“It’s for my stomach,” I explain shyly. I learned early that people don’t like it when I take pills in front of them. It’s one thing to know someone is sick, and another to see direct evidence of it. It makes it less easy for them to ignore.
But Farrah doesn’t get uncomfortable or act as if I might be contagious, like most people do.
“Must suck to have to take pills all the time.”
“I’m kind of used to it by now,” I say, and she smiles as if she actually gets it.
When we’re done eating (those of us who haven’t just picked at our salads and complained about bloating, not naming any names), the tables are cleared, and lively jazz music floats from a band playing in a corner. The dance floor fills surprisingly fast for a place full of geriatrics.
“Care to dance?” Tucker’s eyes are bright under the harsh lighting. Mom would murder me. Anything that causes sweating might throw my salt levels out of whack and is strictly off-limits. But if I can complete the tasks set out for me by the faceless Society, then surely I can dance for High Society.
I push back my chair and set my napkin on the table. Tucker takes my hand and leads me out to the dance floor.
“I don’t know how to dance like this,” I admit.
“You don’t need to. Just have fun.”
He spins me out, away from him, and then whirls me back in, like one of those old snap bracelets I had as a kid. I can’t help laughing.
“See?” he says.
He whirls me around the dance floor, the room a blur of color. I’ve never noticed it before, but Tucker has the barest hint of a limp. I wonder if he wouldn’t if his dad had let him heal properly after surgery before shoving him back onto the lacrosse field.
Tucker beams at me.
After three up-tempo songs the band switches to a slow number. I smile uncomfortably at Tucker, and he pulls me in close. I wonder if Ethan is watching this. Probably not. I’m sure he’s dancing with Savannah.
I feel a tap on my shoulder. I spin around, and there he is.
“May I cut in?” Ethan asks.
Everything inside me liquefies.
“Oh, um, okay, I guess,” Tucker says, but Ethan’s not looking at him. His eyes are locked on me. I don’t think I could look away even if a natural disaster struck.
Tucker disappears into the crowd, and Ethan pulls me close, wrapping his arms around my waist. I lace my own around his neck, aware of every single place he touches me, every inch of space he doesn’t.
“I didn’t expect to see you here,” I say.
“Ditto.”
We don’t say anything after that. The keening sound of a sax stretches out in our silence. Ethan pulls my hips close, and the small gap between us disappears. The warmth of his hands travels through the thin material of my dress. I go boneless, my insides breaking apart, floating to the surface, like I’m made of helium and could fly away.
Someone bumps into me, apologizes profusely, but I don’t look over, barely register it happening.
Ethan’s chest is flush with mine, and I imagine I can feel his heartbeat through the layers of clothes separating us. He smells like the fancy cologne he wears only on formal occasions, and I long to lay my head on his chest.
My fingers toy with the ends of his hair before I even realize I’m doing it. We’re so close. If I looked up, we’d be kissing. I want to be kissing. I want to feel his lips, taste his mouth. Erase the heat between my legs by pressing myself against him.
As if he can hear my thoughts, his hands fist into the back of my dress and he drags me against him, impossibly closer, and I take in a sharp, high breath, intoxicated by the smell of him, by his nearness, by the feeling of our bodies together.
The song comes to an end. Guests clap lightly, break apart, and I’m pulled back to reality.
I’m suddenly aware of how inappropriate this must appear. I glance around and catch sight of a flash of yellow in a far corner. Savannah. And she’s looking straight at us, tangled together like lovers.
I quickly force a respectable distance between Ethan and me and clear my throat. My face is blazing red.
The band starts up a lively tune.
“Is something wrong?” Ethan asks.
Savannah’s gaze sears into my back, and a hot flood of shame washes over me. “Um, I—I have to go.”
“What?”
“I need to use the bathroom.” I let go of Ethan’s neck and push through the crowd before he can stop me. I’m dizzy, weak, but not for any of the usual reasons.
What was that? Did Ethan feel the same way I did, or was I imagining the chemistry between us?
Tucker materializes in front of me. “Hey, you. Looked like you were having a pretty good time out there.”
“What?” I feign ignorance. “I have to use the bathroom.”
“Oh. Okay. It’s right over there.” He points to a set of doors at the far side of the room.
“Those will be packed,” Farrah says, leaning over from a conversation with Clayton, Amber, and Sadie. She points to a corridor on the second floor. “There’s a quieter one up there, at the end of the hallway. Can’t miss it.”
“Thanks.” I tell Tucker, “I’ll be right back.”