Aurora Driscoll
I once told my friends that I’d rather dance on broken glass than go to a college party. That still holds true, though it is nice celebrating with everyone tonight. And the pictures I take will serve to get my family to stop pestering me about my lack of a social life.
What kind of parents want their daughter to go to a party?
I watch as Jasmine and Shepherd slow dance in the middle of the frat house we’re in and sigh.
I shouldn’t complain about my parents when hers are gone.
Marigold’s parents—I recently found out—are the worst, and Saylor’s dad left her when she was a kid.
They have reasons to be upset. And I’m over here sulking because my parents want me to go out more.
I’m not one for indulging in pity parties anyway, but I certainly wouldn’t talk about this with any of my friends.
I love my family. They’re crazy and loud and meddlesome, but they love big, too.
I just wish they would see that I’m happy with my quiet, dance-centered life.
I don’t need parties or to go on dates. I just need pointe shoes and a spot in my dream ballet company.
They worry that I don’t have balance, but I don’t see it as necessary when I love dance. It’s everything to me outside of my family. It has been since I was two and my mom gave me my first pair of slippers.
“Having fun?” a familiar silken voice asks from beside me. I’ve been leaning against the wall for some time now, observing my friends and avoiding conversation with strangers.
I scowl. “Go away, Hayes.”
I don’t look in his direction. I know exactly what I’ll encounter. Messy auburn hair and an infuriatingly attractive smirk. The last thing I need tonight is to feel my stomach swoop for a man who annoys me to no end. The dichotomy is nauseating.
“I thought princesses were supposed to be nice,” he teases.
I give him a sharp look. Which is a mistake, because right on cue, those dreadful butterflies start flapping their wings. Why does he have to be so gorgeous? It makes him all the more aggravating.
“Can’t you find some other poor woman to harass?”
He chuckles and my abdomen clenches.
“I’ve tried, but whenever you’re in the room, everyone else dulls in comparison.”
I roll my eyes.
“You’re obnoxious.”
“Only when I’m in love.”
I wrinkle my nose in disgust.
“Don’t be gross.”
He laughs again. Someone calls his name from across the room. He bends forward in a mock bow.
“Always a pleasure, Princess.”
Then he saunters away, leaving behind a frustrating mixture of annoyance and attraction as his parting gift.