“Jiminy.” Aidan looks around the place, like he’s afraid someone heard that little outburst. Which is hilarious because it’s likely the least offensive exclamation I’ve heard anyone make in a bar. “Fake dating. Nothing else.”
Silas shrugs. “Call it what you want. I wouldn’t date anyone, real or otherwise, without the sex part.”
“Which is exactly why you don’t have a real or imaginary girlfriend.” Silas looks wounded for a second before he steels his expression. There’s something there, but I’m not about to put my foot in it. I think I’ve done enough damage for one holiday season.
Hearing that his friend likely isn’t interested in him makes me like Silas a whole lot more. I don’t know what that means exactly, but it’s a thought I’m willing to ignore in favor of thinking about other things. “Aidan’s doing me a favor. My family’s been on my ass about settling down, so he’s my holiday date. No fucking.” I added that last part to be crystal clear.
“Exactly,” Aidan adds, though his words seem to come with a little bit of apprehension.
“Not that I wouldn’t,” I say quickly. “It’s not part of the arrangement.” I look at Aidan, whose face has gone from stoic to bewildered. “Not that it couldn’t be or anything, it’s just not.” These are the times when I wish I had a drink in my hand. At least I could use it to shut myself up.
“So, you would fuck him?” Silas asks, learning into the table. “Or is it the other way around?”
“Do. Not. Answer,” Aidan tells me, holding up a hand.
“No fun.” Silas pouts and tries to take a sip of his drink, only to find the glass empty. He signals the waitress, who comes over to check on us.
“Two more of these beers, and…” He points toward me.
“Water, please,” I say. As much as this conversation might make me want a drink, what I need right now is hydration and sleep, not sugar and alcohol.
“Covey, this might not have been the best idea. Maybe we should catch up another night.” Aidan sighs and slumps over the table.
“No, this is perfect. Now I’ve met one of your friends?—”
“Only friend,” Silas says, grinning.
“Oneof your friends and learned more about your drink choices.”
“How’s that going to help?” Aidan asks.
It’s a good question. I don’t necessarily have the answer yet.
“Expect the unexpected?” With my family, that’s always a good mantra.
“With you, Covey, I always do.”
His response fills me with warmth. For the first time since we started this, it’s starting to feel like Aidan and I are on the same page again. Or at the very least, in the same book.
CHAPTER 8
COVEY
The studio is eerily quiet today. Typically, it’s a hub of bustling activity between rehearsals, classes, and individual practice. At the very least, groups are roaming the hallways, chatting, comparing notes, or causing mayhem. I may or may not be one of the people often causing mayhem.
Today, the place is dead. I suspect that it’s a quiet anticipation of the craziness that befalls every dance studio and company this time of year. It’s the perfect environment for me to focus on learning the choreography.
I’m lying on my stomach, watching a recording from last year’s production, and stretching. Even after watching this section a thousand times, I’m still mesmerized as I watch Anders go through the movements. He’s cast as The Nutcracker this year, which means I’m lucky enough to get this part. It’s both inspiring and terrifying. People will be comparing us, which is a lot to live up to, not only within thecompany, but also in the larger community. While most of the year, the public barely knows the local dance company exists, come Thanksgiving, suddenly everyone’s holiday tradition includes a trip to The Nutcracker.
That’s not a complaint. I love seeing people fall in love with the show and ballet for the first time—or the hundredth. A production like this is the reason five-year-old me begged to take dance classes. When my parents finally gave in, they bet on how long I would last. My dad gave it two weeks. My mom said a month.
I think I win that one.
My mind wanders back to the awkward moments at Eddie’s. I can’t place my finger on it, but something from that night is niggling in the back of my mind. There’s no reason for me to dislike Silas, but he bugs me for reasons I can’t describe. Maybe it’s because he’s taken my place as Aidan’s best friend—a ridiculous concept to be discussing in our mid-twenties. People can have many friends and not need a ranking system.
So why is it still bothering me so much? I check my phone for a message from Aidan.Nothing. I sent him a couple of texts today, checking in. He’s probably in class. I suspect it’s frowned on for teachers to be on their phones during lessons.
I’m still annoyed he hasn’t responded. It’s as if I can’t get him off my mind until I hear back, which is distracting me from focusing on the video.
