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“Because you have this thing you do when you get nervous. You did it in high school and you’re doing it now.”
“What’s that?”
“You start cracking your knuckles. One by one.”
He halts mid-crack on his ring finger. His bare ring finger.
Will looks down. A slow smile pulls at his lips. “You’re right. I do.” Our eyes meet. “How did you know?”
“I sat behind you in nearly every honors class, Will. I’ve watched you answer countless questions from teachers. And every time you didn’t know the answer, you cracked your knuckles. One”–I crack my index finger–“by”–I crack my middle finger–“one.” My ring finger won’t snap.
He waits.
“You spent a lot of time paying attention to me, Mallory.”
“I sat behind you. It’s not like I could stare at your ass all day. I had to have something else to look at.”
“You stared at my ass?”
“It was two feet in front of me! Four classes a day!” I start to sweat. The memory of him in football uniform pants. Oh, sweet ice cream fairy, deliver me from evil.
“You okay? You look,” he says, stepping closer, “a little disturbed.”
“I’m fine.”
“Hot, even.” The rise and fall of his chest pauses after those words, as if he’s holding his breath, too.
“I am fine! You just need to turn on the air conditioning.”
“It’s sixty-two in here. Remember? You emailed about getting the HVAC company to come fix it because it’s stuck.”
We remember to breathe, over and over, magically living through the seconds of some unverbalized emotion I can’t name, but can only feel.
Does he feel it, too?
“Have fun on your date tonight, Mal,” he says softly, biting his lower lip as he smiles at me and turns away, the break in eye contact making me long for a past that just happened. “I hope it goes well.”
“Thanks,” I say, the words so different from what my heart is screaming.
But thanks has to be enough.
Chapter Twelve
Bailargo is impossible to miss. Years ago, some town council got money to renovate an old Victorian home, which is now a painted lady.
Painted red.
None of the muted jewel tones you see on old Victorians are anywhere near the Bailargo building. Oh, no. Red, white, and black dominate, with murals. The original ballroom in the house became the main dance-lesson venue. If you have to learn to dance for a wedding, prom, bar mitzvah, Purim ball, cotillion, or any other purpose, this is the place to go.
And to be seen.
Like every Pilates studio on the planet, Bailargo’s dance-lesson clients are there to impress. To have others notice their presence. To take selfies and perfectly positioned Instagram photos, and to be giddy and excited about dance.
I have not danced since college, where arms in the air, foot shuffles, and the requisite booty shake were my repertoire.
Pretty much every college student’s alcohol-infused dance set.
I’m sitting in my car, texting with Perky, five minutes early, when I look up and gape.
