Because I’ve spent enough years reading people to know that answer is too fast.
But before I can ask more, the song ends. The room shifts around us again, the spell of the dance broken just enough that she steps back.
Then she smiles up at me.
A real one. Bright and a little shy.
And whatever tiny shadow crossed her face is gone so fast I almost convince myself I imagined it.
“See?” she says. “You dance.”
I exhale a quiet laugh. “Don’t spread that around.”
“No promises.”
She picks up her dragon clutch from where she’d tucked it under her arm and loops the strap more securely around her wrist. Then, without seeming to think much of it, she reaches for my hand again.
Not to drag me this time.
Just to hold it.
Casual as anything.
Like it belongs there.
My fingers close around hers automatically.
And as we walk off the dance floor together, her hand in mine, one thought settles into place with dangerous certainty:
Tonight is going exactly the way I wanted.
ten
“DON’T STOP BELIEVIN’” — JOURNEY
Tavey
I am holding Miller’s hand.
That is the first, last, and only coherent thought in my head for a solid thirty seconds after we step off the dance floor.
Not in a weird way.
Not in a detached, clinical,huh, what an interesting social developmentkind of way.
No.
In a full body, sparkling nervous system, heart-pounding, internal-screaming kind of way.
I am holding Miller’s hand.
Actually—correction—Miller is holdingmyhand.
Which somehow feels even more important.
His hand is big and warm and solid aroundmine, and my brain, being a helpful and well-adjusted organ, immediately starts assigning meaning to every tiny detail.
He didn’t let go right away.
