Fluffy(42)

“You're changing the subject.”

“How do you know that’s what I’m doing?”

“Because you have this thing you do when you get nervous. You did it in high school and you're doing it now.”

“What’s that?”

“You start cracking your knuckles. One by one.”

He halts mid-crack on his ring finger. His bare ring finger.

Will looks down. A slow smile pulls at his lips. “You’re right. I do.” Our eyes meet. “How did you know?”

“I sat behind you in nearly every honors class, Will. I’ve watched you answer countless questions from teachers. And every time you didn’t know the answer, you cracked your knuckles. One”–I crack my index finger–“by”–I crack my middle finger–“one.” My ring finger won’t snap.

He waits.

“You spent a lot of time paying attention to me, Mallory.”

“I sat behind you. It’s not like I could stare at your ass all day. I had to have something else to look at.”

“You stared at my ass?”

“It was two feet in front of me! Four classes a day!” I start to sweat. The memory of him in football uniform pants. Oh, sweet ice cream fairy, deliver me from evil.

“You okay? You look,” he says, stepping closer, “a little disturbed.”

“I’m fine.”

“Hot, even.” The rise and fall of his chest pauses after those words, as if he's holding his breath, too.

“I am fine! You just need to turn on the air conditioning.”

“It’s sixty-two in here. Remember? You emailed about getting the HVAC company to come fix it because it's stuck.”

We remember to breathe, over and over, magically living through the seconds of some unverbalized emotion I can’t name, but can only feel.

Does he feel it, too?

“Have fun on your date tonight, Mal,” he says softly, biting his lower lip as he smiles at me and turns away, the break in eye contact making me long for a past that just happened. “I hope it goes well.”

“Thanks,” I say, the words so different from what my heart is screaming.

But thanks has to be enough.





12





Bailargo is impossible to miss. Years ago, some town council got money to renovate an old Victorian home, which is now a painted lady.

Painted red.

None of the muted jewel tones you see on old Victorians are anywhere near the Bailargo building. Oh, no. Red, white, and black dominate, with murals. The original ballroom in the house became the main dance-lesson venue. If you have to learn to dance for a wedding, prom, bar mitzvah, Purim ball, cotillion, or any other purpose, this is the place to go.

And to be seen.

Like every Pilates studio on the planet, Bailargo’s dance-lesson clients are there to impress. To have others notice their presence. To take selfies and perfectly positioned Instagram photos, and to be giddy and excited about dance.

I have not danced since college, where arms in the air, foot shuffles, and the requisite booty shake were my repertoire.

Pretty much every college student’s alcohol-infused dance set.

I’m sitting in my car, texting with Perky, five minutes early, when I look up and gape.

Will is walking into the Bailargo building.

Given that there are no other businesses in this building, this can mean only one thing: I must enter the witness protection program.

Will just went into Bailargo! I text Perky.

Her instant reply: Don't call him Will, Mal. His name is David. Do you shout out the wrong name when you come during sex, too? Geez.

I do not! I reply, incensed. And Will really did just walk in!

Didn’t you decapitate him earlier? How is he walking? That sounds unnatural. Maybe he’s a zombie.

I gave him a small scalp wound, I correct her. Barely a scratch.

You’re lucky he didn’t have you arrested for assault. That's twice he's saved you from your emerging criminal tendencies.

Focus. Focus on the now, Perky. What am I going to do? Will is in the same building where I’m having a first date with Dance Guy.

What if Will IS Dance Guy????? Perky texts back. I can feel her hot breath and shaky jadedness through the phone.

Before I can answer, I get a notification on the dating app. I open it.

Ready to have some fun? David asks in the message section.

Sure am! I type back. Where are you?

Already inside, waiting for you. :)

Damn it.

K. Be there in a minute, I reply, sliding my phone away before realizing I’ve left Perk hanging.

David texted me. He’s inside already. This is crazy, I tell her.

She texts back a popcorn-munching emoji.

So much for friends.

The rearview mirror reflects a vision of my better self. Auburn hair in waves that are so close to curls, the humidity doing its thing. My makeup is crisp, eyeliner perfect, eyes no longer red from doing that eyelid-flip trick Perky swears by. With my pulse tap dancing in my veins, I climb out of the car.

I’m not sure whether I’m more nervous about meeting David or running into Will.

No. Actually, I am sure.

It’s Will.

The studio smells like linseed oil and geranium, a weird combination that works surprisingly well. Gleaming, polished wood floors go on for what seem like miles, rolling on and on until I start to wonder if my depth perception has been altered by panic.