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He knows me. He knows me he knows me he knows me. Too well.
He breaks the eye contact between us and stands up, pushing the chair under my desk, and starts dancing with reckless abandon. I’m embarrassed for him.
“You just gotta feel it,” he says, wiggling his shoulders,sliding his socks across the hardwood. I’m not sure that he would be doing this if he were sober, but then again, I’m still getting to know this new version of him.
“There’s no music playing.” My cheeks heat and it’s uncomfortable to watch him. To see how little he cares thatIcare he’s dancing.
“Technically there is, in your headphones, but mostly the music is coming from my heart.”
“More likely it’s coming from a tumor in your brain; you look ridiculous.” It’s not until I finish hissing the lastSin that sentence that I remember his little brother has fucking cancer.
Thankfully, he ignores the darker connotation. “You too could look ridiculous for a low, low price.” He offers me his hand.
“How dare you assume my dignity isn’t worth more money.” I push away his hand. “Seriously. No.”
“You went to prom.”
“Did you see me dance?” I take a swig of Moscato straight from the green-tinted bottle.
He frowns. “I guess not.”
I spent the night pre-car-accident drinking and making out with Monica Carmichael’s date—whom she had abandoned after some fight over him losing her cell phone—and trying not to think about how Elijah and I broke up the week before. I danced in a bathroom stall, by myself.
“You’re a cheerleader, you have rhythm, we just need to find the right dance for you.” He yanks on my arm until I stand and then leads me into the living room. “We need more space.”
He deposits me in front of the couch, runs back to my room, and returns with my laptop in his hands. He places it on the coffee table, brings up YouTube, and searches “dance scenes in movies.” I’m being generous; what he actually searched had many typos.
We spend the next hour falling into a YouTube hole, finishing my mom’s wine, and seeing what dances are the most fun to actually do and not just watch. We land on one from some awful-looking movie calledNapoleon Dynamitethat we only found because we read an article aboutFortnitedances and their origins.
I doubt I’ll remember this in the morning when my head is pounding and my throat feels raw, but that’s what the video is for—I’m not sure when I started recording, but I am and it feels fun and like maybe we’re actually learning the dance. We run through it a few times, Holden next to me, and when he turns away, I wrap my arms around his stomach and squeeze, my face pressed to his back. His stomach tenses beneath my touch, but then he stops moving, lays his hands over mine, and squeezes back.
