“I kept showing up because you needed someone who got it.” I shrugged. “And because you make me laugh. And because your terrible taste in movies is entertaining.”
“The Fast and Furious franchise is cinema.”
“The Fast and Furious franchise is car commercials with a plot.”
“You're just mad because you cried during the sixth one.”
“I did not cry.”
“You absolutely did. I saw the tears.”
“That was allergies,” I lied, and Derek grinned, clearly not believing me for a second.
We played in comfortable silence for a few minutes. Outside, I could hear some of the other guys in the backyard, probably kicking a ball around. Derek's eyes drifted toward the window, a flash of longing crossing his face before he looked back at his cards.
“You'll get back there,” I said softly. “I know it doesn't feel like it now, but you will.”
“Yeah.” He didn't sound convinced, but he smiled anyway. “Thanks, Rosie.”
“That's what friends are for.”
“Friends who bring subpar baked goods?”
I threw a card at him. “Take it back.”
“Never!” He was laughing again, and I was laughing too, and for just a moment, everything felt normal. Easy. Right.
Like maybe we were both going to be okay.
Three months ago – June
The texts had slowed. At first, it was understandable. Finals week, then summer break. Derek went home to his parents' mansion, and I went home, training harder than before and clinging to the delusion that I could catch up to the lost year in dance.
Derek
How's the hip?
Good! Just finished a great session. How's home?
Derek
Fine. Same as always.
Simple exchanges. Friendly but distant. Nothing like the hours we'd spent together during his recovery. I told myself it was normal. We'd been forced together by circumstance: his injury, my need to help. Now that he was better, maybe that's all it had been.
But then mid-July happened. I pushed too hard in the studio, heard that sickeningsnap,and watched my hip swell and bruise for days. Limps returned to my walk, and it became hard to hide them from my parents and Aaron. I stared at my phone a dozen times, wanting to text him, wanting to hear him tell me it would be okay.
But I couldn't.
Because if I told him, I'd have to admit I'd failed again. That I'd re-injured myself through my own stupidity. That I was still broken. So, I didn't text. And he stopped texting too.
By August, our daily conversations had become nothing at all.
CHAPTER ONE
DEREK
Late-August
