Something in his voice makes pretending impossible.
“We used to date,” I say.
The words feel heavier than they should.
“How serious?” he asks after a moment.
“Too serious,” I admit.
“He’s been texting me since I moved back,” I continue more quietly.“I didn’t think he’d show up like that.”
“You don’t have to answer him,” Blake says immediately.
“I know.”
He hesitates.
“Did he treat you badly?”
The question is gentle enough that it almost surprises me.
“Yes,” I say softly.
Something shifts in his expression when I say that. It’s something steadier than anger, something protective without being overwhelming.
“You don’t have to deal with him alone,” he says.
“I know,” I repeat, and this time I mean it.
The music shifts into something brighter again, and Blake leans back slightly. It’s like he’s deliberately giving me space to move away from the moment instead of staying stuck inside it.
“Ok,” he says.
“Ok?”
“Yes.”
“That’s it? You’re not going to interrogate me?”
“Not unless you want me to.”
I laugh softly.
“No. I don’t.”
“Then we’re back to the part where I impress you with my excellent date-planning skills.”
“That’s your plan?”
“That’s always my plan.”
A few minutes later, he stands and holds out his hand.
“Come dance with me,” he suggests.
“There’s no dance floor.”
“There’s space.”
