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“Are you okay?” Emily whispers.
“These seats weren’t designed for adults, were they?”
“Not really.”
I think she misunderstands, because she shifts her body as far away from me as the cramped space and the person sitting next to her allows. To give me more room or to create distance between us, I’m not sure.
The lights go down and the chatter lessens.
Sitting next to Emily without touching her, having to pretend I don’t want to touch her, is a special hell.
Thank fuck the play is more engaging than I expected. Libby doesn’t let her broken arm or the clunky cast interfere with her performance. She’s believable, so committed to her role that for a few minutes I forget all about how badly I want to hold Emily’s hand.
Halfway through the production, Emily leans closer, her arm rubbing against mine. She crosses her legs. The fabric of her dress rustles against the chair in front of her, then whispers against my leg. Not only are the chairs small but the armrest is almost nonexistent. I tuck my arm closer to my side to give her room. Our knuckles graze each other. As if it’s completely natural, she twists her wrist and hooks one finger around my pinky. Such a small, sweet gesture. I can’t tell if it’s deliberate or instinctual.
I know one way to solve the puzzle.
I shift my body closer, wrap my arm around hers and take her hand, rubbing my thumb over her skin so there’s no mistaking that my touch is intentional.
For a second, she stops breathing. Tension holds her body rigid. Then she squeezes my fingers and leans closer, resting her head on my shoulder.
That’s my girl.
If I didn’t think I’d accidentally knock out the couple behind us, I’d put my arm around her. But this is good for now. It’s progress.
We stay that way for the rest of the show.
My legs are screaming by the time the curtain drops for the final time. Emily stands to clap extra loud for her sister. When the lights pop on, I all but jump out of my seat, standing and stretching.
Concern fills Emily’s eyes as she steps out of the row. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll live.” I lift my chin toward the back of the auditorium. “I might stand back there for the next show, though.”
She nudges my elbow in a teasing way. “Maybe you can volunteer to be the stage manager or something. Then you could watch from backstage.”
“I’m not sure the school would appreciate my management style.” I motion for her to go ahead of me and follow right behind her.
“They sell refreshments in the cafeteria,” she says over her shoulder. “We’ll meet up with Libby there.”
At least she expects me to stick around.
“Sounds good.” I touch her shoulder to let her know I’m still behind her as the walkway narrows from all the people and kids pushing to get out of the auditorium.
A cool breeze blows through the hallway. Someone propped open the outside doors and it’s a welcome relief. When we finally reach the cafeteria, Emily stops to talk to a group of people I assume are parents of Libby’s classmates. One of the mothers embraces Emily in a sloppy hug—as if she might have filled her water bottle with vodka in order to survive the play. She invites us to join a group of parents who are all going out for pizza with the stars of the show. Emily responds with a polite but noncommittal nod.
A group of teenagers rush into the cafeteria and Emily turns, anxiety narrowing her eyes until she spots Libby. She stands out in the sea of kids, her long red ponytail swinging wildly as she bounces on her toes and waves to us.
“Dex! You came!” Libby pushes past one of her friends and hurries over to us. She flings one arm around me, careful not to bump her cast. For a second, I freeze, then return the hug.
“I said I’d be here. You were fantastic.” I pull away and hold out the roses. “These are for you.”
“Aw! Thank you!” She sniffs them, grins, and then turns her attention to Emily. “What’d you think?”
“Five stars.” Emily flashes two thumbs-up and a big grin. “Straight fire.”
Libby laughs and rolls her eyes. “You always say that.”
Emily squints at her sister and playfully asks, “Are you looking for a more in-depth critique?”
“No.” Libby hugs Emily. “I want to go grab my stuff. Can we go for pizza with everyone? And Caroline was maybe having some of us to her apartment for a sleepover.”
Emily’s easy smile falters. “Pizza, yes. We’ll see about the sleepover.”
Libby freezes, her happy expression pinching into a scowl. “Why does ‘we’ll see’ sound like no?”
Uh-oh.
“It means we’ll see,” Emily says in a tight voice, casting a quick look around to make sure no one is listening to their exchange. Wanting to stay far away from this argument, I shift my gaze to the baked goods.
