Page 25 of The Seven Year Slip

I said, my eyes trained on the ceiling, “My aunt starred in that musical, you know.”

“Really? So she’s famous?”

“No, it was the only Broadway show she ever did. Everyone said it was because she was too full of herself to follow Bette Midler or Bernadette Peters. Such a promising young talent, after years of being an understudy, just suddenly abandoning her art? They didn’t understand her,” I added, a little softer, a little gentler, because my aunt was a lot of things—loving and adventurous, but also messy and human. Something I never really recognized until the very end.

The soft and warm notes from the violin upstairs sank through the ceiling, a love song. I’d seen grainy videos on YouTube of my aunt in the show. She was brilliant, and infectious, in her glittery robes and extravagant jewels, belting refrains with her entire soul. It was the only time I’d ever seen her really—impossibly—happy.

“The truth is,” I went on, and I wasn’t sure if it was the wine that made me want to talk about her, or the way Iwan listened—closely and preciously, as if my aunt had mattered to more than justme, “she was always afraid that whatever came afterThe Heart Matteredwouldn’t be as good. So she did something new instead. I envy that. My entire life I wanted to be like her, but I’m not. I hate new things. I like repetition.”

“Why?”

I turned my gaze back to him, studying this stranger I shouldn’t have let stay in my aunt’s apartment, and all of his questions. “New things are scary.”

“They don’t have to be.”

“How are they not?”

“Because some of my favorite things I haven’t even done yet.”

“Then how do you know they’re your favorite?”

In reply, he stood from the table and offered me his hand.

I stared at it.

“It’s not a trap, Lemon,” he said softly, his Southern lilt a rumble.

I looked at his outstretched hand, and then at him, and the realization dawned on me. I shook my head. “Oh, no. I know what you’re doing. I don’t dance.”

He began to sway back and forth to the violin and hum the chorus.For a moment the heart mattered, for a moment time stood still.My aunt had sang it sometimes as she folded her laundry or curled her hair, and the memory was so raw it stung.

“When was the last time you did something for the first time?” he asked, as if daring me. And if there was one thing I was more than a practical pessimist, it was someone who never backed away from a challenge.

I resisted. “I assure you I’ve danced before.”

“But not with me.”

No.

And—despite his insistence—thiswasfrightening, but notbecause it was new or spontaneous. It was frightening because Iwantedto, and the Wests never did spontaneous things. That was my aunt. And yet... here I was, reaching up to take his hand.

It was because of the wine. It had to be.

A smile curled across his lips as he laced his fingers through mine and pulled me to my feet. His grip was strong, his fingertips calloused, as he spun me in the kitchen. I stumbled a little—dancing wasn’t my strongest suit—but he didn’t seem to mind. We found a rhythm, one of his hands holding mine, the other coming to rest at my lower back. His soft touch made me gasp involuntarily.

He quickly took his hand away. “Sorry, is that too low?”

Yes. And this is too much. I don’t dance in kitchens with strangers, I wanted to say, all of the excuses building in my throat, but at the same time I just wanted to becloser, too. He was so warm, and his touch so light and tender, that it made me want him to hold on tighter, steady and sure like he held his knives.

This wasn’t like me. And yet...

I returned his hand to my lower back, to his surprise, and trained my gaze on his chin instead of his eyes, trying to keep the flush out of my cheeks. But that only meant I could still see the crooked grin that spread across his lips, and as he pulled me closer to him, our bodies pressed together, my skin felt electric. He was solid and warm, and the music was yearning, and my heart hammered brightly in my chest.

We swayed in my aunt’s cluttered teal kitchen to a song about heartache and happy endings, and it was so tempting to just let myself unravel. For the first time in what felt like forever.

“See?” he whispered, his mouth against my ear. “Something new isn’t always so bad.”

The last violin note sang through the vents, and the momentended. I came back to myself with sudden, crashing certainty. No matter how I thought about it, this couldn’t—wouldn’t—end well.

---