You and Everything After (Falling #2)(61)

“Sort of,” I say, pulling out the cheap CD player last. “I didn’t think it was fair that Rowe got a prom tonight and you didn’t. So….”

I finally get the CD player plugged in and start the first song, which is mostly incredibly cheesy saxophone music. When I turn back to Cass, she’s shading her face like she’s embarrassed.

“Oh. My. God. This is…like…the corniest thing ever,” she says, and as if on cue, I tap the button on the light and the room illuminates with disco crystals. I move to the light switch, flip it off, and the effect is just as roller-rink-style as I thought it would be. I’m pretty pleased.

“No. No, wait. I lied. Now this is the corniest thing ever,” she giggles. There’s no trace of her frown left, no hint of a tear, and as ridiculous as this all is—she’s looking at me like I just gave her a dozen roses. Yeah, I did good.

“Shut up, beautiful, and get over here and dance,” I say, reaching for her hand while some song that I think was maybe from the movie Footloose starts.

Her fingertips graze against mine, and she’s timid as she inches closer to me, her eyes moving from her feet to my shoulders, to both sides—she’s unsure how this is done, of how to dance…with me.

“Relax,” I nod, slowly. When she gets close enough, I put my hands on her waist, turn her to the side and sweep her up so she’s in my lap, her legs kicked off to the side. “Put your arms around me. This is dancing, and we’re allowed to be a ruler’s length away from each other.”

“Oh, really,” she says, her smile sly as she looks off to either side of us. She gets close to my face, close enough to whisper, “I don’t think the teachers are looking.”

She pulls herself tight against me, her arms around my neck and shoulders, and rests her head just below my chin. Everything about right now is perfect. With my right hand, I reach for my wheel and turn us in a slow circle, my other hand flat against her back, making sure she doesn’t go.

It isn’t perfect. The CD skips a few times, and the battery-powered disco lamp makes a buzzing sound—like a vibrator. But if I had to venture to guess, I would say that this moment—this prom experience—kicks every other prom experience’s ass.

“Thank you, Tyson,” she says, nuzzling deeper into the crook of my neck as I spin us for another song.

“You got it, baby,” I say, and she squeezes me a little tighter.

I like it when she calls me Tyson. And she just let me call her baby.





Cass


He’s like magic. That’s the only way to describe what Ty does when I’m feeling…less. He takes it all away. He doesn’t think he’s romantic, but my god. I don’t like grand gestures. I’m not the girl who wants the proposal in front of thousands at the hockey game one day—not that I don’t love watching that happen for someone else, because I do! I just don’t want my face on that Jumbotron, not for anything other than scoring a goal.

I like simple. There’s potency in simple. There’s…magic in simple. And these simple moments are just for me and Ty, and nobody else.

He’s held me close in his lap for three whole songs, and I marvel that his right arm isn’t tired from spinning us in a slow circle. He’s rocked me once or twice, too.

His left hand has slid around my shoulders, to my breast, finally coming to rest along the side of my face. It’s the most tender of touches, and his thumb glides along my cheek in a way that honestly makes me feel beautiful. The CD starts to skip badly now, and even that somehow just seems right.

Ty reaches over and smacks the top of the player, and it makes the music skip ahead to some sort of reggae song that isn’t remotely romantic, and it makes us both turn and look at the music player and laugh.

“Where did you even get this CD?” I ask.

“Record Exchange,” he says, smacking it once more, causing it to start back at the beginning. I like the beginning. I like the thought of staying here, like this all night, starting over and over.

“I hope you didn’t pay much for it,” I say.

“No, got it for free. Well…sort of,” he says, and I lean back, quirking an eyebrow up. “I traded in one of Nate’s movies.”

“He’s going to be pissed,” I say, laying my head down on his shoulder, my hand tucked under his shirt against his bare chest so I can feel the movement of his muscles, his heart, his skin.

“No, he won’t. I watched it a shitload more than he did anyway. Nate’s not really a porn kinda guy.”

“Oh,” I say, suddenly uncomfortable at the thought of Ty and porn and me. And Nate. And, oh God! He can feel the heat on my face, he must, because he’s trying to look me in the eye, and I’m trying to bury myself under his arm.

“Cass, what kind of movie did you think I’d trade in for a shitty CD?” he says, amused by my embarrassment.

“I don’t know. I just…wow. Do you, like…watch that stuff? I mean, with your brother?” I’m so uncomfortable. I don’t know why. I’ve seen porn. The guys in high school used to play them at parties just to make the girls blush. It never bothered me. But something about talking about it with Ty is…weird.

“First off, you don’t watch porn. You use it,” he says, and I hold up my hand and slide from his lap to my bed. As much as I want to stay in his arms all night, in our dance, right now the urge to bury my face in my pillow is stronger.