CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Kate
The hall is alive. It’s similar to Bon and Ryan’s wedding last year, but this time it’s more…
energetic. String lights crisscross the ceiling of stars, disco balls hang on random places, there’s a wooden archway (that Haley and I arranged last night) leading to the photo booth.
I see Haley and Richard already drinking in the bar while dancing to the music blasting from the speakers.
“Do we… mingle?” I ask, slightly breathless, partly because I’m nervous and partly because Michael’s still looking at me differently.
“Technically,” he says. “But I vote we go straight for the snacks.”
We head toward the refreshment table—iced tea in mason jars (because we were teenagers in the 2010s), pastel cookies, mini sandwiches on toothpicks. Haley’s now behind the table wearing a tiara and a long sparkly navy dress that complements her pink hair.
“I’m announcing prom queen later,” she declares. “So I can’t win. Tragic, I know. Especially considering I obviously deserve it.”
“Says who?” Richard butts in.
“Says you, in your head, probably.” Haley rolls her eyes and Richard laughs, but doesn’t correct her. He’s also looking at her in that way my books describe. And she’s… totally oblivious.
Michael takes two fruit cups and hands me one. We wander through the crowd, bumping into former classmates, nosy neighbors, and some of my co-teachers.
Emily and Joshua arrive holding hands, looking like lost celebrities who should be on a red carpet somewhere.
He looks at her like he worships her and the ground she walks on.
Like he’d start a war for her. Like he still can’t believe he has her.
Which is wild, considering this is the same Joshua who once dated three girls in one month (not simultaneously, thank God).
Behind them, Bon and Ryan follow, and it’s a whole new energy.
Bon’s clinging to Ryan’s arm like a koala in sequins, and he’s laughing, gently fixing her bangs with the hand that she’s not clutching.
I swear, Ryan never laughs with anyone else.
Like, ever. But every time they’re together, he’s always smiling. Always.
I’ve always been like this. Observant. Chronically people-watching.
I guess most readers are. When you spend most of your time reading stories about love, you train your brain to look for patterns, for tension, for longing glances and unspoken things.
I notice the looks, the body language, the literal lean-in.
It’s like watching stories unfold in real life.
And okay, full disclosure: I also read a lot of thrillers, so I can spot a suspicious bag or potential killer from a mile away, but that’s not really relevant right now.
Anyway, I’ve always believed I’d have my moment.
Maybe not a dramatic declaration in the rain (my hair would frizz), maybe not a viral flash mob (I would die), but a moment.
Some tiny, cinematic second where it’s obvious—not just to me, but to everyone—that I’m not just watching from the sidelines anymore.
I don’t really care about the how. I just want to be someone's moment.
After all, I’ve always been so far from the heart of the moment.
I was the friend taking pictures at the school dance, the one keeping the group chat alive while everyone else fell in love, the dependable audience for other people’s grand gestures.
I learned to be very good at noticing, at cheering, at cataloguing details for a story that never really had me in the center.
I glance at Michael as we find our table. He’s already looking at me. Like I actually am the center of his moment.
And I know. I know I’m not supposed to get all swoony just because a guy is looking at me. I’ve read the essays. I’ve had the pep talks. I’ve underlined the self-help books and journaled the affirmations in my best handwriting.
But I owe it to myself to at least hope.
I owe it to the little girl in me—the one who sat in front of the TV staring breathlessly at Casper in human form.
Or the twelve-year-old Kate who stayed up late rehearsing the lines to “Gotta Go My Own Way” just in case she needed to break up with someone at a poolside (didn’t happen, but she was ready).
I owe it to teenage Kate, who stayed up past curfew with a flashlight, reading dog-eared romance novels and underlining every line that made her chest ache, imagining what it would be like to be the girl that gets the grand gestures.
And I owe it to present me—the one who’s finally starting to believe that maybe those dizzy, heart-thudding moments aren’t just for other people. Maybe they can happen for the background girl too.
Now, crush my hopes and tell me that’s delusional. I dare you.
The music shifts to a slower rhythm, and couples pair off on the dance floor. Michael leans closer, resting his forearms on the table like he’s about to ask me something illegal. “Dance with me?”
I blink. “Like… now?”
“No, I meant next week.” He deadpans, then grins. “Yes, now, Katie.”
“I should warn you, I’m more of a swayer than a dancer,” I say as he stands and extends his hand.
“Okay, then, sway with me?” He wiggles his fingers.
I put my hand in his.
It’s warm. Big. And steady, like it was designed to hold mine. I briefly panic about whether my palm is clammy, but then he gives the slightest squeeze, and it’s like my heart forgets how to function and my feet forget how to move.
The lights are soft and glowy in here, which accompanies the mood perfectly.
He pulls me toward the cleared center of the hall, where a few couples are already swaying, and wraps one arm gently around my waist. His other hand finds mine again.
My free hand awkwardly hovers before I settle it on his shoulder like I’ve seen people do in movies.
I immediately regret not watching a YouTube tutorial before this.
“You’re a great swayer,” he says. I just chuckle, because my mouth also forgot what words are.
Michael moves my hand from his to the back of his neck, which, I admit, is difficult to reach, so I just put both my hands on his shoulders, as he puts both of his on my waist. His left hand snakes to my back and pulls me closer, and I just… follow.
“I’ve been watching you, you know,” he says suddenly.
I squint my eyes at him. “In a serial killer way, or…?”
He barks out a laugh. “No, just… how you look. How you laugh. How you keep watching everyone like you’re trying to write them down. You look at everything with your own personalized lenses that see all this… beauty in things.”
My throat goes dry. My brain glitches. Because, what do you mean he noticed all that? That I romanticize the world? That I look at people and analyze the way they look at each other?
“And I keep thinking,” he continues, voice gentler now, and completely oblivious to the fire in my chest and the war in my head, “how unfair it is that no one’s ever looked at you the way you look at everything else.” Our eyes meet, and he adds, “Until now.”
And that’s it. I flatline. I spiritually ascend. The axis of my emotional world has shifted to the left. Or right. Or whatever direction it is to the nearest black hole.
Because what do you even say to that?
How do you respond when the boy you’ve been pretending not to fall for just casually says the most devastatingly romantic thing you’ve ever heard?
Before I can say anything, or before I can faint, the lights flicker once. Then again.
Then darkness.
The music cuts off, and there’s a beat of stunned silence before someone (Haley, obviously) yells, “Okay, who did that?!”
But I hardly notice.
Because Michael’s still holding me. His hand doesn’t twitch. Doesn’t loosen. His grip stays steady. He leans in, like he’s moving through the dark by instinct.
“Katie,” he says, his voice soft and near my ear. “I know you got spooked the first time. I didn’t want to do that again. And then we got interrupted the last time.”
I blink, breath catching.
“I don’t want to rush you,” he continues. “I just… I’ve been wanting to kiss you all night. Maybe longer. But I’ll only do it if you say yes.”
Forget the power grid. My brain is shutting down.
My heart is punching its way out of my chest. But somehow, I still manage to whisper, “Yeah. Okay. Yes.”
He hesitates for a second. “You sure?”
I nod, even though he can’t see it. “I’m sure.”
And just like that—he kisses me.
Not like before. Not a blink-and-you-miss-it kiss that leaves me questioning reality. This one is real. Intentional. Careful. Soft.
His lips meet mine like he’s afraid to startle the moment. They’re soft, warm, and unlike anything my lips have ever come in contact with.
The kiss deepens only slightly, like a second breath. His other hand lightly brushes my waist, the fabric of my dress rustling under his fingertips. With the other hand, he holds my surely-hot cheek, his thumb tracing circles around it.
And I feel it.
Everywhere.
My fingertips tingle. My chest tightens. My ears are full of my own heartbeat, and yet I still hear everything: the way people freak out over the blackout, the rustle of wind outside, the small exhale he lets out. Everything.
When he finally pulls away, it’s only by an inch. He stays close, his forehead nearly touching mine.
And then he kisses me again. A little harder this time. A little less careful. And this time, I don’t just stand there, I kiss him back.
Tentatively at first. Like dipping my toes into a pool I’m not sure is warm. But then, my hands go to the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair like I’ve done this a hundred times in dreams I can’t remember.
I tug him closer—instinctively—only to realize that pulling a 6’4” man down to my level is a logistical challenge I did not plan for.
He lets out a low, surprised laugh against my mouth, but he doesn’t pull away.
When we finally pull away, breathless, he stays close.
I’m pretty sure someone saw. Maybe everyone. But the power’s still out, and the world is too distracted to care.
Everything around us is in the dark.
But me?
I’m glowing.