Page 58 of Revolve
“Thanks, Jesse, you the man!” Kian shouts, clearly on a first-name basis with the pizza guy, as he relieves him of the weight of six boxes of pizza. The smell of pepperoni puffs around the patio. “You staying?” he asks me, and I falter.
Dylan’s expression gives away nothing. Does he want me to stay?
“I should get back,” I say, lacking conviction, but Kian doesn’t push.
“You sure?” Dylan asks just as a bout of laughs from inside steals my attention. There’s a warmth that emanates from the house, and that’s the last thing I expected from a place that has frequent parties and sweaty grown men. I spot a massive bulldog head, like one of those mascot costumes, sitting on the floor by the living room.
“Is that a bulldog costume?” I ask.
Dylan rubs the back of his neck. “Long story, but I can tell you all about it if you stay.”
“They’re your friends. I don’t want to impose.”
“Pretty sure you know some of them. Even if you don’t, you know me.” His smile is almost convincing.Almost.
I let myself imagine what it would be like to have a big group offriends like that. With Scarlett I feel fulfilled, and we’re more sisters than we are friends, but sometimes I worry I’m holding her back from meeting more people. I made an effort to go out with her this year, but I’ve never clicked with anyone the way I’ve seen Dylan and his friends behave. They’re a family.
But when you let people in, you let them see all of you. All the heavy, inadequate, complicated parts of you.
With that cold thought seeping into my bones, I step away from Dylan, not letting myself dwell on the way his smile falls.
“I’ll see you at practice,” I say.
“Hell no, Romanova.” Dylan places the gift bag by his feet and holds out his hand to me.
I blink at him, a confused laugh escaping. “What are you doing?”
“We’re dancing.”
I look around wondering if he’s lost his mind. Maybe those brawls are finally catching up with him. “On your porch?”
“Yup. If this is your way of calling a truce, I need to believe it.”
I furrow my brow, trying to make sense of him. “I literally made you gloves. It took me all night and this morning!”
“And I appreciate them, but I want more.”
My stomach dips. “Greed is a sin, Donovan.”
“Then you’re my temptation, Sierra,” he says. “Come here and dance with me.”
“I don’t dance.”
“You dance on the ice all the time.”
“I dance to win gold medals.”
“Will a gold star work? I’ve got two, I’ll put them anywhere you want.”
My unamused expression must convey my answer. I look at him, a beat of silence between us, and the pull in my chest grows stronger.
“Dance for you this time,” he says softly.
It’s a simple sentence, one that shouldn’t have my heart flipping on its side.
I take a tentative step closer. “There’s no music.”
Suddenly, a radio crackles, and “Wondering Why” by The Red Clay Strays plays. The window curtains move, and I spot black hair, and the radio is now by the open window.
