Page 41 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name
She glanced down, confused. “What?”
“Ballet.”
The word hung between them, heavier than she expected. No one had ever asked her if she loved ballet. It was always assumed.
She let the question settle, turning it over in her mind. Then she tried to answer it honestly.
“I love to dance,” she said slowly. “That part, I love.” She hesitated, her grip tightening on the pendant. “I just don’t know if I’ll ever have an actual career in it.” A beat passed before she added, almost reluctantly, “Not like my sister does.”
The admission left a strange weight in the air, yet at the same time, she felt lighter. The words echoed back at her, and she realized it was the first time she’d ever said them—out loud, or even to herself.
She had spent years pushing down doubts, swallowing them whole. To admit them had always felt like failure, like giving up.
But now, for the first time, it felt like something else.
It felt like freedom.
“So, this is our thing now?” she whispered. “Getting high on the beach?”
He ran his hand over her bare shoulder and down to the dip of her waist. He ran his eyes down the same path his hand had made. When they met hers again, they were drowsy with desire. “We could make our thing getting high and having sex on the beach.”
He leaned forward and kissed her. She kissed him back, and it quickly grew hotter and more intense. He gently rolled her over, so he was on top of her. He was heavy; his body pushed hers down into the sand. But the weight of him felt good, and the way he was pressing himself against her made her whole lower body throb.
He dipped his head and kissed her again, his tongue gliding against hers. She couldn’t help but wonder what else he might be good at.
He braced both his forearms on the ground above her and was pushing his hips against hers in a way that made her think she was about to find out.
Panic and desire were fighting an epic battle inside her. Panic won.
He must have felt her body stiffen because he abruptly broke off the kiss and looked down at her.
She whispered, “Daniel, I’m sor?—”
He pressed his lips to hers, cutting her off mid-word. “Don’t,” he said, right against her mouth.
He rolled off her, lying on his back on the sand beside her. He exhaled, then ran his hands through his hair, leaving them resting on the back of his head.
She curled around to face him and said in a small voice, “Don’t what?”
He swiveled his head to look at her. In the darkness, his expression was impossible to read, but his voice was gentle. “Don’t keep apologizing to me. You know you don’t need to.”
There was something hot rising in the back of her throat and she tried to swallow it down, but there was too much of it and it overflowed. And then she was crying, and he was wrapping his big arms around her and holding her. And they lay together in the sand like that for a long time, until her tears subsided, and she grew quiet.
He kept his arms around her, his chin resting on the top of her head. The only sounds were the cicadas and the soft lap of water and Tequila’s little whines as she tried to extract whatever she wanted from under the log.
Then she sighed into his neck and said, “Maybe I shouldn’t smoke weed anymore. It just makes me cry. And want pancakes.”
He laughed, and she could feel it in his whole body. He kissed the top of her head and said, “You want me to drive us back into the city so we can go find pancakes?”
She nodded, and he chuckled again. Then he got up and helped her to her feet. They walked across the sand, his arm around her waist, her head leaning against his shoulder.
When they got to his car, she turned so her butt was against the hood. He placed both his hands on the metal on either side of her hips and leaned forward. But before he could kiss her, his phone went off.
He dropped his head and pushed back from the car. Retrieved his phone from his back pocket. The screen lit his face up as he read the text, and she watched as his face hardened right in front of her eyes. Became a different Daniel’s face.
He sighed and shoved the phone back in his pocket. “Julia, I’m sorry. I gotta go.”
“What? Where?”
