Colson: You can. You just don’t want to.
Violet: And you know why.
Colson: They’re going to find out eventually, Vi. No matter if it’s now or later, they’re going to feel the same way. The longer you wait, the more likely they’re going to be upset at you for keeping it from them.
Colson: Tell them. You can handle more than you give yourself credit for.
Violet: Shouldn’t I wait to do it another day? Secret affairs aren’t exactly the kind of conversation you share over turkey and pumpkin pie.
Colson: Doesn’t matter what day of the year it is. Still going to knock them back a step.
Violet: Stop making good points.
Colson: Tell me how it goes once it’s done…
Violet: Might need you to ride through the kingdom to find and save me from my own mental captivity.
Colson: No tower is too tall for me, especially if you’re wearing those purple leggings I love so much.
Butterflies replace the spasms in my lower belly, and I reread the text over again, folding my lips into my mouth when I catch myself grinning. Thinking about when I taught him yoga makes my heart swoop and tingles to spread down my arms. The way he watched me, and that slice of time when he stood behind me?—
A bang sounds at the bathroom door, and I click out of message thread. Olive’s muffled voice comes through the door. “Please tell me you’re not taking a dookie. I don’t want you to open this door and blast me with the kind of aroma that will ruin my Thanksgiving appetite. I wore leggings for a reason, sister.”
I roll my eyes and open the door. “I didn’t take adookie,” I guarantee. She sniffs. Literallysniffsthe air. “Something is wrong with you.”
“I wouldn’t disagree with that.”
We both cackle and head down the hall toward the kitchen.
“Why were you in there for so long, anyway? Texting the hot guy you won’t tell me about?”
I pull her into a headlock. “How’d you know?” I reply, pretending that she hit the nail on the head when I have no business acting on it.
Colson, and those deep-sea eyes.
Colson, and those muscles that strained deliciously during our yoga session.
Colson, and his uncanny ability to make the stress fade to black.
My abdomen mimics the sensation of going high on a swing, swooping, and filling me with butterflies all over again.
Olive oos-and-ahs, clutching my forearm. “Show me a picture. I’m being deprived. No one at school is cute.”
“I have a hard time believing that. Boys are dumb, and you don’t need the distraction.”
“You have one tiny breakdown and then all of the sudden you’re not allowed to see pictures of hot guys,” she muttersunder her breath, pulling away from me, but we both know it wasn’t tiny.
In the dining room, Olive and I take seats on opposite sides of each other. Mom follows soon after. Then,hewalks in, settling at the head of the table like he has every other year.
Cheater, cheater, cheater, my mind blares like a blow horn.
My stomach cramps, and not for the first time today, I wonder if I’ll be able to get through dinner. One thing is for sure; Colson is right. I have to tell her. Mom, that is.
Mom brings her hands together, clasping them loosely. “All right. Who wants to go first?” Our annual tradition—all must share one thing they’re grateful for before we’re allowed to dig in and eat.
Olive pipes up, a satisfied smile on her face. “That’s easy. I’m grateful for dance. And the academy for accepting me into their program with a full scholarship.”
Pride fills my heart. With the way she commands the audience when she’s on a stage and the passion that translates in each movement, she’ll be expressing her gratitude for dancing for years to come.
