Chapter 12
Ten Years Ago
I wait until I’m positive my friends are asleep before tiptoeing out of Mallory’s bedroom. My steps are slow and careful down the stairs and through the living room as I head toward the kitchen.
Until the girls fell asleep, they couldn’t stop talking about our first homecoming dance.
Now that we’re finally freshmen, our school dances will probably look a little different than the awkward middle school dances where most boys and girls danced on opposite ends of the room to songs like “Cupid Shuffle” or “Cotton Eye Joe.”
While Kelsey, Mallory, and Alyssa are all excited at the prospect of being asked to slow dance, I’m terrified.
I don’t know where to put my hands or how to move to the rhythm.
What if a boy asks me to dance and then laughs at how bad I am?
And since we all go to different high schools, I won’t have my besties there to dance with me or cheer me up if everything comes crashing down.
I’ll be like one of those girls in the movies who runs to the bathroom and locks herself in a stall to cry until her parents finally come to pick her up.
I sigh. It’s times like this that I wish I could be more like my friends.
That I wouldn’t care as much about what other people think.
Just enjoy each moment as it comes. While I like to think of myself as a positive person, the only thing I’m positive about at this moment is that I have no idea how to slow dance with a boy.
Hence why I’m wide-awake right now while my friends are all fast asleep.
I round the corner into the kitchen, hoping a little one-in-the-morning snack will help me fall asleep, when I see the shadow of another figure behind the open fridge door, lit only by the glow of the refrigerator light. I gasp and fling a hand to my chest.
A head pops up from behind the door, but with the way they’re backlit, all I can make out is a male figure. “Shayna?”
My heart pounds in my chest, but now for an entirely different reason. “Connor, you scared me.”
He closes the fridge door, cloaking us both in only the faint glow of streetlamps and the moonlight streaming through the blinds on the window over the sink.
He steps closer, allowing me to see his messy hair, wrinkled baseball tee, and sweatpants slung low over his waist like he haphazardly threw them on.
It appears he spent some time tossing and turning in bed, unable to sleep, before getting the same idea as me.
“What’re you doing up?” Connor asks.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
He raises a bottle of water. “I was thirsty.”
“Oh. Me, too,” I say, not wanting to admit why I actually came down here.
Connor passes the bottle to me. “Here.”
I take it from him, and my fingers graze his in the process. My body shivers involuntarily. I hope he thinks it’s from the chill of the water bottle rather than his touch. “Thanks.”
Connor opens the fridge and grabs another water for himself. When he turns and sees I’m still standing there, his brow furrows. “You good?”
I really should mumble an excuse about being tired and run back upstairs. But I don’t.
The words are tumbling out of my mouth before I have a chance to stop them. “I don’t know how to slow dance.”
The furrow lines between his brows deepen. “So, not good?”
I shake my head and will myself not to cry. Connor’s expression softens. My trembling bottom lip probably gave me away. The little sellout.
“Can I ask why you’re thinking about slow dancing after”—he glances at the clock on the microwave—“one in the morning on a random Friday night?”
“Homecoming is a few weeks away.”
Connor dips his chin in understanding. “And your friends are excited for their dances, but you’re not.
” He closes the fridge and leans against it.
He has no business looking that good this late at night, his hair all mussed like he’s run his hands through it a hundred times.
It certainly doesn’t help my unrequited crush.
“Yeah.” My voice is barely above a whisper.
I should be embarrassed about everything I just told Connor.
He’s been my crush for three whole years.
That’s like a lifetime in teenage years, where most girls change their crush as often as they change their favorite emoji.
But me? I’m stuck on Connor like the strongest superglue.
I don’t know if I’m baring my soul to him because he makes me feel comfortable or if this is something I’m going to wake up in the morning and majorly regret, but for tonight, I choose to lean into it. “Do you know how?”
He stares at me, expression blank.
“To slow dance?”
He shrugs. “It’s not rocket science.”
My shoulders fall, and I feel myself shrinking in. This is exactly what I was worried about—a boy making fun of me for being terrible at dancing.
“Do you want…” Connor swallows. I watch his throat bob. It’s almost like the rest of his sentence is stuck there until he finally rasps, “…me to teach you?”
Yes. A million times, yes.
I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “If you’re not busy.
” He gestures around the dark kitchen, and I giggle.
“Right, it’s the middle of the night. Why would you be busy?
” My arms wave around, feeling disconnected from my body.
I have no clue what I’m doing, but I probably look like a wacky waving inflatable-arm-flailing tube man.
He opens the fridge again, stopping me from my mental spiral.
“What’re you doing?” I ask.
“We need some kind of light so we don’t trip in the dark, and I don’t think either of us wants the bright overhead ones on at this hour.”
“Smart thinking.” I set my water bottle down on the counter and clasp my hands together in front of me. “So, how do I do this?”
Connor puts his water bottle back in the fridge and extends his hand.
When I place mine in his palm, he gently pulls me closer.
“There are two ways.” His voice is low and slightly raspy, evidence of his lack of sleep after a week of waking up early for school.
He places his hand at the dip of my waist.
Thank goodness I wore my cute pajamas tonight: floral-print bottoms paired with a thin pale-blue long-sleeved shirt. Where his fingers land, grazing my top, has me feeling the warmth of his palm through my shirt. The weight is comforting. Steady.
“One option is for the boy to place one hand on your hip like this and hold your hand in his.” He wiggles my right hand, which he’s already holding. “You’ll place your free hand on his shoulder or the back of his neck—depends on how close you want to get.”
If Connor were mine, I’d tangle my fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck. But in this case, shoulder it is. I move my free hand there, trying to apply a gentle amount of pressure. Acting like this is totally normal when it’s anything but.
“Is this right?”
He nods. “Now you just sway to the beat of the song.”
“But there’s no music playing.” I look up at him.
Connor removes his hand from my waist, sliding it into his pocket. He pulls out his phone and scrolls for a minute before the familiar beat of “Thinking Out Loud” by Ed Sheeran starts to play softly. He sets his phone on the counter and rests his hand back on my waist.
We begin swaying back and forth to the song, and my nerves begin to settle. “This isn’t so bad. What’s the other way?”
Connor lets go of my hand and grasps my waist. “The boy will have both hands on your waist or lower back, and you’ll place both on his shoulders or around his neck. You’ll see this version more at high school dances. The other is a little more old-fashioned.”
I clasp my hands behind his neck, and my mouth goes as dry as sandpaper.
It’s immediately obvious why this is the position high school students prefer—it puts you exceptionally close to your dance partner.
Our bodies are practically touching, so close I could lean forward the slightest bit and rest my head on his chest.
In Connor’s strong, steady hands, I lose track of the song, completely lost in him. I don’t notice he’s stopped moving until it’s too late, and my foot lands on top of his. He winces.
“I’m so sorry.” I jump back.
“It’s fine. You did good.”
“Until I stepped on your foot,” I mumble.
“At least you weren’t in heels.” He grabs a water bottle from the fridge before shutting the door, leaving us in the dark. Connor steps toward the counter and stops the song, sliding his phone back in his pocket.
“You’re right. That would definitely be worse.” I pick up the bottle he handed me earlier and drop my gaze to my feet. “Thanks for helping me. I didn’t want to look like an idiot at the dance if I end up going.”
“You haven’t bought a ticket?”
“I did. I just wish the Long Live Girlies all went to the same school. I’d feel more confident going to a dance with them.” I sigh, keeping my gaze on my fuzzy floral socks. “What am I supposed to do if none of the boys ask me to dance?”
Connor steps closer and awkwardly pats my back like I’m a baby he’s trying to console. “Any boy would be lucky to dance with you, Shayna. Don’t let anyone ever make you believe otherwise.”
I peer up at him and melt at how earnest but gentle his expression is. Without second-guessing myself, I fling my arms around his neck, pulling him into a hug. The water bottle he’s holding is crushed in between us, but I don’t care. I squeeze him tight. “Thanks, Connor.”
I can feel the hesitation slowly leave his body as his shoulders loosen up.
He wraps an arm around me, giving me a gentle squeeze, and I’m completely enveloped in all things Connor.
His strong arms. The fresh scent of his soap from his shower mixed with the woodsy scent of his deodorant.
The way his hands offer me warmth and reassurance.
I slowly pull back and look up at him. And that’s when I see it.
Connor Porter is smiling. I repeat, Connor Porter is smiling.
The smile on his face looks slightly unnatural, but I think that’s what makes it look even more beautiful.
The boy who never cracks a smile despite the many jokes we’ve told him over the last three years.
The boy whose mom complains that he never smiles in family photos. He’s standing here, smiling…at me.
“Good night, Shayna.” Connor’s mouth returns to its typical neutral state, but the smile is still evident in his eyes.
When he leaves the room, I hold my water bottle to the back of my neck, in need of a good cool down.
If it wasn’t certain before, it is now: I’m never getting over this crush.