Page 68 of Catch the Sun

We keep moving, keep swaying. The song changes to something slower, a sleepy country song. She glances across the dance floor toward my table. “I didn’t mean to steal you from your date.”

“She’s not my date.”

“I don’t think she got that memo.”

“I think she’s got it now.”

Ella’s eyes lift to mine again. Tentative, unsure. Her hands are on my arms and my hands are on her hips, and she smells like citrus trees in the springtime. There’s a feeling in my chest. It’s the same feeling I had when I was in her bedroom that night, when she knelt between my legs and brushed careful fingers across my face, patching more than just a head wound.

On cue, her attention flicks to the butterfly bandage still taped to my temple. “How’s your head?”

“Healing.” My heart feels like it’s healing, too, but I don’t say that.

“I’m wearing a dress.” Ella scrunches up her nose like the notion is detestable, then chuckles under her breath. “I haven’t worn a dress in years.”

“I like it.” Smiling, I take a step back, pluck one of her hands from my arm, and motion to spin her. She’s caught off guard at first, stumbling in her peach heels, but she follows my lead and does a clunky pirouette before tumbling against my torso.

When she pushes herself up, her cheeks are flushed and a sheepish smile pulls. “Sorry. I told you I can’t dance.”

“It’s all about the rhythm and the glide,” I remind her.

“Right. Because that worked like a charm when it came to stone skipping.”

I twirl her again and it’s marginally more graceful. “You’ll get the hang of it.”

“Dancing or stone skipping?”

“Both.”

A slackening steals her shoulders and a lightness overrides the uncertainty inher eyes. She relaxes with a weighty exhale as my right hand laces with her left hand and we find a mutual rhythm. Ella glances down at our feet before peering back up at me, still clinging to that smile. “I look like a giant carrot,” she says.

“I like carrots.” I spin her and this time it’s effortless. “How’s the crayon doing?”

“Healthy and thriving.”

Spin.

“Have you been watering it?” I ask.

Twirl.

“Yes. I even moved it to my desk for prime sunlight.”

The song changes again. The music picks up with a livelier beat as “Gold” by The Ivy spills from two giant speakers propped on the stage. Our feet move faster. I spin her a few more times and watch as a sheen of sweat glistens on her hairline and multicolored strobes sprinkle gemstones in her eyes. Her hands are curled around my biceps again, this time with conviction. She’s looser, more comfortable. Our chests press together, and when our eyes meet through the flashing lights, I decide to dip her.

My hand snakes around her back as I latch onto her hand to hold her upright.

And when I dip her backward…she squeals.

It’s an organic burst of joy, her leg lifting, her hair coasting behind her in a mass of red ribbons. She squeezes my hand in a deathlike grip before I swing her back up and she spills forward, collapsing against me in a heap of laughter.

I’m grinning like I’m drunk on something. My lips are stretched wide, teeth flashing, cheeks aching. Both of my arms wrap around her and I hold her to me as we continue to dance.

“I can’t believe you didn’t drop me,” she says, hips swaying, legs in motion.

“Really? I thought you had more faith in my arms. You’re always looking at them.”

“Ugh.” She gouges her fingernails into said arms. “You’re imagining things. Your arms are uninspiring at best.”

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