Peyton.
A montage of the last few years ran through my brain. I saw glimpses of Peyton’s beautiful smile, the way her eyes lit up when we found something we had in common or when she was particularly passionate about anything. I remembered all of the times we’d come close to admitting our feelings—or mine, at least; I didn’t know for sure that Peyton saw me as anything but a friend—but had ended up skating around the truth.
One night in the autumn of our junior year, I’d stayed late to work on a project with my physics teacher, and as I had been leaving school, I heard voices and music coming from the gym. It was almost homecoming, and I realized that some of my classmates were probably working on our float . . .
I paused at the door to the gym, glancing inside, and I saw her. She was stuffing tissue paper onto some kind of figure made from chicken wire, and she was laughing, messing around with her girlfriends, dancing to the music that came from a boombox on the gym floor.
It was rare that I could watch Peyton without risking her seeing me, but tonight, she was completely unaware of my presence. I drank her in, wishing as I always did that somehow, some way, the world would tilt on its axis and Peyton would realize that there was someone else who loved her. Someone who would do anything for her.
As though she felt the weight of my gaze, suddenly she turned, and I knew she had spotted me. I expected that she might wave to me, or maybe she’d just pretend that she didn’t see me and go on talking to her friends.
But she surprised me. She began walking toward me, her eyes never leaving mine. I knew I should do something, play it cool, joke around with her, but I couldn’t make myself move at all.
She didn’t stop until she was only a breath away from me; looking up at me, her expression serious, she searched my face.
“Did you come to help with the float?” Peyton asked, her voice husky.
I shook my head. “I’m working with Mr. Evans on a physics project—something that will look good on my college applications. We went late tonight, and I heard voices as I was leaving . . .” I stopped talking, thinking that I sounded like the huge science nerd that I was.
But she only smiled. “You should come over. Twisting up tissue paper is so much fun.”
Glancing down, I saw a tantalizing swell of pale skin in the gap of the low-cut cotton top that clung to her curves. I realized that if she moved even a fraction of an inch closer, the tips of her breasts would brush my chest.
“I don’t think so,” I rasped an answer. “I don’t want to hang out with any of them.”
“Okay.” She frowned, and I felt terrible that I’d just dissed her friends. I was about to turn around and leave when the music changed from something hard rocking to the familiar strains of my favorite Billy Joel tune, This Night.
“Oh.” Peyton smiled up at me. “I love this one. It’s my favorite Billy Joel song.”
My eyes dropped to her lips, desire flaring when her tongue darted out to wet them.
“Want to dance with me?” she asked, and I thought I must have been dreaming. “Like I said, it’s my favorite.”
I should have said no. I should have left. Instead, I pushed away from the doorjamb and opened my arms to her.
Peyton flowed into me as though we were made for each other. I closed my eyes as she rested her cheek against my chest, and we swayed to the music.
I kept us hidden in the shadows, content to just hold her for this stolen time. My heart was pounding, and I wondered if she could hear it.
When the song ended, Peyton leaned back, looking up at me, confusion clouding her eyes. I wanted to ask her if this meant anything to her, to beg her to come outside with me so we could talk, but I was afraid of breaking the spell.
So instead, I did the hardest thing ever and let her go, acting as if this dance had meant nothing. As though it hadn’t been the most beautiful few moments of my entire life.
We never mentioned it. When I saw her in class, I kept things light and casual, and Peyton did the same. But I never forgot what it was like to hold her . . .
And then I remembered that one afternoon this past spring, at the beginning of English class . . .
“You went to the movies this weekend? What did you see?” She smiled at me, her hands folded on top of a pile of her textbooks on her desk.
“Say Anything. John Cusack was excellent, and the music was crazy good. Did you see it?”
“Noooo.” Peyton frowned and rolled her eyes. “I wanted to go to that one, but Ryan wanted to see Cyborg, so you know which one we ended up watching.” One side of her mouth curled. “As per usual.”
“Yeah . . .” I cleared my throat. “You should have called me. You could’ve gone with me.” My teenaged self was flipping out at the idea of sitting next to Peyton Rivers in a dark movie theater.
“I wish I had.” She sounded sincere, but I was pretty sure we both knew that would never happen. “Was it super romantic?”
I nodded. “Yeah, it was. Not, like, your typical teen movie, I guess. There was this scene where Lloyd—that’s John Cusack—is trying to get Diane back, and he stands outside her window with a boombox playing their song.”
