The DJ shifts to a slower song, something vintage and crooning, and couples start pairing off on the dance floor.
Jake extends his hand. “Dance with me?”
I don’t hesitate. I set down my drink and take his hand.
He leads me onto the floor, one handsettling on my waist, the other holding mine. We sway together, and I’m acutely aware of how close we are. How good he smells. How his thumb is tracing small circles on my lower back.
“This is nice,” he says quietly.
“Yeah. It is.”
“I like seeing you like this. Happy. Carefree.”
“I can be fun, you know.”
“I’m learning that.” His eyes catch mine, and there’s something playful there. “You’re full of surprises, Natalie Cruz.”
“Good surprises?”
“The best kind.”
We spin slowly, the fog swirling around our feet, lights twinkling overhead. For a moment, it feels like we’re the only two people here. Like this is exactly where we’re supposed to be.
“Thank you,” I say.
“For what?”
“For this. For the costume. For making tonight fun.”
His hand tightens slightly on my waist. “Anytime.”
The song continues, and we keep swaying. I let my head rest against his chest for just a second. I can hear his heartbeat, steady and strong, and something in me settles.
This feels right. I tilt my head up to look at him, and he’s already watching me, his expression soft. I don’t pull away. Don’t make a joke or put up a wall. I just stay here, in his arms, swaying to the music, letting myself feel this. He smiles, and it’s the kind of smile that makes me think maybe, just maybe, I could let myself fall.
“I’m really glad you came tonight,” he says.
“Me too.”
eighteen
. . .
Jake
We’re lyingin her bed, the sheets tangled around us, her body warm and relaxed against mine. It’s been like this since Halloween, since that night on the dance floor when I felt something shift between us. I tried to give her space after that, convinced myself I could be patient, wait for her to come to me.
I lasted three days.
Three days before I showed up at her door with more takeout and a flimsy excuse about needing to discuss baby prep. She’d seen right through it, but I know the way to a pregnant woman’s heart—it’s carbs—and she’d let me in anyway. Now we’ve fallen into this routine of dinners together, falling into bed, pretending we’re still just co-parenting.
But I’m pretty sure I’m not pretending anymore.
The room is quiet the way it only gets after dark, soft shadows across her purple walls, her hair fanned across my chest like she always meant to fall asleep there. My hand traces slow patternson her hip, and I’m rehearsing something in my head for the fiftieth time, trying to figure out how to ask without spooking her.
“So,” I say, keeping my voice casual. “Thanksgiving is next week.”
She hums, half-asleep. “Mmm.”
