He set his down, too, looking worried. “Of course.”
“What’s the problem with you and Cameron? You know my reasons. Before I…” She swallowed and made herself go on. “Before we make out in front of everybody. I’m trusting you with a lot.”
“Faith, I’m trusting you, too.” He met her gaze. “You’re right, though, you have a right to know.” He paused. “You ever been bullied? Not just the petty stuff, but bad enough to wish you could leave town? To…”
Faith heard what he didn’t say. She put her hand on his arm. “You don’t have to tell me.”
“I do.” He flexed his hand, and his arm muscles tightened in her grip. “Cameron has a set of friends. A pack of four.”
She nodded. “Cam, Jake, Braden, and Andrew.”
“Right.” He was staring at a point beyond her shoulder. “Those four made my life miserable, and they roped a lot of people into it. Most of it was stupid bullshit—tripping me in the hall, whispering crap behind my back. Stealing my homework. I told you I’m dyslexic, right?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, so it takes hours to do my homework, and I was making Ds in science in the spring of my seventh-grade year. Some of Cameron’s friends were in my class and caught sight of one of my tests. I misspelled every other word, reversed stuff, and missed most of the multiple-choice stuff because I couldn’t read the questions right. Anyway, they told Cameron, and he broke into my locker.
“I couldn’t find my binder anywhere. All my homework, all the stuff Grandpa had notated for me, all my tests—gone. Next day, my graded work was taped up all over the school. All those Ds. Worse, those assholes had highlighted all the places where I spelled mammal ‘lamal’ and shit like that. I started tearing it down, but the damage was done. For the rest of seventh grade, I was the class idiot.”
Faith blinked, unsurprised when an angry tear ran down her cheek. “I knew he could be petty, but that’s outright cruel. I should slap his face.”
But Kyle was shaking his head. “Don’t. I can fight my own battles now, and I’d rather not have all that come up again. Most people have forgotten about it, even if I can’t.”
It seemed so unfair, though. Still, awful as that prank had been, Kyle’s anger ran deeper than what she’d expect. She could tell there was more to the story, but she wouldn’t pry. If he wanted to tell her everything, she could wait until he was ready. “I’m sorry it happened. And I’m glad we’re doing this. Cameron deserves to be shown up.”
He gave her a tight smile. “Maybe a little.”
They sat in awkward silence, but she wasn’t sure what to say. She wanted to lighten the mood, to drag Kyle out of the memories she could see were eating him alive. She wanted to make him forget Cameron and focus on her.
Which led to her blurting out, “Want to watch me dance?”
That earned her a soft smile that evaporated all the awkward the kitchen could hold. “I’d like that.”
She clenched her hands in her lap to keep them from trembling. Why did she suggest that? Dancing in a production was one thing. Dancing for one guy, alone together? That was a whole other thing. A thing her parents might have a completely different word for: inappropriate.
Then again, maybe a little inappropriate was exactly what she needed.
“You don’t have to, you know.” Kyle’s voice was kind. “I wasn’t suggesting a talent show when I roamed the yard half naked. That was just to get your attention.”
She nodded, flushing. “It worked. But no, I’d like to.” And suddenly, she really did. “Go to the porch. I need to change and grab my shoes.”
Plus going upstairs would give her a moment to breathe, which she most definitely needed to do. Once upstairs, she picked out a plain black leotard, a pink dance skirt, and tights. If she was going to do this, she had to do it right. Hair up in a bun, lip gloss, and all. And if her hands shook while tying her pointe shoes, so be it.
When she found him on the porch, he was sitting in one of the chairs across from the barre—and had moved all the other furniture against the walls. “How did you know?”
“About the furniture? I thought you might need room.”
This guy was trying to steal her heart, wasn’t he? He was doing a damn good job of it, too. Trembling all over, she went to the stereo, plugged in her phone. She found Tchaikovsky’s Fifth, the second movement, and scrolled to the last three minutes. “This is something we did for recital last fall.”
She didn’t tell him she’d been the prima of the company. That didn’t seem to matter much, not with the way he watched her as she took her place, standing in fourth position until the section of the piece she wanted started.