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“Was I wrong to think you and your little group of friends were adult enough to handle this?” he said coolly.

I didn’t dare ignore his question, not when I could hear that biting note in his voice. “I guess so,” I heard myself say.

He pierced me with a gaze, letting his eyes settle on my face for a while. And then his lips angled to one side and he briefly gnawed on his cheek. He did that when he was in deep thought, I remembered. I watched his narrowed eyes descend toward my twisting hands and I wondered if he was deciding how to punish me, until his hands came upon my own—almost instinctively, as if by habit—to still them. It seemed automatic also for me to stop fiddling and clasp my fingers around his, however fervent my skin stung from the intimacy of the heated touch.

With the energy of some unidentifiable emotion, he led the way, hauling me on the dance floor so efficiently that I wasn’t quite aware how we’d gotten into dance position. The music was slow and our movement almost non-existent, but my stiff arms were braced to him regardless. We remained quiet, holding each other firmly for a tense minute, the silence pressing, the air charged. But soon I felt the muscles in his shoulders relax, causing my thoughts to slowly settle in.

He had such an athletic build, and a powerful back; a delicious combination of strength, confidence and masculinity. I felt his hand at the small of my back, the light pressure causing my blood to simmer.

I was in his arms again.

For one sweet instant, I stopped thinking completely and just let myself feel. The heat from his body; the strength of his arms wrapped around me; our legs moving in time together. My eyes closed and I breathed it all in.

“Have we ever danced together?” I entered the silence.

It took him forever to answer. “Once,” he finally whispered, low and throaty.

He was close enough to feel the shake of my head. “I don’t remember. Will you tell me about it?”

His thoughts must’ve been busy considering my request, because he began idly stroking my back. I closed my eyes to the sweet sensation, fighting back the guilt of wanting so much more than this gentle, lacking touch.

I imagined he was doing what I was well acquainted with of late, cognitively replaying the long-ago moments, reliving our first dance together, the circumstance, the conversation, the gestures of affection—

“I can’t remember either,” I heard him say, in a way that left no room to call his bluff.

He kept dancing, looking past my shoulder as if completely unaware there was anyone, let alone his former girlfriend, in his arms.

He couldn’t ignore me forever. And yet, if anyone could keep his resolve, it was Nick. This was the same guy who grew up working long hours at his hard-nosed father’s body shop, who stuck with the decision of choosing school over a promising baseball career even after his father practically disowned him, who watched his older brother die in his arms and fought through the guilt from that tragic day, who was dedicated enough to be the top student in his class. He was a capable man who had a track record of making his own prudent decisions, even in the face of adversity—especially in the face of adversity. And he was no stranger to hardship. He was strong, he was shrewd, and he was confident.

Still, no amount of dominance could change what happened between us.

“Not even you can erase the past,” I murmured on a quiet breath, too low for him to hear over the music.

Yes, he still remembered. He had to. He had to remember how exquisite our time together—all of the lively and laugh-out-loud occasions: the time we got into an ice cream fight in a restaurant and had to sneak out, the night we played truth or dare and ended up running from the cops, the all-nighters playing Fruit Loops poker with his roommates until Meat ate all the poker chips. And then there were the other, more telling moments: the way our intellects played together effortlessly, or our deep discussions where we understood each other so completely that the planets seemed to align, or our absolute attraction to each other—the times I felt I might combust if he continued kissing me the way he did.

As if he knew where my thoughts were, he separated us so that our eyes met. My eyes widened when I realized I had let out a soft, lingering sigh right in his ear. A quick, questioning glance stole over my face, hiding my emotions from him.

I shifted the embarrassing moment with conversation. “You never told me what your project was,” I said. “You received an award tonight, and I don’t even know what for.”

He didn’t respond, only guided my face back to the side of his. I waited for a minute, and nothing.

“Did you build something for your aunt and uncles’ home?”

I waited. Waited. Again, quiet. I knew I was rambling, but he should’ve had the decency to at least answer.

“Are you really going to ignore me?” I wondered out loud, unable to understand where this was coming from. What was he doing? Were we now so distant that we couldn’t even talk?

After another silent pause, he finally entered the conversation, murmuring softly near my ear, “I’m definitely not ignoring you.”

The comment was measured, meaningful, confusing. And I wasn’t sure whether it was because of this, or a simple chain in my thought process, or the fact that our faces had turned to each other and were a mere foot apart, but for a brief moment, I imagined only he and I on the dance floor, and all those years apart vanishing like a bad dream. I couldn’t tell if the pull came from him or me or some inherent attractive power, but our faces drew closer and our innocent embrace wasn’t so innocent anymore. However wild and greedy and completely out of place the attack, my lips were aching and ready for his.

But before the moment really got there, he sought to put more space between us and his expression turned sour. His face was mocking and his tone flippant when he said, “No man in his rightful mind could ignore the way you’re breathing and sighing and moaning in my ear.”

I am not moaning!
I wanted to shout. But his comment was so ridiculous that before I could think better of it, I slowly settled back into dance position, carefully leaned toward his ear, and then began a dramatic series of moans and sighs that would have made the most wholesome movie rated R. As quick as my performance began, his hand fell over my mouth and he pulled me closer.

I stood there, laughing into his hand with the rest of my face now leaning into his suit jacket, feeling the vibration of his low voice through his chest as he murmured, “Quiet.” After a moment, his hand left my mouth and went to my chin, tilting my head toward his to make sure I’d heard him.

I replaced my smile with a glare. “I don’t moan.”

In response to my statement, his eyebrow lifted, his eyes challenging, an unspoken reference to our past.

“Do we have to talk about this right now?” I said, suddenly flustered. “Let’s just dance.”

I pressed my arms around him, hoping to regain some semblance of a pleasant slow dance, but his hands held my shoulders, preventing me. I held on tight, stubborn, refusing to let go, refusing to talk to him at the moment.

“The song’s been over for a while,” he informed me.

Impossible.

But sure enough, the room was quiet and most of the couples were already heading back to their tables.

Struggling to keep a portion of my dignity in tact, I tried to think of a save while standing in the middle of the dance floor, with no music, still trying to hug my partner. Only one word came to mind, and it wasn’t even a word. “Duh,” I said with all the grace of a donkey.

Just as I went to march off, a warm hand fit around the nape of my neck, squeezing comfortingly. Instead of rushing off the dance floor like a madwoman, I slowed my exit and allowed him to lead me.

“I hope you don’t mind them dancing,” Liz said to Paige when we all got back to the table. “You weren’t around and I didn’t want him to miss out, so I suggested it.”

“I don’t mind,” she replied, too busy to look up, poking around the contents in her purse.

After that, the table remained eerily quiet, no one knowing exactly where to look or what to say. Until someone spoke up from Peter’s side of the table, “Awkward.”

Not a second later, Nick asked Paige if she was ready to go. The goodbyes were so uncomfortable that even the older couple clued into a problem. Regardless, we picked up and said our goodbyes at the same time.

I didn’t watch them walk away together. And I told myself not to look up until I was certain they were gone. But I looked up anyway, too soon, my eyes finding them by the entrance. Though his back was partially in the way, by the way they were standing there, unmoving, it looked like she was angry. But soon he leaned into her, paused for what must have been a kiss, and then led her out.

That was when my heart had had enough.

It was a valiant attempt. Nevertheless, he went home with her. And what I was expecting, for the engagement to be called off tonight?

I swallowed my dignity and found my group standing behind me. “Are you guys ready?” I was hugging my arms, adding up every stupid thing I’d done this evening.

As we walked to the car, the combination of emotions barreled over me. The exhilaration of being in his arms again, and then the agony of watching them leave together; the contrast was almost paralyzing.

I found myself speaking aloud, “Great night.”

“I think it went well,” Liz commented.

“I agree,” Creed responded. “Good food. Good conversations, for the most part. Good…”

“—
food,” Liz finished for him.

At the end of a chuckle, Peter sighed. “You’re all so messed up.”

I didn’t know about any of the others, but I absolutely was.

Whatever my body language communicated, Liz heard, because she put her arm over my shoulder and announced, “You’re coming home with me tonight.”

Chapter 5

We lounged on Liz’s bed, me staring blindly at the TV, and Liz attempting to bolster my spirits.

“Sure,” Liz continued with the recap of the night, “I can see why a guy would be attracted to her, but really, her personality’s about as exciting as a flat, cardboard box.” Through the distorted prism of jealously, I heard only the first part of Liz’s sentence about Paige’s attractiveness, and gave her a cranky look. But Liz didn’t even notice, just kept on talking. “You, on the other hand, are the total package. He’d be crazy not to—”

“Liz,” I cut in, “I told you already, he didn’t even acknowledge me. He doesn’t want to be friends anymore, which is fine with me since I don’t want to be friends either. He’s gotten uglier anyways.”

“So much uglier,” she responded. “Yeah, I definitely noticed. That sexy little five o’clock shadow on his chiseled face, yuck! And his body, filling out that dark suit tonight the way it did, just disgusting. And for sure he doesn’t want to be friends with you since he invited you to the banquet, and if that’s not a tell-all.”

I shook my head, sidestepping her sarcasm. “He thinks it’s too complicated; I’m too complicated.”

“Well, you have to admit, it’s not the simplest situation in the world.”

I readjusted my heavy head on the pillow to find a spot that would support it. “Did I mention he gave me the silent treatment for most of the dance?”

“You did mention that. That ugly boy needs a slap upside his head!” The bed jostled; Liz angled toward me. “Did he really say he didn’t remember the first time you guys danced?”

Recalling the night, I grabbed her bedspread and hid my face, moaning. “And then I kept dancing even after the music stopped,” I confessed, hoping the barrier of the blanket would buffer the truth.

Liz snagged the bed sheets from my grasp. “You did not.” Her face was cynical. But when she saw mine, it turned confused. “Wait, you what?”

What was the use? I couldn’t change what happened. “Yep. I swear. I was so wound up I forgot to stop when the music stopped. It was like I forgot where we were.”

“Oh, now, that’s classic,” Liz choked out between chuckles. “You didn’t tell me that part.”

The bed sheets unfortunately remained off my head. “I can’t believe I didn’t let go of him.”

“Well, from where I was sitting, it looked like he didn’t want to let go of you either. Although I’m wondering if that would have changed had he seen the look on his fiancé’s face when she caught sight of the two of you dancing together.”

“Really?” I gave her a desperate glance. “What did she…what kind of look did she—” I cut myself off. “Oh, who cares? It doesn’t change the fact that he didn’t say a word to me at the table.”

“To anyone,” Liz added.

The events of the night zipped around in my mind, darting from one catastrophic scene to the next. “What a night.” I laughed; it was easier to accept the truth that way. “It’s strange to think he doesn’t even care about me anymore.”

“You and I both know that’s not true,” Liz defended.

“What am I doing?” Surrendering, I laid my head against the pillow again. “I’m done with him.” It was a flimsy idea to reach for the remote and turn on the TV to find a means of escape. The screen featured a couple in a restaurant, carrying on a romantic conversation while holding hands across the table. I sighed—not the soft, yearning type of sigh, but the hard, life-sucks type of sigh.