steps while Mom repeatedly stepped the wrong direction.
“Mrs. Jane, Chrissy dances better.”
“That’s why she’s your date.” Mom’s voice softened. “Thank you for staying.”
Noah frowned as though she’d thanked him for breathing.
That was the answer she’d needed for years.
At prom, when the first slow song began, Noah held out his hand.
He stepped on my shoe within five seconds.
“Your dress is badly designed.”
We laughed until people stared.
Nothing extraordinary happened.
We were simply two 18-year-olds dancing badly together.
Noah carried my heels because my feet hurt.
I carried his jacket because he was feeling hot.
We were simply two 18-year-olds dancing badly together.
I climbed inside, leaned across the seat, and opened his.
For years, she’d seen me beside Noah and thought one of us was
Nobody was fulfilling an obligation.
We were just two people who had figured something out at six that adults sometimes spend their whole lives learning.
When somebody matters to you, you stay.
And sometimes, if you’re lucky, they stay too.
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