He’s ridiculously handsome—in the sort of way that it simply can’t be possible for genetics to create something of such grandeur. Merit and Crew look like they belong in some Dolce & Gabbana ad, on a yacht, bobbing along the coastline of Capri. Clothing optional.
I wipe my palm on my dress, then shake his hand. “Staten. It’s nice to meet you too.”
The largest guy in the group—who flaunts enough bulk to make Knox look tiny in comparison—whistles enthusiastically. He’s got this grizzly bear look to him that’s all luscious hair and a soft belly. “Oh, he talks a lot about you.”
Knox elbows his friend in the gut, mouth sewn into a thin line. “I might’ve mentioned you once.”
“Don’t lie to the girl,” another teammate of his chimes in, leaner in physique with a bone structure characteristic of Chinese nationality.
He looks familiar. Do I have a class with him?
His black-currant hair stands stark against the pallor of his skin, and there’s this glimmer of mischief in his eyes that he must carry with him on every occasion. “You should’ve seen him, Staten. He was always off his game when your name came up at practice. Even got the poor guy in his feelings during our Dusky’s outing.”
I…I’ve been on his mind? No, that has to be wrong. I’m so inconsequential compared to Knox. None of this makes any sense. It’s like the Riemann Hypothesis. It’s simplynotpossible.
Knox, who’s turned a lovely shade of red, speeds things up by introducing the rest of his friends—the brunet with floppy hair is Harlan, the olive-skinned, amateur bodybuilder is Axel, and the fiery redhead is Irelyn.
Everyone seems really sweet, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me miss my old friend group. Which, by the way, can never go back to the way it was because I had to take my wounded pride and burn down the integral bridge between me and Leif.
It's a miracle I can hear any of Knox’s friends considering the bass in the next room is working to dislodge my brain from my skull. However, Merit squeals and tugs Crew in the direction of the dance floor.
“Let’s go dance!” she screams, already maneuvering her way through the traffic of bodies that have doubled since our arrival. She threads the needle with recklessness, and like a conga line, the rest of Knox’s teammates trail after them.
Knox and I are left behind in the dust, my pulse jittering, and I’m unsure if I’m confident enough in my dancing ability tonot trip over my own feet. The last thing I want to do is embarrass myself, and I have a pretty astounding track record when it comes to physical comedy.
I’m expecting Knox to shun the idea of dancing as much as me, but giddiness paints his tone.
“Wanna dance?” he propositions, a sexy-as-hell smirk gracing his lips.
Curiosity duels with the dance-related anxiety in my belly, butterflies knocking around like an unpredictable spray of billiard balls hit by a clumsy pool cue. “You can dance?”
“Don’t sound so surprised. I rocked the Mustangs’ fundraiser auction last semester.”
“Please tell me you kept your clothes on.”
“I did not.”
“Jesus. Will you at least keep your clothes on this time?”
“Only if you ask nicely.”
I realize now that it’ll be hard to change Knox’s mind. Dancing is…I’m not rhythmically gifted. My spatial awareness is iffy at best, the counts always mess me up, and I don’t think I could memorize choreography if my life depended on it. I’m not someone who can just go with the flow. Everything needs to be perfect, and if I can’t get things on the first go, I don’t want to waste my time trying. I mean, who dances, anyways? It’s not the 1920s anymore.
I don’t want to hurt Knox’s feelings, but there’s no universe in which Staten Renault dances without insulting her entire bloodline. “Knox, I don’t know abo?—”
My grievance decays in the air when he grabs my arm and tugs me toward social doom. “Just for a little bit. Please? I’ll do all the heavy lifting. You just have to follow my lead.”
My thoughts don’t even have time to regroup before I’m thrown onto the dance floor and squished by bodies all around me, leaving little legroom for me to move without getting an elbow to the neck.
Then the catchy, earworm pop music plateaus, quickly followed by a slow song that has half the attendees booing under their breath and evacuating the immediate premises.
Once I feel like I can breathe again, Knox takes my hand and brings me into his body, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, leading me with a reliability that I never knew he was capable of. I lean my ear against his chest as we shuffle around in a circle—lulled into a slow tempo by the acoustics of a string guitar—and the fact that I can hear the steady hum of his heart influences mine to take a beat.
He's always so warm, and he always smells so good. Getting to see this side of him—it makes me realize that there’s still so much I don’t know about him.
There’s no awkward flailing of limbs or half-mumbled apologies. We work as one oiled machine, calling on a muscle memory that must extend centuries back when, perhaps, our ancestors danced in a similar fashion.
For the first time all night, there’s a calmness that’s bone-deep, carved from Knox’s own subconscious and given to me so the terrible voices in my head can finally rest. I don’t want to stop dancing. I don’t want the rest of the world to catch up to us.
