Page 49 of How Sweet It Is

LEVI BARRETT — SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 12

Iclimb on my motorcycle and stare at the pavement as if it would give me some answers. What just happened? She kissed me back. I know she did. That wasnota one-sided kiss. So why do I feel like a fool?

My heart hammers as I slide my helmet on. I’ve kissed a lot of girls. I’ve walked away from every one of them without a second thought. But this was different. Amelia’s different. I thought she cared as much as I did.

I obviously thought wrong.

I kick-start my engine. It growls to life beneath me, loud and angry, like it’s feeling everything I don’t want to say out loud. I don’t know where I’m going. I just need to move. I need the speed of my motorcycle to outrun this crushing feeling in my chest.

I find myself on the bridge to the mainland. It stretches out before me like a lifeline, long and empty. There’s no traffic, which is good. I’d just be tempted to speed around the cars holding me back. I twist the throttle harder than I should. Windtears at my jacket, my skin, my thoughts, whisking them away in the night air.

Wind punches into my chest and strips the breath from my lungs, but I keep going. Faster. Harder. Like I can outrun the weight pressing down on me. The numbness I’ve been trying to shake since she turned our kiss into a joke.

That kiss.

By the time I roll off the bridge, I’m not thinking anymore. Just moving. Letting muscle memory guide me past strip malls and fast-food signs, past places I’ve never really cared about. As I slow, I find myself at the dance studio on the corner, lit up and alive. The windows glow warm and golden, music coming faintly through the glass.

I stop without thinking and go inside. I shed my jacket and scan the dance floor. Several couples are gliding across the polished wood. A group of women are hanging out by the speakers, and I recognize them immediately—the regulars. They’re all in their fifties and sixties, and we have an understanding. I flirt with them, they get to feel young again, and I get to dance all night.

I don’t even make it to the back wall before I’m swept into a dance by Beverly. She’s in her mid-sixties with eyes like firecrackers. She calls me “sugar” and winks every time we spin. This continues as I dance with Janice then Ruth. Then Sandy with the leopard-print scarf and a raspy laugh that gives away her smoking habit.

I smile. I dance. I charm.

And the whole time, I’m lying to myself.

Because every song, every step, every time someone’s hand finds mine, it’s notthemI’m feeling. It’s her.

It’s Amelia’s fingers curling into my shirt. Amelia’s laugh, all breathless and surprised as I spun her around her apartment. Amelia’s lips on mine, turning my whole stupid world sideways.

I came to forget her. Move my body, lose myself in the music. That’s the way it’s always worked before. But not tonight. Amelia is everywhere I turn.

The song ends. The regulars clap. Someone squeezes my arm and asks if I’ll stay for the next one.

I smile and say yes because I don’t know where else to go.

I stay at the studio until it closes at eleven thirty that evening. My eyes are blurry as I go home, the speed doing nothing for me. I can’t get that kiss out of my head no matter what I do.

It’s almost midnight by the time I park the bike in front of my building. The last swing tune is still ringing in my ears, like it’s trying to be cheerful for both of us. I’m tired—bone-deep, soul-worn tired—and it’s got nothing to do with the dancing.

I dismount, already regretting my life choices. I’ve got four hours before I need to be up kneading dough and prepping trays. Brilliant plan, Levi. Real solid coping skills. Irritated, I kick a rock, and it flies into a window, clinking against the dark glass. I cringe, hoping I didn’t wake anyone up.

I take the stairs two at a time, half out of spite. I don’t need Amelia in my head. Don’t need to remember the way she kissed me like she meant it, right before laughing it off like it was some kind of joke.

I reach the landing and freeze. There’s a light on inside my apartment. My stomach drops.

I didn’t leave any lights on. Every muscle in my body tenses. I check my door, and it’s unlocked. Someone’s in my house. What do I do? I grab the neighbor’s flowerpot and twist the knob, my heart kicking into gear again like it’s still stuck in overdrive from the bridge.

I push the door open, ready for… what, exactly? I don’t know. A burglar? A squatter? I raise the pot above my head and enter.

Then I see a duffel bag by the couch, shoes kicked off near the door, and a Micah-sized lump under the blanket on the couch.

Right. I told Micah he could crash at my apartment.

Micah’s eyes fly open, and he screams, startling me. I step backward and trip over his shoes, the flowerpot flying. Dirt and flower petals rain down on me as the pot crashes to the tile entryway and cracks into a zillion pieces.

“Sheesh, Micah,” I say, pressing a hand to my chest like that’ll get my heart to stop racing.

Micah blinks at me. “I opened my eyes and you’re standing over me with a flowerpot like you’re about to murder me. What was I supposed to do?”

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