Something in the Way (Something in the Way #1)(96)

Once we were seated, he leaned over so only I could hear. “Are you familiar with the tale of Odette and Prince Siegfried?” He passed me a program. “Swan Lake. Just another love story gone wrong.” He laughed at my expression. “I probably never mentioned my parents took me as a teenager. Another thing to give me culture.”

The lights dimmed, and Bill sat back, shifting to get comfortable. His long legs knocked against the seat in front of us multiple times before its occupant turned to raise her eyebrows. I suppressed a laugh just as the conductor lifted his arms.

Before long, the stage was awhirl with white tulle, hard muscles, prettily pink slippers. And those pink slippers, which curled and arched and lengthened unnaturally, seemed perfectly untouched. Everything about the ballet appeared smooth and blemish-free, from the dancers to the patrons. The graceful precision was one thing, but I was floored by the flawlessness of the performance. Everything in life should be so clean. When the curtain fell for intermission, I clapped gleefully with the crowd.

We spilled into the lobby, excitedly reviewing what we’d just seen as we maneuvered. Bill and Andrew left to get drinks as Gretchen, Lucy, and I broke away from the others, keeping close through a room brimming with people.

“I can’t believe my mother let me quit ballet when I was seven,” Lucy said once we’d found a semi-open spot. “I could’ve been a star.”

“I don’t think it’s as easy as that,” I said.

She shook her head. “I could have been a professional ballerina.” Gretchen and I laughed at her sincere expression. “Fine, don’t believe me,” she said. “I’m going to the restroom.”

“Oh, me too,” Gretchen chimed. “Liv?”

“I’ll wait here for the guys.”

I craned my neck above the crowd to search for the bar, where I expected Bill would loom over everyone. My gaze lingered on different people, noting how their stiff, deliberate movements countered the elegance of the dancers on stage. To me, they not only seemed like strangers, but like aliens. Or maybe I was the one who didn’t belong.

Since the abrupt divorce of my parents when I was a teenager, I’d never figured out exactly where I was supposed to be. Large crowds heightened that insecurity and left me feeling vulnerable. It was an unfortunate ability of mine, feeling spectacularly alone in a crowd, even when surrounded by friends and family.

I had the sensation of being watched seconds before I met a man’s unfamiliar pair of eyes across the room. They were dark, narrowed intensely in my direction as if he were trying to place me. Everything slowed around me, but my heartbeat whipped into a rapid flutter.

Our gaze held a moment longer than it should have. My body buzzed. My pounding heart echoed in my ears. It wasn’t his immense, tall frame or darkly handsome face that struck me, but a draw so strong that it didn’t break, even when I blinked away.

A woman bumped my shoulder as she passed. I exhaled the breath I’d been holding. Bill waved as he wound through the crowd.

When I looked back, the man loomed closer than necessary. Something about the lean in his posture was intimate and easy, yet the space between us was physically hot. Fire under my skin. I reminded myself to breathe.

Hair blackest black, short and unruly but long enough to run my hands through. His suntanned complexion appeared natural from time spent outdoors. Strong carved-from-marble facial features were softened by long, unblinking lashes. Involuntarily, I drew a sharp breath at the magnitude of his beauty.

A woman’s voice cut into my consciousness and he turned, giving me the opportunity to regain control. In one swift movement I ducked away, exhaling audibly. Bill and Andrew were there then, shoving a wineglass at me as I shielded myself with their bodies.

“Where are the girls?”

“You like Pinot right?”

“What do you think of the show?”

My attempt to speak was just a noise.

“I’ll take that,” Gretchen said, intercepting the wine.

“The line for the bathroom isn’t bad if you have to go,” Lucy said. She touched my arm. “Liv, are you—”

“I think I will go to the restroom,” I said, backing away. I only just saw her puzzled expression as I turned to struggle through a crowd dense enough to suffocate. Or so it felt in that moment.



I could not remember what he looked like. Our exchange was a mere moment, but I had felt the shift.

After, as I sat in the theater, the velvety red seats that I had not much noticed before pricked at my exposed skin, causing me to shift uncontrollably. Because each time I sat still, his heat enveloped me again. As hard as I tried, I could not remember what he looked like. I could only feel him.

I forced myself to focus on the second half. A bewitching Odette mournfully enthralled the crowd as her story unfolded. Why did it feel as though she watched me between sequences?

Back in the lobby, I scanned the crowd for clues. Hints. That man, who he was. To both my relief and disappointment, I did not see him again. I tried to forget the feeling while we dined and drank into the night.



The heavy door of our Lincoln Park apartment threatened to slam behind me, but at the last second, I caught the knob and eased it shut. I yawned, hanging my coat and sliding out of my pumps. Bill flipped on the television set in the next room while I sorted through mail, tossing half of it into the trash. On the brown polyester couch his mother had given us some years ago, I found him in his boxers, languidly watching replays of the basketball game he’d grudgingly missed.