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I sit higher. “What’s the date?”
It’s two Fridays from now.
Chris is already on his phone, no doubt checking his calendar and when his gaze lifts and his eyes meet mine, I know it’s not good.
“Can I call you back real quick?” I ask Becca. “I just need to go over some stuff with Chris.”
“Okay,” she signs. Then types, If you can’t make it, I understand. Honestly. I don’t want you to feel bad.
“I’ll call you back.”
As soon as my laptop’s shut, Chris says, “It’s the Teen Choice Awards. You’re presenting an award. You have to be there.”
I grunt in frustration, and look up at him, hoping he can see the plea in my eyes. “I know that I’ve asked a lot from you lately, especially with the whole Chaz thing—”
“Don’t do that, Josh. Don’t use her to guilt me—”
“I’m not,” I say, my hands up between us. “It’s just that I need to make this happen. For Becca. And for me. Chris,”—I grasp his shirt so he knows how serious I am—“It’s time…”
—Becca—
I stare at the picture of my grandmother, her head tilted back, her hands and forearms covered in white silk gloves, one of them holding the hand of a mystery man as they pause their dancing so the photograph can be taken. The year on the album had her at twenty-two in this picture. Around the same age as me. The dress she wore was black, high collar, flowy skirt, white buttons down the middle. It was simple and elegant and beautiful, just like her. I found the dress in a box in the back of the closet—it’s condition as perfect as it was in the picture.
Both the dress and the gloves look better on her than they do on me, but I don’t mind. The point isn’t to look good, it’s to remember that she’s with me, tonight and all the nights after.
“The speech is perfect,” Dad says, walking into my room with his brand new tux, the sleeves and pant leg a tad short, but it’s hard to find something for his stature that doesn’t come with a tailor-made price tag.
I take the piece of paper from him and fold it, placing it in my purse, along with the photograph of grams, before standing from my desk chair and going to him. “You look so handsome,” I sign. I pat down the collar of his jacket. “Thank you for leaving work early and coming tonight. It means so much.”
“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” he says, his voice soft and sweet, a complete contrast to his usual tone. “Besides, I missed all your special nights. All those dances and proms… so I’m going to make you dance with me. I hope you know that.”
“A: I didn’t go to any dances and proms and B: I don’t think there’ll be any dancing tonight.”
He scoffs. “Just because there’s no dance floor or music, doesn’t mean we can’t dance, Becca.”
My eyes snap to his, my heart skipping a beat. He’s definitely my grandmother’s son.
“Did I say something?” he asks.
I shake my head. “You just reminded me of Grams, that’s all.”
Before he gets a chance to respond, there’s a knock on the door that causes my panic to spike.
“That must be Prince Charming,” Dad says, cracking his knuckles. “Time for a beat down.”
I narrow my eyes at him and sign, “Stop. He’s still so afraid of you.”
“Me? Why?” he asks, looking down at me with his nose in the air. “I’m harmless.”
I roll my eyes and pat down my dress. “How do I look?” I sign.
He turns serious. “You look beautiful, Becca. He’s lucky to have you.”
* * *
Josh stares at me.
I stare at him.
He blows out a breath.
I inhale one.
“You…” he says, and stares some more.
“What?” I mouth.
“…do insane things to my heart, Becca Owens.”
“You’re not so bad yourself,” I sign.
He runs his hand through his hair, still in the middle of the awkward grow out stage from when he shaved it. “I tried. Not that it matters. No one will be looking at me when you’re on my arm.” He reaches into his pocket. “I got you something.”
“Why? You didn’t have to!”
“It’s nothing really. Actually, it’s stupid cheesy” he says, revealing a dark green velvet bag. He empties the content into his palm and then hands it to me. It’s a ring, similar to the one he gave me on my eighteenth birthday, only this one reads: I shoot like an award winner.
