Page 24 of Yes No Maybe

Stiffly, I lock my hands in their places and try to keep an acceptable distance. We’re like awkward cousins forced to dance at a wedding.

“This isn’t so bad,” he says, as if convincing himself. “This way, when you bail on this party, like you’ve wanted to do since you got here, you can honestly say that you were hereandyou danced, earning you a participation award from anyone who asks.”

Mira and Mom will.“How’d you know?”

“I’m a writer. I see people. You fiddling with your scarf is a dead giveaway for nerves.”

As he says it, it falls off my shoulders, tangling around our joined arms. I tug it back into place over my neck marks.

“I’m not nervous, just… new and alone,” I say.

“Where’s that elusive fiancé of yours?”

“Acting in Georgia until the end of August.”

His eyebrow cocks with a glance at my ringless left hand, fixed on his shoulder. Then, he surprises me with an unexpected twirl that swooshes the subject away but brings me closer, latching onto his neck and falling against his stony chest. He smells like cedar, cocoa butter, and bad ideas. And my head’s suddenly riddled with images of gladiators, knights, and even sexy elvish fighters, like Legolas fromThe Lord of the Rings.

His soft lips curve into a playful grin as he takes me in. I don’t know whether to be grateful for his company or more nervous. Dancing with a neighbor at an oyster roast is innocent enough, but I wonder,briefly, what Dean would think of me dancing with a neighbor likehim—the hot, rich playboy of The Pines. With the music, twinkling lights, and the amber flecks in his eyes, his dark eyes look like galaxies full of stars and questions, easy to get lost in, like the immersive experience at a planetarium.

He holds my gaze like he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “His loss,” he says. “Besides, you’re never alone on this street, even when you want to be.”

He nods to a nearby table where Rose and Vernon stare at us while nibbling chips like they’re watching a rom-com.

I laugh, shaking my head. “The worst spies. Do you think we’ll make the newsletter?”

“It’ll be their top story.”

“‘Beauty Befriends the Beast’?” I ask, looking snide because clearly, I’m the beast in this scenario.

His eyes narrow as if challenged. “Only if they want a lawsuit for calling me a beast. More like… ‘Lady Befriends Tramp and Tramp Removes Huge Chip from Shoulder’.”

“That may be a little long for a headline.”

With another spin, his grin deepens. “Not when it’s half-done with emojis.”

Laughter erupts, imagining Rose and Vernon coding out emojis on their newsletter template. Tension vanishes, too, as if laughing overrides nerves. Maybe he’s not so bad after all, and I’m guilty of the wrong first (second, and third) impressions.

His fingers walk across my back, inching me closer, like maybe he’s thinking the same thing. I stop worrying about keeping a safe distance and just hang on. The song’s pace quickens, and he leads us in a surprisingly poetic and strangely synchronized waltz,of sorts, toward the more official dance floor. My wrap escapes my neck again, sliding to our arms.

“You don’t need this.” A gentle tug on one end slides it off me, leaving me exposed. He tosses it to Rose, who catches it with a giddy scream like a band groupie.

Then, like he’s reading my mind, he says, “We’ve all seen your scars. No one cares.”

I’m about to argue, but he quickly says, “You aren’t hard to look at, you know. Not even a little. When you’re not pissed at me, you’re damn lovely. But truthfully, if you’re worried about it, hiding them makes it more obvious.”

I only gawk.Lovelyis an adjective never used for me, and certainly not by someone like him. Not justlovely.Damn lovely.Did showing up at this party pull me into an alternate universe? Is this a portal story?The Upside Down?

My stunned expression makes him curious. “What? Are we not allowed to talk about it? Mom explained where I went wrong with my apology, but should I consult her again about being too direct?”

“Um, no,” I say with a small laugh. “I’m okay with directness. I prefer it, actually. But most people don’t talk about it. It makes them uncomfortable. Covering up minimizes the attention, usually.”

“You should own that shit.” He twirls me around again. “I love a song that tells a story.”

The subject change and twirling make me dizzy. But weirdly, I like it. “A sad story. Is it better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? I wonder.”

“Well, Tennyson votes yes. But I say it’s better to love and not lose.”

“If only.”

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