“It’s depressing to have a backup plan.”
You laughed. “See, you’re being pessimistic. My mom once told me that if you want something bad enough, it becomes a part of you, whether you get it or not.”
I raised my eyebrows. “You believe that?”
“Actually, I think she was just trying to make me feel better about what Dante wrote on my dance bag,” you said. “But it sounds true.”
“Then I’m already a prima ballerina.”
“The best.” You grinned.
“And you’re already in your spotlight?” I took another bite of cake and clutched my coat around me. The wind was picking up.
“Nah.” You smiled. “I’m just waiting for my cue to join you onstage.”
You and me. It was all clicking into place like a line of dominoes falling, so fast not even my thundering heart could keep pace. It was terrifying. “What, you followed me?” I asked, trying to act like I didn’t notice your hand, which had casually dropped onto my leg.
“Rode your coattails is more accurate, but yeah.” Neither of us said anything for a minute. Over on Broadway, cabs flashed by in the dim light, leaving a flurry of staccato honks in their wake.
What are you thinking? I wanted to ask, but I was too afraid to say the words. Besides, I’d been burned before with that move. Once, Caleb had been staring off dreamily after we made out, and I’d posed that question, expecting something romantic, and he’d just turned to me and said, “I love dogs.” So even though everything was telling me that something important was happening—I almost couldn’t look at you, I was so afraid of the charge humming between us—I couldn’t completely rule out the possibility that your mind was actually on the cocker spaniel being walked around the corner of 66th Street.
“I was thinking,” you finally said, as if reading my mind. “I want to . . . um, you know . . . go do something sometime. With you.” Your kept your eyes, which were barely visible under a tousle of disheveled curls, locked on the ground. “Not just eat a box of cake.”
“I like boxed cake.” It was my clumsy attempt at flirting. It felt like the time I’d gone to Paris with my family after taking two years of French, and then promptly told the hotel concierge, Je suis anglaise. I am English. I’d gotten my own country wrong on the first try.
“You know what I mean,” you said. You smiled nervously, finally looking up at me. I’d never seen you so unsure of yourself. “I want to take you out. On a . . .” date, I thought, my stomach churning wildly “. . . n adventure,” you said.
“An adventure,” I parroted.
“A date-y adventure.”
“Oh,” I said. I got a rush of adrenaline like the first time I’d gone up en pointe. Just one little muscle shift and then, suddenly, a whole different world. “Um. Well. Yeah. I mean, how could I say no?”
“Yeah?” Your face lit up. “OK. All right. I’ll start planning, then.”
“Something non-weight-bearing,” I said quickly, not sure how to fill the new, uncertain space between us. “I need to be elevated.”
You smiled slowly. “Not a problem.”
“I guess—” I cleared my throat, moved my leg. “I guess we should probably get going?”
You shot me a dose of my own premium side-eye. “But I haven’t sung you ‘Happy Birthday’ yet.”
“You know what, that’s OK. Really. You don’t have to—”
But I was too late; you were already singing, adorably off-key and so loud that everyone around us turned to look. For some reason, though, your serenade didn’t make me cringe like the one I’d endured just forty-eight hours earlier at V&T.
I sat and watched you quietly, warmth spreading through my aching body like someone had snuck in and lit a lantern deep inside.
Chapter Twenty-One
April 21 (fifth day of Spring Break)
22 days left
“NO! DIEGO, your face should be just under her crotch,” Mr. Dyshlenko shouted, in his deep, gravelly accent.