Where We Left Off (21 page)

Heath shook his head violently and stammered, “Don’t you have some last minute warming up to do?” Taking her by the shoulders, he swiveled Natalie away and pushed her toward her friends like she was a ticking time bomb of words and potential humiliation.

I bit my lip to pinch back the smile, but clearly still wore it when Heath returned.

“Hmmph. Kids sure say the darndest things.” He
shrugged
as he rubbed the back of his neck, and then he pulled two tickets from his back pocket with the other free hand. He flapped them against his palm and asked, “So, what do you say we find our seats?”

I hadn’t thought of holding anyone’s hand in a long, long while. Dylan wasn’t the touchy-feely type, which never bothered me because, under the circumstances in which we met, we didn’t begin our relationship in a way that allowed for much physical contact.

But this—this sitting here next to Heath—the memory
of
it all was too much. I thought back to when he’d taken me to the movies when we first dated in high school. It was a popular romantic comedy at the time, and it took until right before the credits rolled onto the dark screen for him to grasp onto my hand, which had been conveniently waiting on the armrest between us. We sat there until they flicked the houselights on, stealing away every second we could to finally have our hands joined.

It was presumptuous for me to think Heath had any interest in holding my hand now, though. “As friends.” That was the qualifier he’d given for this night. Maybe it was forward to assume he’d invited me here for anything more than friendly company. I might have jumped to an embarrassingly wrong conclusion with this.

Even still, I couldn’t deny that I was sitting there as girls in glittering tutus pirouetted across the stage, hoping he wanted my hand. Because I certainly wanted his.

When the number stopped and the applause broke, I let the point of my elbow land on the rest between us. From the corner of my eye, Heath’s Adam’s apple lifted and dropped, worked with an agonizingly slow swallow. His fingers came to his tie and he swiveled it loose, slightly. It made me blush. I was staring at him, at the way the lights from the stage flashed over his strong features. They sparkled his gray eyes, and when he blinked, his blond lashes fluttered and made my stomach do the same.

Realizing one of Natalie’s dance troops was about to perform, I switched my attention forward, but the pull to glance over at Heath was almost more than I could withstand. My hand lay there between us, palm up, and it was desperate and needy and brave all combined.

“This is what you want, Mallory,” I told myself, silently. “You’re a grown woman and if you want to hold hands with a guy on the first date, there is absolutely nothing wrong with that.” I laughed at the innocence in my pep talk but gave it still.

The problem was that there was an opportunity for rejection here, and I felt it deep down, in the part of me that worried I’d mess this up, read into it all wrong.

He’d rejected me before.

He could do it again.

But rejection was not the worst thing to happen.

I wriggled my fingers and left my empty and willing hand there, open for Heath to take.

Heath

Her hands were ice. They always had been. She wasn’t the sort of person whose body regulated with the outside temperatures. No, even when it was a hellish 110 degrees, her fingers were as icicles growing out from chilled and brittle knuckles. Her palms never sweat. Mine, on the other hand, pooled with it. Maybe nerves gathered them there, or maybe I just ran a few degrees hotter than her. Whatever the reason, we were opposites in this, and in so much more.

She’d cocoon herself in our bed every night. I’d throw off the blankets even in the dead of winter. Like a squirrel, she’d scramble for my discarded quilt and bury underneath the body heat it still held,
taking
advantage even there.

Kayla was frigid.

Always.

And she’d become so cold to me in every possible way. Her hands were the starting point and I swear she could use them to cast a spell like some ice queen. She’d frozen me out, frozen me solid.

Tonight, when Mallory stepped out from the dark porch covering and into the hazy yellow light from the lamppost, I thawed.

Instantly.

She was warmth. I wondered if her hands were, too.

I’d mustered all my courage and found out eight numbers into tonight’s performance.

I could see her eyeing me throughout the night, trying to be discreet and it was cute as hell. Every time I’d angle my head a couple degrees her direction, she’d flinch and whip her gaze toward the front of the auditorium. If she’d been driving, she’d be in oncoming traffic with the way she overcorrected. It was cruel, but for the length of an entire dance
routine,
I kept playing like this: me looking over and her looking away.

She had to have noticed it, this game of ours.

But then I did it. I used the commotion that came after intermission to my advantage and effortlessly slipped my hand in hers, right as the noise and lights died down. I could feel her surprise in her fingertips, so I wrapped my thumb around and rubbed small circles on the back of her hand to let her know how intentional this was. It wasn’t like I’d accidentally dropped my hand onto hers. I’d taken it within mine.

Oddly enough, for a guy who had a one-night stand just a week before, this felt incredibly forward, but even more so, it felt right. Sometimes taking things slow was more of a turn-on than going all the way.

I couldn’t say I watched much of the dance recital. I paid just enough attention that I could later recount to Natalie how spectacular she’d been in the piece with the lavender harem pants and how her flying leap across the stage in the Tchaikovsky number was on point. Everything else focused on a four-inch space on my body, resting on a four-inch space on Mallory’s body.

When that final tap clicked across the black stage, we all waited for an expectant pause, the customary moment it took to recognize the performance was over. Then, someone near the back started to slow clap and we followed suit. Applause was such a strange thing, how we latched on to one another, some leader who set it into motion, indicating when to begin and end like a clapping conductor.

For me, this leader was a complete buzzkill.

It wasn’t like I wouldn’t have clapped. Of course Natalie’s performance deserved that. Probably a standing ovation. It was the fact that, had the round not been initiated by someone else, I’d have never realized the evening was over. My hand had no other purpose than to hold Mallory’s.

I prayed that she wouldn’t move, that she’d let our fingers stay together like they had been for the past fifteen minutes, but she yanked her hand free and pressed her palms together emphatically, just like everyone else in the room.

From the stage, makeup emphasized my niece’s features and her braced teeth appeared even more brilliant behind her ruby lips, pulled taut with a beaming smile. I looked at Mallory. Her face wore the same, proud expression. Proud of a young girl she’d only recently been introduced to. This woman had so much joy it was contagious.

My hands finally found one another and I clapped along, knowing that I’d just have to gain more courage later.

That courage finally came after the event when I asked if Mallory was ready to head home or if she’d like to stop and grab a cup of coffee.

“Coffee,” she replied, instantly. “That sounds amazing right now.”

“Great. There’s a little shop off Hickory Avenue that I love.”

“The Roasted Bean.”

My eyes went wide. “You know it?”

“When I was pregnant with Corbin, I craved their decaf peppermint white mochas. They’re the only shop I know that carries the peppermint syrup year round.”

When she was pregnant.

She was a mother. I knew
that,
she’d told me earlier this evening, and I’d also had an inclination when I saw Tommy’s painting, the one with her body so round with life.

She’d been a wife.

She had a family.

That was huge. Someone else existed that—each time she looked at him—she was reminded of the deep love which created him. I didn’t have that. All I had as a reminder of the love I thought I shared with Kayla was the narrow line on my fourth finger where the pigment was just a shade or two lighter.

But even that faded with the memories I would replay time and again, like a rerun of a sitcom that once brought me laughter.

Now my life seemed so rehearsed.

But this, with Mallory, was new.

And she was new. There was so much newness to her that I didn’t know where to start with the questions once we ordered our drinks and settled into two plush, overstuffed chairs at the cafe, right near the window where passerby’s walked just a few feet away on the other side of the glass. I gazed at Mallory over my coffee mug, the steam rising in curly and smoky tendrils. She looked up from the chocolate
cakepop
I’d ordered her and she beamed at me. I should’ve told her about the clump of frosting that stuck to her bottom lip, but I didn’t. I let her savor her dessert because this was the old Mallory—the one who loved and appreciated everything so fully, even down to a bite of cake.

“So, Heath. Tell me about the person you’ve become.” Her lips met the mug and she held the warm liquid in her mouth before swishing it down. “The Californian. The teacher. The ex-husband.”

“That’s a loaded question.”

She offered an innocent smile. “Is it? I guess you’re right. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“No, no. It’s all right, I’m just trying to see if I can give you the condensed version.”

“It doesn’t have to be condensed.”

“I’ll spare you the boring details,” I said. “Promise.”

Mallory shifted in her chair. Her dress was beautiful, even if a little outdated. There was an effort she’d made here, and it was so endearing I found myself giddy over it. The paisley pattern on the fabric looked like something cut from Nana’s couch, but I loved knowing that she picked out her best for our night together. It wasn’t what I would call a terribly sexy dress, but it suited her. I sincerely hoped I’d get to see her in it again.