He gave me a long, wet kiss on the mouth as if that signaled the end of the conversation, then glanced at the dashboard clock before his hand moved down to his belt buckle. I knew what that meant. As if I’d needed confirmation, he said, “Come on. I have to be back at the store in twenty.”
Still, if Chris liked me as I was, small chest and little-girl body, how could I complain? I would have done anything to continue being the object of his desire. I never put on the black lace bra again after that day. It’s at the bottom of the box with Phil’s letters and Chris’s daisy because I don’t know where else to put it. And I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it because good memory or bad, sometimes I’d needed proof that our relationship had existed.
I look at the mirrored wall of the studio and wonder what Chris would think of me now. What will he think when he looks at me across the courtroom with those amber eyes that used to be able to persuade me to do anything? And what will I say when they ask me if I knew him? It’s been four years.
Four years that remain almost a complete mystery.
I have to talk to Donovan. I have to keep calling until he answers the phone. I’ll go over to his house if it comes to that, but I have to know:
Did you want to go?
If he can answer that one question, I’ll know what I have to do. Keep quiet about my relationship with Chris and go on with my life, or confess everything to send him to prison.
Everyone thinks he abused Donovan, but I have to hear it with my own ears.
My eyes focus on the mirror again. My hips are more rounded now—too round for my liking. My thighs are a bit larger than when I was with Chris, but most of it is muscle. They were the first place I gained weight after Juniper Hill, and sometimes I’d sit on the edge of the tub before my shower and squeeze my hands around them. Evaluating every millimeter of my skin, looking for signs of cellulite.
I don’t do that now. Not every day. But I’ve gotten lazy over the last year or so. Forgetting that a slice of pizza here or a cup of frozen yogurt there adds up. Everyone tells you “a spoonful of this” or “a little bite of that” won’t hurt, but those spoonfuls and bites could be the difference between sixteen fouettés and thirty-two. Between dancing at Marisa’s studio for another year before I graduate or going to year-round ballet school.
Or it could all mean nothing. The trial is a little over two months away, and auditions start a week after that. If I find out Chris abducted Donovan, if I have to tell my story to a courtroom, I’ll be judged for much more than my dancing. Or worse, they might not give me a chance. They might recognize my name, my face, and politely but firmly suggest it’d be better if I focused my energy elsewhere. Ruthie said it was about the dancing, but I can’t imagine anyone would want me affiliated with their program if my ex-boyfriend turns out to be the worst kind of criminal.
I run into Hosea in the lobby of the studio. He’s coming from the direction of Marisa’s office and looks surprised to see me. This is the first time we’ve been alone since the science lab.
“Hey,” he says, rearranging his backpack on his shoulder as he smiles at me.
They’re becoming easy now, his smiles. It shouldn’t be so hard for me to ignore someone who has a girlfriend. Especially after what Klein said. What Ellie suspects. And how bad I feel when I think about what we’ve been doing.
We still text. I’m happy to know he’s thinking about me, that he wants to be with me, but sometimes I think it’s better that we can’t be alone very often. Because he may never break up with Ellie. Or worse, what if he broke up with her for me, only to end things if I tell people the truth about Chris and me at the trial?
“Hi.” I smile back at him. Cautious, but grateful that for the most part, the studio is a safe place.
“How often do you stay late?” he says before I get a chance to ask what he was doing in Marisa’s office. He holds the door open for me and I look at him before I cross through, simultaneously appreciating and hating the gentlemanly gesture. It makes it that much harder to stop liking him.
“A few times a week now. Just getting in some extra practice.”
“Like you need it.” He closes the door firmly behind him, then digs around for his keys in the front pocket of his backpack. “You want a ride?”
“I can take the train.” It’s automatic, something I’ve become accustomed to saying when people offer. And I’m glad, because otherwise I would have hesitated. Possibly said yes as soon as he asked, because sometimes it takes a while for my heart to catch up to my brain. And of course I would rather ride in his car.
“Do your parents pick you up at the station?” He looks at me curiously, and I wonder if he knows how hard I’ve been trying to avoid him.
“No, they trust me enough to drive there.” I slip on my wool gloves before sticking my hands into the pockets of my peacoat. “Just not into the city.”
“Well, it’s on my way, so I’ll give you a ride,” he says, already starting to walk.
I stand in place on the concrete. “I shouldn’t. I . . . We shouldn’t.”
He stops, turns to look at me. Eyebrows wrinkled, gray eyes blinking in confusion. “I know we haven’t met up lately, but . . . did I do something to piss you off?”
I stare at the brick on the building’s exterior. Red. Weathered. It matches the corridors inside. “No, I just . . . Things happen when we’re alone and maybe we should try to be good.”
“Oh.” He shifts his weight, shifts his backpack. Doesn’t quite meet my eye. He looks out at the street, packed with honking cabs and hissing buses and commuters road-raging their way back to the suburbs. Then he nods. “We’ll both be good, okay? It’s not just about that. I like talking to you, Theo.”
Oh. Maybe I’m weak, but knowing it’s not just physical, that he doesn’t expect anything . . . it makes me feel better about accepting his offer. So I do.
He’s parked a couple of blocks over from the studio, and as soon as we’re out of sight I feel him move closer. A moment later, his arm is around me. I’m stunned at first. No one has ever been affectionate with me in public. Well, Klein, I guess, but he doesn’t count.
“Is this okay?” Hosea asks when I remain silent. “I swear, I’m not trying anything. You looked cold.”
I take in a breath. Let it out. This isn’t being good, but I say, “It’s fine.”
And a few seconds later, I relax into him. Because being under Hosea’s arm feels good and I need to feel good right now. Friends can put their arms around each other. I do it all the time with Sara-Kate and Phil.
We fall into step together as we make our way across the cold pavement. It’s supposed to snow this weekend; if we get as much as the weathermen are saying, we might have a white Thanksgiving in a couple of weeks. I don’t mind the snow, but it makes my parents flip out even more about my driving. They start dumping sandbags in the trunk of my car and yelling out safety instructions every time I leave the house and I think they’d put snow chains on my tires if I let them.
I hate when we reach Hosea’s car because it means he has to move his arm. I felt so cozy under there. Comfortable, like I belonged.
And then I squash that. We’re friends.
He opens the door for me again and I say thank you as I slide into the passenger seat of his little orange hatchback. Fasten my seat belt and sit with my gloved hands in my lap as I wait for him to get in.
The engine starts up after a few tries and he twists the knob on the heater but the car has been sitting too long. The vents send out a rush of cold air, so he turns it off again. “I hate this thing. Nothing works.”