Page 12 of Perfectly Us
“Do you wanna dance?” I ask, pulling my hand away.
“I can’t dance.”
“Everyone can dance. Now, whether it’s good dancing or not is a different story.”
“I can’t.” He shakes his head and takes a small step back, his gaze flitting around the kitchen. The archway straight ahead shows a peek of the living room and the sea of people bumping and grinding on each other.
Unlike me, Shiloh seems more reserved. Shy. When he said parties weren’t his thing, I thought he was just trying to let me down easy, but seeing him so nervous at the idea of dancing makes me think he’s socially awkward. Introverted.
“Come on,” I say, grabbing his arm.
I don’t head for the dance floor though. Instead, I grab a beer from the cooler and head toward the back patio with him in tow. Once we’re outside, the closed door muffling some of the sound from the party, I walk over to the pool and sit at the edge.
Ruben’s family is loaded. Like super rich. Rich for this area anyway. Their three-story house sits on two acres of land, has a huge privacy fence around the property, and they have a four-car garage. The in-ground pool is lit up, and there’s even a damn rock waterfall on one side. The soft crashing of the water adds noise to the distant rumble of heavy bass and scattered voices.
Shiloh wavers in place a moment before sitting beside me. “Don’t you want to be with your friends?”
I shrug and sip my beer. “You’re my friend too.”
From the corner of my eye, I see him look at me. “We just met. I wouldn’t exactly call us friends.”
“Damn. Break my heart, why don’t you.” I peer over at him. “How long do you think you have to know someone before you can call them a friend? Because I gotta tell you, there’s some people in that party I’ve known all my life, but they feel so far away, ya know? But I can meet other people, like Ruben, and know right away that we’re friends. Know what I mean?”
“Not really.” Shiloh brings his legs up and rests his arms on them. The light from the pool ripples across his face, bringing out a softness in his expression I didn’t notice earlier. “Everyone seems far away to me.”
We sit in silence for a while, the trickling of the water mixing with the distant wailing of a guitar taking lead on a song.
“Do you like workin’ at the coffee place?” I ask. It seems like an innocent enough question. I have a habit of putting my foot in my mouth, basically saying whatever pops into my head. Some people are put off by it. Not that I can blame them.
“Yeah, I do.” He breathes out, and I try not to stare at his neck as he tips his head back, face to the stars.
“Do you wanna work there forever? Is there anything else you want to do? Not that there’s anything wrong with being a barista.”
“I don’t know.” He’s still staring at the stars, and I’m still staring at him. I can’t look away. “When I was little, I wanted to be a fireman. That only lasted a few months, though, before I decided being Indiana Jones would be better.”
I snort at that. “Who wouldn’t want to be Indiana Jones? A badass archeologist who goes on epic adventures. Do you maybe wanna do something with history?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. I like coffee. Having my own café might be nice.” Shiloh looks at me. “What about you? Do you want to work at the movie theater your whole life?”
“Definitely not.” I take another pull from my beer, letting it wet my throat because it’s suddenly kind of tight. “I start college in the fall.”
“Oh, right. I remember you saying that. What are you going to study?”
“Psychology.”
Shiloh nods and goes back to looking at the sky. It’s clear tonight, and the stars shine bright above us. Kind of hard not to stare.
“What’s the semicolon mean?”
“Hmm?” He turns his head back to me.
“The semicolon on your bracelet.” I nod to his wrist. “What’s it stand for?”
“Oh.” He shifts again, putting his hands behind him on the ground and stretching his legs out. “It’s to show solidarity against suicide, depression, and other mental health issues.” He gets kind of quiet as he adds, “Or to represent your own struggles with it.”
My palms get clammy as a memory slams into me.
Clay stands in the doorway of my room, a shadow over his face. Rain pelts against the window. Hard. He tries to say something but walks away instead, the door closing behind him.
