“Oh, yeah. I looked you up. I’m one of many thousand people now following you on social media. I watched all your content. We’re talking years. Loved the bangs in 2020 by the way.”
My jaw drops.
“That thing you do, jumping and doing the splits in the air?—”
“A split leap?”
“And all those cartwheels and flips you do across the mat.” With the hand resting against the booth, he motions with one hand in a circular motion.
“Tumbling passes,” I correct him.
“It was all…” He gazes forward with a dreamy look on his face. “Very impressive.”
It’s ridiculous but it makes me blush.
“Floor isn’t even my best routine.” I take a sip of the champagne and find I’ve already somehow drained the glass.
Travis slides his in front of me. “What is?”
“Bars.”
“Your favorite too?”
I nod. Ever since the first time I flipped over the low bar in my beginner gymnastics class, I was hooked.
“You look damn good up there in your little leotard and chalk-covered hands.”
“The chalk on my hands is not sexy.” I laugh at the idea.
“Hell yeah, it is.”
The server stops by the table and Travis orders more drinks, saving me from hearing more about the sexiness of my chalk-covered hands. That’s a first.
“What got you into the sport?” he asks when she’s gone.
“My sister, actually. She begged our parents to sign her up for a class. Then she became completely obsessed and would do it around the house.” I can picture us in the basement of our old house, the mismatched furniture and wood paneling walls. AndWren and I practicing cartwheels on a small blue mat. “I was already ten, which is ancient by gymnast standards. Most start at three or four and begin competing shortly after. But I loved it from the start, and I moved up levels pretty quickly.”
“Does she still train too?”
“No.” I laugh. “Wren never sticks with anything very long. She bounces from hobby to hobby faster than anyone I know. She quit not long after I joined. I think she secretly hated having her big sister crashing her new, fun thing.”
“You’re the oldest?”
“Five years older.”
“That would make her…” He thinks for only a second. “Eighteen?”
“That’s right.”
The server returns with our drinks, including a tray of shots filled with a light pink liquid. It reminds me that I haven’t tried Travis’s drink yet. I lift the glass to my lips. He follows the movement, stare locked onto my lips as I tip the glass and let the dark liquor pour onto my tongue. It’s smoother than I expected, but still strong, and it burns as I swallow. Coughing, I push it back toward him.
He slides one of the pink shots my way.
“What is it?”
“Pink kamikaze.”
I sniff it. “It smells like lemonade.”
