“Completely.” His green eyes hold mine, steady and warm. “I want to learn about the things you care about, Ryan. I want tounderstand what makes you light up, talking about sunlight bending through the atmosphere.”
“I’d like that,” I manage. “Teaching you, I mean, about the eclipse.”
“Then it’s a date.” Oliver’s smile is softer than I’ve ever seen it. “An astronomical date. The nerdiest date in the history of dates.”
“I think the nerdiest date would involve a planetarium.”
“Don’t give me ideas. I’d love to see you get excited about star projections.”
The band shifts into another song, and the dance floor slows as couples draw closer together. The melody drifts over us, sweet and yearning, and Oliver’s thigh presses more firmly against mine under the table.
Whatever this is blossoming between us—friendship, something more, something I’m too terrified to name—it’s happening. And I’m leaning in.
20
OLIVER
Before I can think too much about how I called a night staring at a lunar eclipse with Ryan a date, the opening notes of “Twistin’ the Night Away” hit, and Gerard loses his mind.
“THIS IS MY SONG!” he bellows, launching himself out of the booth with the grace of a caffeinated giraffe. His leather pants stretch ominously as he grabs Elliot’s arm and hauls him toward the dance floor. “Everybody up now! This isnota drill!”
“Gerard, my food—” Nathan protests, but it’s too late. Gerard has already circled back to physically drag him from his seat, abandoning the half-eaten protein mountain without remorse.
“Burgers can wait! Sam Cooke cannot!”
The band is nailing it—the lead singer has that smooth, soulful quality that makes you believe he was born in the wrong decade. His voice slides through the opening verse, painting pictures of people dancing and having fun.
Drew and Jackson are already on their feet, Jackson’s hand finding the small of Drew’s back as they navigate toward the checkered floor. Kyle stands, knowing resistance isfutile, and extends a hand to Alex. Which leaves Ryan and me alone in the booth, surrounded by abandoned plates and half-empty glasses.
The music swells. On the dance floor, Gerard is attempting moves that should be impossible to master in those pants. Drew spins Jackson under his arm. Alex bobs awkwardly but enthusiastically near the edge of the crowd, with Kyle offering a simple two-step.
Ryan’s eyes are fixed on the scene, wistfulness flickering across his features.
“Hey.” I slide out of the booth and offer him my hand. “Dance with me?”
He looks at my outstretched palm like it might bite him. “Oliver, I don’t—I’m not really a dancer.”
“Neither is Nathan, and look at him go.”
We both glance at Nathan, who has somehow gotten his arms tangled with a stranger’s and is apologizing profusely while still attempting to move to the beat.
“That’s not the selling point you think it is,” Ryan says, but his lips twitch.
“Come on.” I wiggle my fingers. “It’s Sam Cooke. It’s a fifties diner. When are you ever going to get another chance like this?”
Ryan hesitates. I can see the war happening behind his eyes. The part of him that wants to retreat is battling against the part that showed up tonight, that got in the pool, that’s been slowly, carefully opening up.
“I’ll probably step on your feet,” he warns.
“I’ve taken slap shots to the shins. I think I can handle it.”
The singer croons about leaning up and leaning back, and the crowd on the dance floor follows his instructions with varying degrees of success.
Ryan’s hand slides into mine. His palm is warm, slightly sweaty with nerves, and the contact sends a jolt through my entire arm. I pull him gently from the booth, guiding him toward the dance floor with what I hope is reassuring confidence.
“Just follow my lead,” I tell him as we find aspot near the others. “And remember—this is supposed to be fun. No grades, no judgment, no performance anxiety.”
“Easy for you to say. You probably dance like you do everything else.”
