Page 51 of Nobody in Particular

Then, finally, she breathes out and presses her lips against mine again.

And I’m done for.

TWENTY-ONEDANNI

I’m shocked by how quickly Rose and I settle into something called “us.”

Obviously, there are rules to “us.” Rule one, no one can know about us. That’s easy enough, because I’m only out to Rachel, and Rose is only out to her parents, so it’s not like either of us are exactly racing to announce we’re together. There’s alittleweirdness there on my end because the media—and half the people we know—still seem convinced Rose and Alfie are a thing, but Rose insists that there’s never been anything there with Alfie past the one kiss, and I believe her. I just wish the rest of the world knew that.

Rule number two, which sort of ties into rule one, is that we more or less act the same around each other as we did right before our first kiss. That means I hang out with Molly, and Rose with Eleanor. During the days, anyway. Rose points out that it’ll be easier for us to hide that there’s “something between us”—her words for “I don’t really know what we are, but we sure as hell aren’t platonic”—if there aren’t too many eyes on us.

Rose is not wrong. If I’m even in the same room as her, I find it hard to wrench my eyes away. Whenever she’s close enough to touch, but I can’t reach out and brush her hand, or her shoulder, or herperfect,perfectcollarbone, I find it hard to form a coherent thought. I don’t think I have it in me to be subtle.

To be fair, I can’t help it if nothing else in the room is ever as interesting to look at as she is.

Rule number three is, every door is always locked. And if a door can’t be locked, we don’t risk it.

Or at least, that’s what I thought rule number three was. Except right now, I’m in the ballroom practicing piano, and Rose has abandoned her makeshift homework station to hover very,veryclosely behind me. I ignore her until she sweeps my hair to one side and kisses the exposed skin where the base of my neck meets the top of my spine.

Jesus Christ.

Obviously, I can’t be expected to focus on piano under these conditions, and I let my hands fall into my lap as I swing around.

“Rose,” I say, and she gives me an innocent look.

“Yes?”

“We’re in a public place.”

She steps closer to me, placing a leg on either side of my knees, letting her long waves hang around my face. It takes superhuman strength for me not to hook my hands around the back of her thighs and pull her down to me. “We’re in a room with the curtains drawn and the door closed,” she says.

Luckily, I do have superhuman strength, but it’s being tested. I wriggle backward with a pointed look. “A door that could be opened any second.”

“It’s heavy. We’d have warning.”

“Not enough warning for you to climb off my lap and make it back to your own seat.”

“Is that an invitation?” Rose asks with a mischievous grin, and I swivel back to face the piano before I break and decide to risk it.

With a dramatic sigh, Rose stomps back to her textbooks. She studies a whole bunch of languages—at the moment, she’s focusing on Italian and Mandarin—and her tutors bury her in exercises for them pretty much every day. And, given I practice piano just aboutthat often, Rose figured we could do those things together up here and snatch some extra time together. She insists the piano doesn’t make it hard for her to concentrate, and so far she hasn’t complained, so it’s part of our new routine now.

Honestly, these late-night hangouts are my favorite things in the world. Rose dresses down for them in a way I never used to see, in yoga pants and oversized sweaters and even the odd pair of sweatpants. And even though I’m pretty sure they cost more than the most expensive thing in my whole wardrobe, there’s something sonormalfeeling about it. Like we’re an old married couple doing our chores in the living room after a long day.

Usually, we stop by my room afterward to hang out for a little while before bed.Usually,Rose can wait. But usually, we’re out of here by this time of night.

“I’ll finish soon,” I tell her, and she brightens right up. “Just let me play this through from the top, okay?”

“Okay, sure.”

I go to play the same tune I’ve been working on for the last half hour, but I think Rose’s restlessness rubs off on me, because suddenly the thought of hearing that one more time—and stumbling over the second half yet again—makes me want to snap my fingertips off.

So, instead, I wrap things up by playing an old faithful, a song my fingers know better than my mind does. Maybe a part of me wants to show off for Rose, the way she showed off when she took me skating. And so what if I do? I want her to be impressed by me. I want her to admire me.

I don’t think I’ve wrapped my head around the outlandish fact that shelikes mejust yet.

All those feelings, the excitement and the awe and the hope, come out easily through this song. I don’t miss a single note of it—I haven’t in years—but it’s hands down the most I’ve ever enjoyed the tune. It used to be pensive and pretty. Now, it’s a song about falling hard for someone you used to think would never see you as anything but a friend. The tempo’s faster now, and it swells where it used to pull back, and I even bring the melody up an octave for part of it.

I’m having fun, and when I finish, I’m proud and satisfied. At least, until I look around to find Rose holding her phone up and filming me. “That was amazing,” she says.

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