Page 102 of Over the Edge

We’ve experienced so many shades of this before, even when we weren’t together. The first time was at a sophomore year bonfire. We’d driven out of the city with a group of people Quinn and I knew from our major, and Oliver tagged along like healways did. Two beers and mystery shots later I was insistent on teaching someone to waltz.

“I’m sorry, but I have no need for ballroom lessons, I don’t intend on having to go through archaic courting rituals,” Quinn said from her place on her log-turned-bench.

“You’re right. I much prefer our modern ones that involve watching potential love interests slam cheap shots as proof of their courage,” I said, recalling an event from a few weekends ago when a guy misinterpreted Quinn’s indifference as a drinking challenge.

Quinn mulled this over a bit. “I could settle for something arranged and loveless with a few affairs.” She’d been making light of her own parents’ constant cycle of infidelity. That night was before their long-awaited divorce.

Oliver walked over with a fresh drink and his permanently bashful smile. “Why is Quinn considering marriage? Has something changed since she rambled on about how she would be a child bride last week to her mom.”

“She doesn’t want me to teach her how to waltz,” I explained.

“As usual, a perfect line of logic.” He nodded then handed his neon plastic cup to Quinn. “I’ve always wanted to learn. I guess now's the perfect chance.”

I always liked how serious he was about all of it. Nothing was stupid if it was something one of us cared about. Really, I only kind of knew how to waltz, but I had gotten so swept up in the idea of it I couldn’t back down.

Oliver and I arranged ourselves with one of my hands on his shoulder, one of his on my mid back, and the others linked.

“It’s a box step. Start with your left,” I said as he moved toward me. I’d continued to give my instructions until we were tilted away from Quinn. “Thank you for playing along.”

“I just like dancing.”

“You’re good at it.”

“I’ll tell my ballroom teacher that,” he said, then his eyes crinkled. “I have three sisters who took lessons, and I wanted to know what it was all about.”

“You already know how to waltz,” I concluded.

“I was in need of a refresher.”

There were times at friends' weddings and bars when he wanted to pull me close and rock back and forth, even as the music urged us to flail and bounce. I’ve missed it, but not because I’ve missed him.

I’m flung back into the moment as Oliver briskly maneuvers us from getting hit by overly enthusiastic swing dancers.

“You’re still so good at this,” I say.

“I’m a bit out of practice, so I’m happy this is passable.”

“Does Quinn still threaten arranged marriage as a way to get out of it?” I ask.

“We don’t dance,” he says and his features shadow into something unreadable then quickly bounce back. “But she is still a fan of the arranged marriage bit. Not great for my ego.”

“You two make sense together.” I swallow and keep going. “Like a boat and an anchor.”

“Going out on a limb and assuming I’m the boat here,” he says, flashing me a timid smile.

“A very handsome boat named after someone’s twenty-year-old mistress.”

He nods. “As the best kinds are.”

“And Quinn is a very sturdy anchor,” I say. “The kind you can rely on in a storm.”

Growing up I wasn’t good at making friends, I was loud and didn’t understand how to reel myself in. But I had Drew and he was my best friend, until he was in Fool’s Gambit. I wasn’t close to my parents in the same way some people are, because they were always worried about what I’d do. Then there were the small things. I couldn’t connect with my quiet father or cook likeDrew did with Mom. Even with Avery I’ve been in the backseat because Wes will always be her person on a level I can’t fully grasp. I didn’t fit anywhere until I met Quinn and Oliver. Fitting with them made me more aware of the loneliness that came before, but I was sure it was over. And I really had started to think I might have a place with Garrett.

Oliver spins me around, the move requiring me to concentrate to keep my balance. He pulls me back in then stops short on the next step.

“Can I cut in?” The low voice is cold but it invites me in like the urge to crunch through fresh snow.

“Of course.” Oliver's hands leave my body, but I don’t feel bereft without them. At some point they just turned into hands and not the tactile things I constantly wanted pressed against me. “If you need a waltz instructor, she’s great.”

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