I could dance with someone who wasn’t him.
“Sure,” I said, sliding off the stool. “Why not.”
Nate’s palm was solid and a little rough as he led me toward the dance floor, weaving through tables and groups. The band shifted into something mid-tempo and swaying, couples already moving in that small-town way where everyone instinctively knew the steps, even if there weren’t any.
He settled one hand at my waist, took my other in his, and started to move.
Technically, there was nothing wrong with it.
His hold was polite. Appropriate. Not too close, not too far. He smelled like bourbon and store-bought cologne, the kind that came in a gift set with a matching bodywash. His rhythm was decent.
It did absolutely nothing to me.
My body swayed because the music told it to. My feet moved because muscle memory kicked in. My mind, unfortunately, had no interest in staying here.
It slipped sideways, back to how it felt to dance with Wes in his quiet living room.
Nate’s thumb brushed a vague pattern at the small of my back.
Wes’s thumb had dragged slow and possessive along the waistband of my jeans, like he wanted to memorize every inch of skin between layers, like he wanted me closer even when there was no space left.
Nate’s chest bumped mine lightly with each step, solid but forgettable.
Wes’s chest had been a wall, heat and muscle and that familiar broadness I’d known for years compressed into a new, devastating arrangement. He had held me like he didn’t want a single millimeter of distance. Like space between us was an insult.
“Am I stepping on you?” Nate asked, leaning in a little to be heard.
“Um.” I blinked up at him. “No, sorry. You’re good. I’m ... a little out of practice.”
He smiled, easy and kind. “You’re doing fine.”
Fine.
Wes hadn’t made me feel fine.
Wes had swayed with me like I was the only thing in the world that made sense for a stolen handful of seconds. Like he’d forgotten about his leg, his fear, and the storm in his own head.
My throat tightened.
Nate twirled me lazily, one hand still in mine. I went with it, letting my body spin, letting my hair fan out, letting the room blur into fairy lights and faces. When I settled back into his frame, the contact felt ... muted. Like turning down the volume on a song that should have been loud.
Somewhere near our table, Kit whooped, the sound bright and piercing through the din. She laughed, head tipped back, all teeth and reckless joy.
I wished I could drag my feelings into that brightness and leave them there.
Nate swayed to the music. “You’re from here, right?”
“Kind of.” I shrugged. “I grew up here, then left. Came back with my tail between my legs.”
He chuckled. “Sounds like there’s a story there.”
A humorless laugh escaped my nose. “You have no idea,” I muttered.
His hand pressed a little firmer at my waist. “Well, for what it’s worth, you look like you belong here.”
The words were nice. He was nice. The music was good, the bar was warm, the town was exactly itself.
My heart was such a traitor.
