“I think you’re going to do great at NYU. I think you’re going to walk in there and realize you earned your spot twice over. And I think the twenty-two-year-olds are going to learn more from you than you will from them.”
My throat tightened. “You’re just saying that. You barely know me.”
“Maybe, but it’s what I believe.” His voice dropped lower, more serious. “Ask anyone who knows me. I’m annoyingly honest about what I think.”
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to walk into law school tomorrow and not feel like an imposter.
“I’m angry at my father,” I heard myself say. “For dying. For leaving us with nothing. And I hate that I’m angry because it wasn’t his fault, but I am anyway.”
Archie didn’t flinch. Didn’t rush to comfort me or offer clichés. He just nodded, and something in his expression told me he understood exactly what I meant.
“I’m angry at mine too,” he said quietly. “For dying and leaving me with something I didn’t want. For trusting me with things I wasn’t ready for. For not living long enough to see what I did with it all.”
Silence followed. Two strangers trading truths they probably shouldn’t.
“This is weird,” I said.
“The best conversations usually are.” He smiled, and it eased his whole face—made him look younger, less burdened. “Besides, sometimes it’s easier to tell the truth to someone you’ll never see again.”
“Is that what this is? A conversation”
“I don’t know.” His eyes held mine. “What do you want it to be?”
The question felt like an invitation. Dangerous. My pulse kicked up.
“I don’t know either,” I admitted.
“Well.” He straightened, and I caught the faint scent of expensive cologne mixed with something warmer. “We could keep standing here having an existential crisis about our respective dead fathers and failed expectations.”
“Or?”
“Or we could do something completely impractical.” He tilted his head, listening. Faint jazz drifted up from somewhere below. “Dance with me.”
I blinked. “What?”
“There’s music. We’re on a terrace in New York.” He held out his hand, palm up. “And you’re leaving tomorrow, which means this is one of those moments that doesn’t have consequences. So dance with me, Gianna.”
The way he said my name did something to my pulse. Made it stumble.
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Probably.” His hand stayed extended, steady and sure. “But I’m trying to stop being careful about things that matter. And something tells me you could use a break from being careful too.”
He was right. I’d been careful for seven years—careful with money, with hope, with wanting anything I couldn’t afford to lose. And look where it got me: standing on a terrace at twenty-nine, terrified of tomorrow.
I took his hand.
His fingers closed around mine, warm and sure, and he pulled me closer. Not too close at first. His other hand settled on my waist, light but sure, and we started moving to music we could barely hear.
“You’re terrible at this,” I said after a moment.
“Excuse me?” His eyes lit up with amusement. “I’m an excellent dancer. You’re just not following.”
“I’m not following because you’re leading wrong.”
“Bold accusation from someone who just stepped on my foot.”
“That was your fault.”
