Page 38 of The Breaking Pointe
He’s opening another bottle of wine, eager to pour me a fresh glass, while also replenishing his beer.I’m already guilty of drinking most of the previous one. He’s being too nice now, and this wine is different.Something with a maple leaf.
“Oh, I’m not that alone. I got Bonnie.” He chuckles softly, holding the bottle and beer in one arm and picking up my glass with his free hand.
“Haha,” I say sarcastically, smiling.“You know what I mean, though…”
He bounces his shoulders, approaching me as he sits next to me.
He sets my glass between us on the windowsill.“I do. Trust me, I’m not your happiest camper,” he says, cracking open the fresh beer.
“What’s that?”I pry, scooting a bit closer to him as I point to the bottle.
“It’s called ‘Chateau La Mission Haut Brion’,” he answers. So, it’s French.Time to embarrass myself even more.
“I got it in Canada a few months ago,” he adds, averting his eyes from me.
“Canada.”I grin, nodding.“So, it’s French?”I ask, needing to confirm that I’m not a dummy.
Henods.“Yougetit.”IthinkIgetit?
“You’re really generous for sharing it.Are you sure it’s fine?”I ask, feeling like any second he’ll change his mind.
“It’s fine, sweetheart. I brought it out for you. I’d never endupdrinkingitonmyowntime.Ilovemybeer.”Hetakes
another gulp fromhis can.
I do get it. You’re unreasonably cultured, hot, and you call me sweetheart.
“So, y’know, I feel like I should apologize for imposing. It doesn’t seem like the storm is gonna get any better,” I shamefully say, looking out the window.
“I can get you a ride? Am I making you uncomfortable?” he asks with a boat load of fear filling his tone.
“I’m extremely comfortable. That’s why I feel bad,” I say in amusement.
“Feel bad? That’s what I want. You don’t have to stay here; I wouldn’t force you. Just know that there is a guest room.” He waves a hand as he speaks. “I don’t do pressure. I hate being pressured.”
“It’s awful,” I say.“That’s all dancing has been for me, recently. It makes me miss Chicago so bad.”
I reach for my glass, staring at the darkness of it before I sip it. That one sip is the turning point. I’m officially wine- drunk in Colton Kennedy’s condo.
“Wereyouraisedthere?”heasks,turningtofaceme slightly as he rests his back on the glass of the window.
“Yeah.Born and raised.”I nod then give a small smile. “And you’re from here? ‘Cause you sound like it,” I query.
“Staten Island,” he admits. “Is it that bad?” He chuckles. “No.You just don’t sound out the letter R and it sounds aggressive.”Ismilemore,pokinghisbarebicep.He
chucklesmore,acceptingthatperception.
I sigh, relaxing again.“Sometimes I wonder if staying here was a mistake, you know? I made a lot of bad decisions in a short amount of time.”
Lettingmyarmsfallbackintomylap,Iglanceathim,
catchinghimstaringagain.
He leaves a bit of silence between us for a few moments. Maybe trying to find the words—then he does.
“I am a firm believer in the idea that everything happens for a reason in life.You have to trust that instinct or decision. Trust the process,” he says gently.
I nod sheepishly. “Yeah—yeah I guess you’re pretty right about that. But what about you? You seem to travel often.” Hisfacetightensbriefly.“Eh,sortof.Iwenttoacouple of different countries before I graduated college.Now I just
