Chapter 32 #2
Even ridiculous things could be tender when they were done for the right reasons.
I swallowed hard. “Okay,” I whispered. “Fine. But if I topple over and break my neck, I’m haunting all of you.”
Coop leaned in. “Worth it.”
“Traitor,” I hissed at him.
He only grinned wider.
That was when the photographer arrived.
Because of course Archie had arranged a photographer.
Rachel took one look at the camera and gasped like she’d been personally insulted.
“Oh,” she said sweetly. “So my years of documentarian excellence mean nothing to you.”
Archie blinked innocently. “Rachel—”
“No,” she cut in, already walking toward the photographer. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m going to smile and pretend I’m not plotting revenge.”
Jake leaned toward me. “She’s plotting revenge.”
“I know,” I whispered back.
We took photos in the living room, by the stairs, outside near the fountain, and then—because this weekend was absolutely allergic to normal—by the limo that had pulled up like we were attending the Oscars instead of a high school dance.
Rachel joined in for the pictures, because I insisted despite her drama and promised her a personal photo shoot to soothe her ruffled feathers.
At one point she shoved herself between Jake and Bubba and said, “If I’m getting murdered by glitter and teenage hormones tonight, I’m going down immortalized.”
The photographer laughed.
Jake said, “That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said.”
Rachel flipped him off while smiling for the camera.
It was perfect.
We rode in the limo—all six of us.
Me. Rachel. Archie. Coop. Jake. Bubba.
The interior lights glowed soft and golden. Someone had brought sparkling water like we were celebrities with brand deals. The music played low. The mum bells jingled every time I shifted and it made everyone laugh.
The ride was filled with determined laughter.
That’s what it felt like.
Like we were looking at the last few weeks and saying: you don’t get to take this from us too.
The best part? It worked.
For a while, it worked so well I almost forgot the adults existed. Almost.
Right before we arrived, Archie shifted closer.
“Hey,” he murmured.
I turned, and he opened a small box in his palm.
My breath caught.
“A charm bracelet,” I whispered.
His eyes held mine. Warm. Intent. A little smug, because he loved seeing me surprised.
“I know you like things that… mean something,” he said softly.
I stared down at it.
Gold. Delicate. Beautiful.
And the charms—
Our initials.
A tiny ballgown.
And—ridiculously, sweetly—a little putt-putt charm.
Because we’d played so many times it counted as history.
My throat tightened.
“You’re going to make me cry,” I whispered.
Archie’s smile softened. “I’m aware.”
I blinked fast. “You’re awful.”
“Yes,” he agreed, entirely unrepentant.
My fingers trembled as I took it.
“Archie…” I swallowed. “Thank you.”
He leaned in and kissed me lightly. Just a brush. Just enough.
And then—
“Ew,” Jake said loudly. “Love.”
Bubba snorted.
Coop groaned like his soul was leaving his body.
Rachel said, “If you two don’t stop being disgusting, I’m opening the door and rolling out.”
Archie didn’t even look away from me.
“You can’t,” he told her calmly. “We’re moving.”
Rachel bared her teeth. “Don’t tempt me.”
The limo pulled up.
It was time.
The hotel ballroom the school rented looked like a dream someone had built out of bubbles and balloons and wishful thinking.
The theme was apparently “ballgowns and bubbles,” which meant there were floating soap bubbles everywhere, balloon arches, shimmering fabric draped along the walls, and a photo area that looked like it had been designed by a Pinterest board with a trust fund.
The DJ was actually good. The lights were soft and shifting.
There were water stations everywhere—thank God—and Rachel immediately claimed one like she was the appointed hydration officer of the night.
“I don’t care if you’re having the best moment of your life,” she told us bluntly, handing out cups. “Drink water. Sweat is not a personality.”
Jake took one sip and said, “You’re so sexy when you’re paranoid.”
Rachel stared at him. “Never say that sentence again.”
He grinned. “Yes ma’am.”
We danced.
All night.
We didn’t babysit anything we didn’t have to. Rachel made sure of it. She was like a watchful dragon with lip gloss and a strategic plan.
I danced with everyone.
I danced with Archie during a slow song that felt like it wrapped around us and hushed the room a little.
His hands were warm and steady on me, and when he leaned down to murmur something against my ear—something that made my skin heat and my brain short-circuit—I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing right into his collar.
I danced with Jake during a fast, ridiculous song where he spun me too hard and I nearly tripped, and he yelled, “I meant to do that,” as if near-death by dance move was part of our brand.
I danced with Bubba to a song with a heavy beat, and he moved like he belonged to the music—smooth, steady, confident—his hands respectful but firm, his eyes on me like I was the only thing that made sense.
I danced with Coop when he dragged me into the middle of the floor during the chicken dance and I protested loudly while doing it anyway, because some traditions were bigger than dignity.
“I hate you,” I told him, flapping my arms like an idiot.
Coop grinned. “No you don’t.”
“Maybe not,” I admitted, still flapping. “But I want to.”
His laugh was bright and familiar, and it squeezed my heart in that sweet, aching way it always did. We stayed out there for the Macarena too.
I danced with Rachel too, because obviously.
We danced like we always had—like we were made of sharp elbows and laughter and shared history, like our bodies knew what to do even when our lives didn’t.
By the time the third song rolled around, I was warm and breathless and happy in a way that felt almost suspicious.
Rachel spun me once, then pulled me in closer.
Her eyes were bright.
Not with mischief.
With something else.
Something… nervous.
That stopped me cold.
Rachel didn’t get nervous.
Rachel got angry. Rachel got sarcastic. Rachel got ruthless.
Rachel did not get nervous.
She guided me toward the edge of the ballroom, away from the center, away from the crowd. The bubble machine hissed nearby. The lights glittered off the balloons overhead.
“What’s wrong?” I asked immediately.
Rachel exhaled like she’d been holding her breath for years.
“I’ve waited a long time to do this,” she said softly.
My brows knit. “Do what?”
“Please don’t be upset,” she added, and my stomach dropped because I had never—never—heard Rachel ask that way.
My heart started thudding.
“Rachel…” I said carefully. “What are you—”
She stepped closer.
Her hands came up, gentle and hesitant—also something I had never seen from her.
And then she kissed me.
Not a joke.
Not a dare.
Not a performance.
A real kiss.
A deliberate kiss.
A kiss that held years inside it—years of friendship and loyalty and so much more. I froze for exactly one heartbeat. Then the world shifted under my feet. When she pulled back, her breath was uneven and her eyes were wide. Nervous. Beautiful.
God, she was so nervous.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered quickly. “I just— I needed you to know. And I didn’t want to— I didn’t want to ruin tonight—”
“Rachel,” I breathed.
My fingers found her wrist like I needed to keep her with me.
She looked like she was bracing for rejection. Like she’d already made peace with it, but it would still hurt. And something in me went soft and fierce all at once.
“You didn’t ruin anything,” I said quietly.
Her eyes searched mine, desperate for certainty. “No?”
“No,” I insisted.
When she leaned in again—no apology this time, no hesitation—I met her halfway. And when she kissed me, I kissed her back.
To dive back into tangled loyalties, forbidden touches, and the kind of choices that change everything, get ready for Book 3 of What If: Desire, Dares, and Decisions… because loving boldly means risking it all—and this time, no one gets to hide.