by Lori Adams
“Hi.” I hold it open, but Dante doesn’t move. We stand there awkwardly until I invite him in, and then he makes a show of it, smiling like he’s won the lottery and stepping deliberately over the threshold. He is boarding a ship, and once safely on deck, he turns and eyes me approvingly.
I decided to wear my favorite Free People black knit sweater dress with a wide crew neck, mid-calf tights, and black flats. It’s comfortable, warm, and practical. My hair is loose, with a few strands clipped back. Silver earrings shimmy as I walk; this is dressy for me.
Dante kisses my hand and whispers “Mmm” against it, and my pulse jumps up to greet him. As usual, his affection leaves a warm sting on my skin, and I withdraw, rubbing the spot.
Dante is wearing a black, collared shirt with charcoal slacks and new Italian loafers. A silver rope bracelet with a skull and crossed bones glistens at his wrist. He should be going to some private VIP club in LA or New York, not a community dance in small-town Connecticut.
When Dad strolls in from the kitchen, I introduce them. They eyeball each other with equal suspicion, and then Dante brightens and offers his hand. “Pastor St. James, I cannot express what a great pleasure it is to finally meet you.” A bit over the top, but I expect Dad to approve.
When they shake hands, Dad looks anything but agreeable. The color drains from his face. Rarely at a loss for words, his mouth opens and a lot of nothing comes out. It’s like he’s seen a ghost, so I lay a hand on his sleeve.
“Dad, you okay?” His eyes track my voice, but they are empty when he looks at me.
“We should be going, Sophia,” Dante says.
“Yes, you should be going, Sophia,” Dad repeats in a vacant echo.
“She will be fine with me, sir,” Dante continues. “You can relax and enjoy the game.” He nods toward the living room, where light flickers from the TV. Dad nods emotionless and recites in a monotone voice,
“I’ll go relax and enjoy the game.” He walks away, leaving me bewildered.
Something is wrong. Maybe Dad is uncomfortable with me dating so soon after the Steve issue. Maybe he thinks Dante is the one I’m in love with, and he doesn’t approve. Dad and I fought about Steve, a lot. Dad was right; Steve was wrong for me. Maybe he’s afraid to interfere now, thinking I’ll defend Dante against any criticisms the way I did with Steve.
I want to explain that I’m reformed. I want Dad to understand that Dante and I are just friends. But now isn’t the time. Especially with Dante pulling me away. I swipe my camera from the entry table just as Dante closes the door behind us.
As we walk toward the park, I try to set aside Dad’s odd behavior. I’ll ask him about it tomorrow when he has rested. For now, my thoughts narrow into a single word. Michael.
Bailey says the Patronus family never attends dances, but I’m hoping she’s wrong about tonight. I’m jumpy with anticipation. If I’m right—and I know I am—I’ve discovered something amazing. I just don’t know what it is. I have enough questions to send me running mad in the streets. If I don’t get some answers soon, I might just do that.
The town square has come to life with strings of swag lights twinkling from pole to pole around the park. Tree trunks are wrapped in yellow, orange, and red lights, and bright green balls dangle from the branches. Very festive, eclectic, and romantic, like if Dr. Seuss were getting married.
Halfway through the park, we’re joined by the gang coming from all directions. Bailey is strutting in a miniskirt, black lacy blouse, red cowboy boots, and Duffy’s pinstriped fedora. Duffy is wearing a Rastafarian hat, a vintage Bob Marley T-shirt with a loose black tie, shorts, and high tops. Rachel and Holden are meandering along the perimeter. Rachel is blushing in a soft, flowery dress with a white cardigan and Mary Janes. I think she’s never looked prettier and Holden seems to agree. The rest of the seniors and juniors and some sophomores are trailing behind.
The gazebo is glowing with lights, and a band in the far corner is playing “Moondance,” a crowd favorite; the dance floor is packed. Those not dancing are loitering on the lawn, drinking or talking or munching on refreshments. Miss Minnie is manning the punch bowl so I ask her to store my camera until I need it.
Dante and I mingle into our group, where everyone is debating the number of times Mr. Cummings got smacked in the face at the pie-throwing booth. As the most uptight, pretentious, and unpopular teacher, every senior took a turn.
I’m not paying attention because I am inconspicuously scoping the grounds for Michael. He’s nowhere in the park, and I can only hope that he’s on the dance floor. My sneakiness is inconspicuous; Dante hasn’t a clue and is smiling down at me. He is painfully handsome tonight, so relaxed and happy to be here with me. I feel guilty and offer a wooden smile. We’re just friends. He knows we’re just friends.
The next cover song begins, “Love Remains the Same” by Gavin Rossdale, and Dante’s face lights up. He says, “I have heard this one,” and takes my hand, pulling me up the gazebo steps. Everybody follows suit, and the adults drift aside as we crowd the floor.
Dante’s moves are practiced and graceful, his right arm sliding across my back and his left hand gently lifting my right hand. He is studying me, and his smile feels like a question I can’t answer, or don’t want to answer. I avert my eyes. A cursory glance around yields nothing. Michael isn’t here but I’m not surprised; the second heartbeat is absent. No one from the Patronus family has come, and I deflate with disappointment.
Dante presses a hot cheek against mine, and whispers, “What shall I do with you, cara mia?” A heat wave ripples through me, and I feel flushed with fever. His arm is blazing across my back.
“Why are you always so hot?”
He grins. “Perhaps it is the fire you ignite in me.”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, please.”
“This is true.” We stare for a moment, and then he says, “Are you ready?”
“For what?”
“For me to reveal whom you breathe for.” His lips part, hesitating just inches from mine. Familiar warm cinnamon caresses my mouth, making my head sway.
I blink out of it and cock my head. “I think I’ll decide for myself, thank you very much.” This makes him laugh.
“I had no idea you would be so stubborn.”
I stop dancing. “What does that mean?”
“Oh, nothing. But I am being very patient, no?” He smiles proudly like a child who has resisted the cookie jar. “I have never been so patient for …” He clamps his mouth shut and looks away, embarrassed.
“Are we thinking the same thing?” I ask as my stomach knots. I realize we are dancing too close for being “just friends.”
“Definitely not,” he murmurs.
I don’t think I understand.
I stare until he looks back to explain the cryptic remark. But his eyes shift to my mouth, and he returns to his one-track-hormonal mind. He breathes across my face again and sends blood pushing through my veins. My arms feel heavy like forgotten convictions. Weak and immobile, I lean in for support, and he takes advantage, pulling me tighter against his chest.
I don’t want this. Michael, where are you?
“Dante, please,” I whisper hoarsely. His eyes are a straightjacket binding me in place, keeping common sense out of reach. His lips press against my ear.
“Are you begging me to kiss you, cara? Because I will. I am happy to please you. Always.” His breath is fire against my skin and carries a hypnotic airborne drug like numbing nectar. His words cast doubts on my heart; my thoughts swirl and my vision tilts. It’s too hot; I’m too hot. I feel blood thumping at my wrists and throat. I can’t breathe.
Maybe I should let him kiss me. Maybe that will help me get over Michael.
The music fades and muffled clapping filters through my foggy brain. I feel detached and far away from those around us. When Dante relaxes his arms, I am forced to regain my balance. I didn’t realize how much I was relying on him for support.
Bailey’s voice cuts thr
ough the chaos, and Dante slips away; the heat between us dissipates and leaves my arms empty and cold.
“Well, shit, Sophia.” Bailey laughs and elbows Rachel. “We’ve heard of sleep walking but not sleep dancing.”
“Huh?” I exaggerate a blink to clear my head.
“Looked like you passed out and Señor Smolder was holding you up.”
My mind is blank and I look around for Dante. He is walking toward Wolfgang and Vaughn, who are lounging against the railing. They are smiling, and Dante has a cocky grin that worries me. My lips feel scorched but I can’t remember if he kissed me.
“Need something to drink?” Rachel asks, her voice like sweet tea. I nod and she loops an arm through mine.
We stop at the refreshments table where Miss Minnie hands me a bottle of water before I ask for it. I take a long, exaggerated draw. She stares with a strange look of determination.
“Since the band is on a break, maybe you could get some shots of the town square under the lights.”
I pop my mouth from the bottle and suck air. She’s upset that I’m not working?
“Okay.”
“Third floor of the courthouse has a perfect view. It’s unlocked.” Her suggestion lacks the usual cheerfulness and sounds more like an order, as she hands over my camera. I want to say something but she turns to Mayor Jones, who is announcing that, “Under no circumstances is Duffy allowed near the punch bowl.” I tell the girls I’ll be back in a few and take off across the street.
The courthouse. The one building I’ve condemned without probable cause. My childish imagination about the clock being an all-seeing eye is unwarranted and promptly dismissed, pending further investigation. I suck in cold air laced with reason and open the door.
It’s a vast, echoic building with hardwood floors and an overstated staircase. Thirty feet back, a lamp on the receptionist desk sheds triangular light on a stack of papers. Beyond the desk are hallways with closed doors; tall, leafy plants; and heavily framed Colonial portraits lining the walls. The overstated staircase with white spindles and a dark handrail winds up the right side to the second floor and beyond. No elevator in sight, so I start up.
My footsteps reverberate in the spooky silence, so I peer over the handrail to ensure that mine are the only footsteps I hear. I shudder with apprehension but press on. The second-floor landing is colder and dim with a narrow light around the corner leading to the next floor. I swing the camera strap around my neck like a soldier gearing up for battle. Why am I so nervous?
I make my way to the third-floor landing and wander down a long, narrow hallway with paneled walls and gold sconces. Passing through an arched doorway, I enter a large room with a black-and-white checkered floor, oversized chandeliers on open crossbeams, and giant gilded mirrors. It looks like an ancient ballroom that has seen better days.
I flick on a light switch and look at the chandeliers. They remain dark but a single dim lamp in the corner sputters to life and illuminates the recesses where boxes and crates labeled HOLIDAY TRIMMINGS have been dragged from storage. A scattering of tables, chairs, and holiday wreaths wait to be useful.
As I walk forward, I shiver as though passing through a freezer. I hug my arms and glance around. No open windows … just my overactive imagination. Step by step, I bring myself to the far wall and set the camera on a table. I push open a tall window that faces the square and look down. No screen, no surprise. I’m thinking that none of these old buildings have any.
Miss Minnie is right; the view from here is perfect. The entire town square is visible and twinkles with lights. The gazebo is layered with pearl lights like a giant, illuminated wedding cake. Dr. Seuss would’ve been proud.
I adjust the setting on the camera and bring it to my eye, searching for light, shadows, and shapes. I frame various subjects and click. Again and again, I change angles and shoot, absorbed in my work—and then it hits me—the second heartbeat in the center of my chest. I catch my breath and grip the camera with sheer excitement. The beating grows stronger as though deliberately banging for my attention. I close my eyes and welcome the violent thumping as I welcome the meaning. A smile plays on my lips, and my shoulders ease down. I lower the camera.
“Hello, Michael.”
The room behind me is quiet but I know I’m not alone. Feeling an absurd sense of calmness and confidence, I place the camera on the table and turn around.
Michael is standing in the doorway trying to conceal his surprise. An epic failure because he is gaping the way he did the last time he saw me. We stare in eerie silence, time precariously balanced on the point of discovery. Does he know I know? We don’t breathe; don’t stir the air more than a thought could.
And then Michael’s jaw snaps shut and he marches over in hard, powerful strides. The throbbing is blasting away in my chest because I’m filling up with excitement. Finally, I’ll get my answers!
“Michael, I—”
“What are you doing here?” he demands, cutting my question in half.
I’m taken off guard by his outburst. “Um, taking pictures, but—”
“I don’t mean that! What are you doing here with him?” He points toward the square.
“Huh?”
His eyes narrow, hands digging into his hips. “Don’t play games with me. What are you doing here with Dante?”
My anger is percolating and I hold back my temper. “Michael, I don’t want to talk about—”
“I thought you were smarter than this!” The insult is a slap in the face and I want to retaliate, but Michael’s anger seems greater than mine. He starts pacing like a caged animal; his hard body is taut with restrained rage. He whirls on me, hands clenching like he wants to shake me. “Good grief, Sophia! What does your intuition tell you?”
“My what? Listen, you have no right to be mad at me. If fact, I should be mad at you!” His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “You know something has happened between us, Michael. You know I want answers, and you’ve been deliberately avoiding me.”
He closes the distance between us so smoothly that I don’t see him take a step. He is glaring down at me and growling through clenched teeth. “I’m warning you to stop. Now.”
Maybe I should be afraid; maybe I should back down, but I feel unusually composed and focused. I draw upon confidence I rarely posses and push forward. “I know something about you, Michael.” I search his face for any telltale signs of awareness. His eyes soften. He is curious but not sure what I might have discovered.
I lift my chin and stroll around nonchalantly, like someone with far more style and coolness than I have, someone in the movies … Lara Croft, who flirts too close to danger and doesn’t know when to quit.
Michael turns, scrutinizing me as I circle him. His eyes become hooded as they drift up and down my body. He licks his bottom lip and I know he likes what he sees. My cheeks burn and I shiver deep inside. Michael can make me throb without even touching me.
Please don’t let him see his effect on me.
“Sophia,” he says in a deep, warning tone. “I think you’d better go home now.”
I throw out a laugh, more from nerves than humor. I’m not missing this opportunity with talk about Dante, so I continue as though he hasn’t spoken.
“Michael, you have a lot of ’splaining to do,” I tease in my best Ricky Ricardo voice. His jaw muscle twitches with agitation so I state my case. “I saw you at the accident with the nurse. I know you were there in case she needed help. And then in the cafeteria, with Casey.” I arch an eyebrow but offer no details. He knows exactly to what I’m referring. “And today when that little girl fell off the pony.” My eyes flash with excitement. I expect some reaction from the last bomb but Michael drops his scowl and puts on that bored, impatient look I hate.
Fine!
I’m willing to go all the way, so I march to a window opposite the town square and push it open. I look down on a row of hedges and the library roof across the street.
“Sure is a long way down,” I
say with light reverence.
“What are you doing?” Michael sounds annoyed.
“Oh, just proving a theory.”
“Go home, Sophia,” he says dispassionately and heads for the door.
“You would, wouldn’t you, Michael?” My voice echoes across the large room and stops him like a brick wall.
“Would what?”
“Save me if I fell?” I perch a hip on the window ledge and immediately feel the familiar pulling in my chest. My heart is trying to get out. I grab the windowsill to keep steady.
Michael’s eyes widen and his cheeks flush red with anger. “I don’t have time for games!” he yells.
“What do you have time for, Michael?” I yell back.
He stomps over and yanks me down from the window. “Stay away from Dante!”
“This isn’t about Dante!” I shout. “This is about you!”
His mouth opens but he is too frustrated to form anything coherent. He jerks away, flinging his hands in the air and releasing his fury into the room.
“Aaahhh!” he yells. “You are the most stubborn, foolhardy, pigheaded—” He cuts himself off and starts pacing and muttering. “I walked right up to her. I said her fascination needs to end. I warned her very clearly. Didn’t cross any lines. I even spoke plain English!”
“It’s okay, Michael,” I say reassuringly. “I trust you.” I return to the window ledge and swing one leg over. Michael freezes. His face is stone. We stare, and only I am aware that my favorite black flat just dropped forty feet to the ground below. The cool evening breeze caresses my polished pink toes.
“Sophia, please,” Michael whispers hoarsely and steps closer. “Come down.”
When I shake my head, the pulling in my chest nearly topples me back into the room. I tighten my grip.
Michael reaches out and his voice is extraordinarily gentle as he says, “Please Sophia, don’t be careless with yourself. Tell me what you’re thinking—”
“I did tell you, Michael. I know something about you. Several things, in fact. But mainly, I know if I fall, you will save me.”
“Please come down and we’ll talk.” He tries to smile, to sound upbeat and promising but doesn’t quite make it. Michael is nervous.