Page 47 of Dropping the Ball

We dance a few steps. I know how to dance. Madisonlovesto dance, as in she was on the Hillview dance team. I wasn’t into it that way, but I do have a sense of rhythm, and Mom made us both go to cotillion and learn how to partner dance. Micah’s firm hold and easy movement means he probably did too.

“It looks like your uncle’s money extended to cotillion,” I say.

He draws back enough to smile down at me. “No, but I’ll take the compliment. I’m a natural.”

Natural. A good way to describe how this feels. Dancing with Micah in the middle of an industrial warehouse beneath a rebar skeleton . . . This is exactly the kind of spontaneous thing that makes me self-conscious, worried about who might walk in to see this weirdness, or hoping I smell okay, or anxious that I’m being too stiff.

Each time one of those concerns tries to materialize, it dissolves instead, like it can’t penetrate the bubble Micah and I have slow-danced into. All that exists here is the multisensory experience he promised. The warmth of his hand against my waist through my thin sweater. The light rasp of the calluses in the hand holding mine. The scent of his cologne. It’s different from high school and so light I can only smell it because we’re this close. Grapefruit, maybe? But then it also reminds me of skiing in the Alps last Christmas.

The music fills the space around us. How did he get it to sound so full? It’s pressing in on us, and somehow, by the chorus, we’ve drifted closer, our thighs brushing against each other as he moves us through gentle quarter turns every few beats.

I want to lean into it, rest my head against his chest, let my eyes close and all my other senses open more. I catch myself swaying toward him, the tiniest movement, too small for him to have noticed, but it’s a warning to my system. Time to bring my brain back online.

“This song is a throwback,” I say. “Been a minute since I heard it.”

Micah meets my eyes. “You don’t remember?”

“Remember what?”

“This was the theme for the senior prom?”

“Oh, that’s right.” I remember now sitting with my friends at a table, goofing off while the people who came with dates danced to it. “I’m surprised you remember.” I don’t add anything about how he hadn’t gone.

“Here’s something else I remember.” He lets go of my waist to slide his phone out, and I miss the warmth as soon as he does. The hand resting on his shoulder tightens, a spasm registering a protest of him letting go. I tense, hoping he doesn’t notice, but he does, giving my other hand, the one still wrapped in his, a light press.

The song stops but he doesn’t, keeping the gentle rhythm of our steps through a few silent seconds until a new song starts.

I recognize it after a few measures. “‘All of Me’?”

He only nods and keeps us dancing, and I listen to the lyrics. Why did he choose this one?

“Maybe don’t overthink it,” he says as it plays through the first chorus. “It’s a good song.”

Iamoverthinking. What does he mean, it’s something else he remembers? I force a slow breath in through my nose and loosen my shoulders.Let it go. Enjoy this.

I should be telling myself to step away, make a small joke, and move us onto business. But no.Enjoy this.That’s what my brainand about ninety-seven percent of all my other atoms say, so I obey.

Somewhere around the third verse, Micah’s hand on my waist moves, sliding toward my lower back, drawing me closer. I should overthink this too, but I can’t. My thoughts are a quiet hum, and if I had to give them words, all I could offer would be a soft sigh andyes. Just that.Yes.

“I couldn’t afford prom,” Micah says, “but if I’d been able to, I would have asked you.”

I take that in, not saying anything for a moment before I confess, “I would have said yes.”

He draws me even closer, and his breath stirs my hair, sending a shiver down my spine when he says, “This is the song I would have wanted to dance to with you.”

Unhnhnhn . . .

My brain makes that and several more wordless noises. Then I lean my head against his chest like I’ve been wanting to, and we dance through the final verse and chorus.

What are we doing? What am I doing? Why am I doing this?

Scratch that. I know the answer to that one. I’m doing this for seventeen-year-old Kaitlyn, who wanted this so badly.

Why does current me feel the same way? This makes no sense. I should step away, laugh it off, ask a question about the sculpture. Instead, I stay where I am, head resting against Micah, noticing every minute change of pressure in his fingertips against my back, tracking the rhythm of his heart, which I feel more than hear.

When the song ends, we both step back, my hand slowly trailing out of his. Our eyes catch, and neither of us says anything. I don’t know what he can read in my face, but in his, I see a smile in the crinkle at the corner of his eyes that doesn’t reach his lips, an ease in his body as he taps his phone to turn offthe music before he puts it in his pocket, a watchfulness in his eyes as he tries to read me.

I’m not one to rush into silences and fill them with chatter. If anything, I double down on the quiet. But this silence doesn’t feel awkward; it feels fraught, like it’s already full, but I’m not sure with what. It makes me uncomfortable, so I pivot to what I know.

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