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“I am not flipping and jumping in the middle of your living room.” She looks at me like I’m crazy.
“Fine, let’s go outside.”
“Seriously? It’s like ten o’clock at night.”
“And?”
“And, it’s dark outside so you won’t be able to see me.”
“Pretty sure there are these things called streetlamps. I’m sure I could see you just fine. I just think you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared.” She crosses her arms over her chest.
“You sure?” I challenge, purposely pushing her buttons.
“You know what, fine.” She stomps over to the door and slides on her flip flops. “But if I fall and break an ankle because you have me tumbling in the dark it’ll be on you.” She rips open the front door and quickly exits the apartment before I’ve managed to get up off the couch.
“Hey, wait for me,” I call, jogging outside after her without bothering to put any shoes on.
She kicks off her sandals on the sidewalk, then crosses to a flat patch of grass in front of my building.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this.” She looks forward, blowing out a hard breath.
I’m just about to tell her she doesn’t have to, that I was only screwing with her. But before I have the chance, she takes off running, doing some cartwheel type thing before flipping backward, her hands barely touching the ground.
“Holy hell. What was that called?” I ask, pretty impressed.
“Round off into a back handspring.” She smiles. “I took gymnastics for twelve years.”
“It shows.” I grin. “What else can you do?”
“I used to be able to do a lot, but I’m pretty out of practice.”
“You don’t look out of practice to me.”
“Trust me, I am. You’ll know when I can barely walk tomorrow.” She laughs. “Why don’t you give it a try?”
“You want me to try to do that?” I snort.
“Why not?” Her smile widens.
“Because I’d break my neck is why not,” I tell her like it should be obvious.
“I bet you could do a cartwheel.”
“I bet you I cannot.”
“Come on. Try.”
“Not a chance.”
“You mean to tell me that I came out here and did a back handspring, barefoot, in the dark, for you, and you won’t even attempt something as simple as a cartwheel.”
“Yep, that’s what I’m telling you.” I laugh when she gives me the cutest fucking mean mug I’ve ever seen. “Tell you what, how about we take this party back upstairs and I’ll do my best to make sure you’re not sore tomorrow.”
“And how do you plan to do that?”
“By giving you a massage.” I hold my hand out to her.
“A massage, huh?” She raises an eyebrow in question but still takes my hand.
“I’m actually pretty good at it. Or so I’ve been told.”
“I think I’ll be the judge of that,” she tells me, pausing to slip on her flip flops before following me back inside.
