out for some sightseeing most afternoons. “Sounds rough.” I hand him a plate and start piling various Chinese dishes onto it.
“Classes are my favorite.” He gets a far-off look on his face. It’s the same look he always got when he talked about ballet. Other kids would go on and on about the newest video game or TV show. Covey would listen intently, a smile plastered on his face. No one would know it was fake until you mentioned dance. That’s when he’d light up. Some things never change. “During rehearsal, I’m focused on learning the choreography, so it’s hard to think about anything else. Classes let me hone in on the pieces that help put it all together.”
I hum as if I understand any of the words he just said. “Fun.”
“What about you? What did you do today?”
“Wrangled five-year-olds who’ve had too much Halloween candy and forced them to do counting exercises.” The time between Halloween and winter break is nearly impossible. Too much sugar, not enough structure.
“You know, I don’t remember a single thing we did in kindergarten.”
“I remember meeting you,” I say quietly.
“Really?”
“Yeah, my mom was trying to leave, and I didn’t want her to go. I don’t know why, but you came over and asked about myPower Rangersbackpack.” It was the moment I knew we’d be friends. Covey was so outgoing and friendly. Any other friends I had growing up were because Covey found them and brought me along for the ride.
“I don’t remember that, but I’m glad my love ofPower Rangerspaid off.” I clear my throat quietly, trying to clear the tightening.
