I edge as close as I can, my fingers brushing hers. In deep Russian, I whisper, “Hello, beautiful,” and smile into my words.
Baylee tries to suppress her own grin, smoothing her lips together. Then she covers her mouth with her fingers. How she looks—giddy, overwhelmed—I feel it too. My body lightens like I’m floating. For fuck’s sake, it’s a better feeling than actually flying forty-feet in the air.
I don’t know how that’s possible.
Love is strange and weird and unpredictable—and that’s probably why I’m drawn to it.
To her.
Baylee drops her hand to gesture at me. “You have to pause this for at least one more minute.”
She means me flirting. “Why?”
“Because this is serious.” Baylee isn’t referring to us. “I have fifty choices”—she motions to the long line of food trucks—“and I only ever make this choice once a month. It’s not like New York where, bam, there’s street food. Turn left, oh, a food truck. Here, outside of the Masquerade, this is it.”
“The food truck apocalypse.”
“That’s dramatic,” she says seriously.
And then we both burst into laughter, knowing her passionate declarations are more theatrical than my words.
As our humor weakens, I ask, “Which food truck are you thinking?”
“I don’t know.” Baylee cranes her head—and winces, freezing in place.
I grimace and watch her place the icepack on her neck. (What happened?) “Most of the trucks are new,” she says, “but there are some old standbys that are good.”
“Let’s try something new.” I hone in on her neck, concerned. Practice for Infini has been hellish. (I’m not exaggerating.) My calves, knees, quads, triceps, and the rest of my muscles throb and burn. Purple bruises dot my legs and torso.
In a cast of 50 artists, we’ve already gone through three boxes of Kinesio tape. It helps lessen pain, inflammation, prevents further injury, and reduces lactic acid buildup. We’re all physically feeling the stress of Geoffrey’s impossible demands.
And I worry about Baylee.
When I’m on the Russian swing or Wheel of Death, she’s going over her solo juggling act. We’re not always together in the gym.
I barely saw her today, so I don’t know what caused the pain in her neck. If she got seriously hurt or what.
“This way,” Baylee says, leading us down the street. Shaded by the trucks’ overhangs, I spin my blue hat, wearing the rim backwards, and I chew a “stolen” toothpick (they were basically free).
Bay stops to study the menu of a falafel truck.
“Did you pull a muscle today?” I ask, about to touch her hand that’s on the ice—but a cook yells out of a nearby taco truck.
“ONE TACO, ONE HALF-OFF! Step up! Come get ‘em! If you don’t trust me, trust Loren Hale!” He raises a framed photo of Loren Hale eating from that very food truck.
(It goes without saying, Loren Hale is the famous twenty-something fiancé to Lily Calloway: the shy, sex addict Calloway sister. Both starred on Princesses of Philly.) Baylee deeply considers the taco truck now.
I toss my toothpick aside. “He’s your favorite?” I start smiling.
She shoots me a look like you’re so wrong.
“Loren I’m-going-to-kill-you-with-five-words Hale does it for you, huh?”
Baylee gapes. “You just made him sound like a murderer.”
“Burst your image of him? No more hearts around his name. No more Baylee + Loren—”
“He’s not even my type.”
“You have a type?” I didn’t know this. “It’s me, right?”
She pushes my arm lightly but keeps quiet, killing me with suspense. I’m more ripped than Loren Hale. I have darker hair, and we’re around the same height, I think.
His cheekbones are sharper. Some parts of my face are softer, and if I remember correctly, he has no tattoos.
Baylee starts laughing.
“What?”
“You’re agonizing over this, aren’t you?”
“No,” I lie. “I’m cool.” I outstretch my arms.
She places her palm on my chest—and my whole body stirs. The simple touch almost hardens me. My muscles contract.
And Baylee tells me, “I don’t believe you.”
I wrap my arms around her shoulders, caught up in the moment. (If anyone plans to tattle on us to Corporate for hugging, fuck you.) “Then I don’t believe you actually have a type,” I breathe.
Her eyes dance along my features, down my body. My hand rises to the back of her head, and she holds onto my waist.
Subconsciously, we sway to music that has only ever existed between us.
I dip my head and pull her against my chest, and my lips—meet her palm. Fuck.
Baylee stopped the kiss, and quickly, her hand falls. She glances over her shoulder, casts a fearful look at me, and then steps backwards. But not that far back.
“I forgot,” I say honestly. I forgot where we are. Just down the street from the Masquerade. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” She eyes my lips. “So you know, I wanted it too.” Bay shrugs like it’s just not in the cards for us.
“Okay.” At least I’m not reading her body language wrong. I take off my hat and comb my hand through my hair before putting it back on. To cut the tension, I ask, “What is your type, seriously?”
She shrugs again. “Someone who really cares about me and who excites me.” She shakes her head in thought. “In my life, I don’t know anyone who does that but you.” With another strong headshake, she tries to stifle a wince while adjusting the ice.
I cringe. “Bay.”
“It’s fine…” she trails off, spotting something down the strip.
I watch her eyes grow in excitement.
“No way,” she breathes and immediately clasps my hand. We start sprinting side-by-side, our fingers laced.
Our smiles burst. I feel fifteen again. Running across a city next to Baylee Wright. I feel alive.
Like this is where I’m meant to be. Nowhere else.
Only with her.
Baylee skids to a halt at a bright yellow truck. Jamaican Cuisine scrawled in green paint. As we slip into the long line, she explains, “They haven’t had a Caribbean truck in four months.”
“Bastards.”
Bay smiles and adjusts her icepack, inadvertently drawing my attention to her neck. “I strained it,” she admits and turns completely. Her back faces me so I can take a look.
I finally touch her hand that’s on the ice. “Doing what?”
“5-club backcrosses.”
My brows jump. I picture Bay launching clubs from behind her back, straight into the air. I lower her hand to inspect the strain. “Did the club land on your neck?” I worry.
Juggling is dangerous. Mostly because of the props. When we were younger, I helped bandage her hands. Flat rings sliced up her nails and skin between her fingers. She also broke her toe that same year. Club dropped on her foot.
She said she was distracted, and she had reason to be. It was the year her parents passed away, and she still had to perform in Infini. Grief, broken toe, and all.
The show must go on.
(It seems like a cute phrase until you have bronchitis and you’d rather face-plant on a couch than lift your two-hundred pound cousin on your shoulders—or juggle candlesticks while balancing on two legs of a rickety chair. True story from Luka and Baylee, the early years.) “I just pulled a muscle,” Baylee assures me.
“Hold still.”
Baylee nods before going stationary.
I knead the base of her neck with my fingers, alleviating tension in her muscles, and her shoulders lower significantly. Relaxing.
Bay leans her back against my chest, and her hand creeps up my thigh.
Our breaths deepen. I wrap my left arm around her abdomen, holding her against me. Keeping her close. As the food truck line moves, we walk forward but never detach from each other.
Can we explain this embrace to Corporate?
I don’t know.
I don’t know, but right now, I’m banking on the fact that no one sees us.
Baylee shifts my hand to the nape of her neck. “Right there.”
I massage the spot, adding deeper pressure, and she oozes against my body. The corners of my lips pull upward. “You’re easy to please.”
She stiffens. “Tell that to all the other guys.”
All the other guys. “Sure, give me their names and cell numbers. I’ll track them down.”