He rolls his eyes. “I’m emo foroneyear—”
“Two,” I interject.
“Two years of eyeliner and fake nail polish and no one lets me forget it.” He tries to hide his smile, but it hits like a drug. I’ve been in withdrawal this whole time. No wonder everything hurts.
He studies me with guarded eyes, his jaw working. “You look—” He cuts himself off.Pain on top of pain.He tries again. “You look beautiful. How’ve you been?” He frowns like he wants to take back his words, snatch them out of the air and stuff them deep in his pockets.
“Oh, you know…” Tears are imminent. It’s been a hundred years since someone asked me that question and meant it. How boring for me to cry right now. I was crying the last time I saw him. I don’t want him to think it’s all I do. “I’m good, I think? New York is not what I thought it would be, but most things aren’t.”
Except you, I think with a dull ache.You are so much more than I thought you’d be.
He’s leaning toward me, his elbows resting on his knees,and I’m close enough to see the wince when I mention New York.
“How areyou?” I ask, too earnest by half.
He leans back, looking mildly alarmed by the question. “I’m really good. Happy for Amber and Patrick. They’re great together.” He motions toward the dance floor, and I can feel his attention slipping away. The pressure that’s been building in my chest reaches a breaking point.
“Dance with me?”
A host of emotions play out on West’s face, and I recognize them all. Hesitation. Fear. Desire. “Mars—” he says in a measured voice.
“One song.”
“Dance with her, man!” urges a vaguely familiar voice to my left. I don’t turn to see who it is. I’m afraid that if I look away, the moment will dissolve entirely.
We walk toward the dance floor, side by side but not touching, as “YMCA” starts playing. West raises one singular, judgmental eyebrow.
“Maybe we wait for the next song,” I say.
He backs slowly onto the dance floor. “You said one song.”
“I didn’t mean this one!” I protest while he lifts his arms in a Y shape.
He has the audacity to laugh, his eyes lighting with amusement. “Sorry, Jupiter, not my problem.”
It’s the nickname that kills me. That’s all it takes, and my feet are moving in his direction, accepting the excuse to be in his orbit for a little while longer. Amber sees us and shrieks with excitement, joining us for thirty seconds as we scream-sing and jump and dance before she moves on to another group, but we keep dancing, our arms flailing wildly. It’s thesilliest and happiest I’ve felt in recent memory, and when the song fades and transitions into something slower, I can’t help but feel disappointed that it’s over. Without meeting West’s eyes, I turn to leave.
He catches me by the elbow. “One more?” This time, I don’t recognize any of the emotions on his face. His eyes are serious, but his voice is casual, like he’s entirely unaffected by his skin on mine.
“Okay.” My pulse trips over itself as his fingers slide from my elbow to my hand, my skin burning with awareness. He pulls me in to him, his other hand settling lightly on my waist. I touch his shoulder like we’re at a seventh-grade dance, but he inches me closer until you can no longer fit anOxford English Dictionarybetween us.
I am breathless. Sweaty. Questioning all my life choices. West’s eyes are on something or someone I can’t see, his face giving away nothing. “Am I really the only one who’s dying right now?” I exhale, immediately showing all my cards. I spent three years secretly in love with him, but I can’t keep my cool for the length of one dance.
He sighs and looks down at me, heat kindling in his eyes. “I’m always dying when I’m with you, Mars.”
A hot shiver rattles down my spine. We stare at each other about a dozen beats too long. It’s wonderfully unbearable. Strangers don’t make eye contact in New York, and everyone in New York is a stranger to me. But doing this with him feels like the most obvious thing in the world. When West is in the room, why would I look at anything else?
He looks away, the tension intolerable.
“How’s your family?”
“We’re holding it together,” he says, and I worry that meanshe’sholding it together for them.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Please don’t,” he says tightly.
“It never should have ended like that.”
