Page 36 of Last First Kiss
I grab the chair she was sitting on and carry it out to the back deck, where Diana and Alex have cleared a space for a makeshift dance floor by pushing all their furniture aside.
Diana is obsessed withBridgertonand insisted onhaving a ballroom-style choreography for her wedding. But right now, they’re going through the history of ballroom dancing, and I can barely focus.
Once the rest of the bridesmaids start picking up the dance steps, I wander around with my camera, pretending to be focused on everyone, but really, I’m completely absorbed by Clara. She’s front and center in my viewfinder, her face lighting up with every laugh, every misstep.
Watching her stumble through the choreography, throwing her hands up in frustration and then bursting into giggles—it’s honestly the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. I think I’ve taken at least a million photos of her by now, each one better than the last.
Patty—the instructor—goes through the steps slowly, walking everyone through the rhythm, one, two, three, and then adding in a turn. Everyone else gets it almost immediately, while Clara looks like she’s trying not to step on her dance instructor’s toes. The Latinx dancing genes must skip a generation or something because she does not have them, and I distinctly remember Maribel being smooth on her feet. I can still picture her so clearly, even now. I imagine her leaning in close to my mom, both of them laughing as Clara stumbles through the steps with her two left feet.
It’s so bad that Lala stands to show her how to do it, and through her coaching, Clara starts to get it. She barely misses any steps, and she’s only smushed Lala’s toes once.
Just as she starts to look like she’s got this, she’s paired up with one of Alex’s bridesmaids, and my stomach drops at the sight of her. She’s beautiful, with an easy smile and annoyingly smooth confidence.
Now I absolutely cannot focus because my heart feels like it’s dropped to hell as I watch Clara laugh at whatever this woman’s saying, tilting her head slightly, the way shealways does when she’s being flirty, and I hate it. I hate the way she leans in like she’s already decided she’s interested. I hate the way this cute blond keeps finding excuses to brush against Clara’s arm, but most of all, I hate the way she doesn’t seem to mind any of it, and the way I mind it quite a lot.
No one else would think twice by looking at them, but I know her too well not to notice Clara is attracted to her, and that if she weren’t here as my “girlfriend,” she would’ve already slipped away with her into one of Diana’s bathrooms. Something about that realization makes my stomach knot in on itself.
It’s silly. It’s irrational. I shouldn’t care. I have no right to care. This is my best friend. Why am I suddenly feeling like this? Something about this person in particular doesn’t sit right. I decide it’s probably just my best-friend radar. I’ve always had it with the women Clara talks to. I know within seconds if they’re a good match for her. I call it my best-friend superpower.
Isabella jokes that I won’t ever find one I think is good enough for Clara, and maybe not, because she’s the most amazing human on Earth. She deserves only the best. I came close once with someone she dated for a couple of months a few years ago, but something always stopped me. And I was right, because they didn’t end up working out.
When Diana calls me over to practice our dance, I jump at the excuse to move farther away from where Clara and this woman are standing. If I stare at them any longer, people are going to think I’m having some sort of jealous girlfriend reaction. Which is ridiculous; I’m not even the jealous type.
Diana wants to do a sister dance after her dance with our dad because it’s the last day she and I will have the samelast name before she changes it to Alex’s. When she told me, I almost cried.
I am glad, though, that this is the only dance I need to learn, since I’ll spend most of the day taking pictures.
Patty starts guiding us through the steps, and I try to focus, I really do, but my attention keeps slipping. I miss a step. Then another. Diana gives me a look, one brow raised.
“Seriously? This is basic stuff, kid. Where’s your head?”
Where, indeed? Across the room, probably, where Clara is still talking to that woman. Still smiling and still flirting, too busy to notice the way it makes my stomach churn.
“I got it, I got it,” I mutter, forcing my body through the next movement. I turn. I step. I twirl, then I twirl again, and take the last one a little too fast, and I nearly lose my footing.
Diana snorts. “Yeah, sure you do.”
I roll my shoulders, exhale through my nose, and try again.
But no matter how many times we run the sequence, I can’t seem to get the rhythm right. Because half of me is here, rehearsing a dance. And the other half is stuck somewhere else entirely. My foot shuffles awkwardly against the floor, and I almost make us fall.
“Okay, what’s going on?” Diana asks sternly.
My eyes dart toward Clara on their own, and Diana follows my gaze.
“Ah, I see. That’s Olivia dancing with her, Alex’s cousin,” she says with a smirk. “It’s normal. People are always going to flirt with her, but she chose you. Still, I bet your jealousy’s gone through the roof since you started dating. You’ve always had a thing about anyone Clara so much as glanced at.”
I roll my eyes. “That is not true.”
Diana stops dancing and stares at me. “You mean to tell me that if this had happened before you two had started dating, you wouldn’t still be rolling your eyes, convinced she wasn’t ‘cute enough’ for Clara, or coming up with some other petty reason as to why she’s not a good match for her?”
Even if I hate to admit it, she’s right. I did it earlier today. Maybe this “bff superpower” does come from a place of jealousy. A place I didn’t even realize existed in my friendship with Clara.
Diana raises an eyebrow, her playful expression shifting to a smug one. “Told you.”
I bite the inside of my cheek and stare at the floor, the realization settling over me like a thick fog. I glance over at Clara, who’s now smiling and staring at me. I want to tell Diana she’s wrong, but I know she’s not.
I’ve always hated it when Clara went out on dates. Never outright pissed off or jealous—because one thing I know about Clara is that she doesn’t do relationships, not serious ones, at least—but I was always in a bad mood the nights she brought someone over or didn’t come home at all. For years, I told myself it was because I didn’t want someone to disturb our routine. But the truth is, every time she laughed at someone else’s joke, every time she leaned into someone who wasn’t me, all the times she’d come home late, the smell of someone else’s perfume clinging to her skin, I hated it. I hated that someone else got to see her like that, got to make her feel wanted. I never stopped to ask myself why, even when something sharp and painful twisted deep inside me.
