The song Dane called ours is already underway by the time Rhys draws me onto the dance floor. I loop my arms around his neck, keeping my face turned toward his shoulder. Bianca is watching from the table. That is part of the reason I let him pull me close. The other part is that looking at him feels like inviting trouble.
“You’re not playing fair,” I tell him.
He tips his head. “You were the one who climbed into my lap.”
“That was strategy. And I absolutely did not give you a lap dance.”
He imitates my breathy voice from the table, asking everyone whether they liked his hair. “You said you liked it.”
“I said I liked it. I didn’t say it was sexy.”
“You didn’t have to. I heard the message.”
“I’m doing what the situation requires.”
“Which is?”
“Acting like I’m in love with you.”
His body goes still for half a beat. “When you actually were, you didn’t make a show of sitting on me in public.”
“Since I haven’t done that tonight, I’m guessing this is reverse psychology. Sorry, Rhys. It won’t work.”
He makes a sound under his breath and has nothing to add. We move stiffly together for a few measures, neither of us willing to call it dancing.
“Are you really going to pretend the cellar didn’t happen?” he asks.
“Nothing happened in the cellar.”
“You have nothing to say about what nearly did?”
A phrase from another conversation comes back to me. “A tumbleweed convention. That’s what’s going on in my head.”
He shakes his head. The edge of his mouth brushes my temple.
Our graduation song fades, replaced by a slow, aching ballad. The karaoke singer has a good voice, which makes the change of mood worse. It’s an abrupt turn for a bar, and a terrible soundtrack for this conversation.
Jules and Bianca have joined the dancers nearby. Rhys turns me once. I use the space to draw a full breath, away from the pine-and-spice smell of him. Then he brings me in again, close enough that our fronts meet.
“So,” he says against my ear. “The dress, the heels, your new fondness for the beard. Anything else I should know about?”
My fingers find the ends of his hair. The skin at the back of his neck tightens beneath my touch. I like knowing I can still affect him. The cellar shook me; his life may be easier without me in it. But whatever has always pulled us together has not disappeared for either of us.
“The coffee-table book,” I say. “The beard. All the messages you keep sending. What else changed?”
The question is out before I can stop it. I know how completely he cut me out of his life. I don’t want to learn how quickly he managed to pull the pieces of himself back together afterward.
His eyes search mine, dark and intent, as if he’s trying to ask something without saying it. His hands ease from my waist and settle lower on my hips. His mouth tightens.
“Nothing else, I guess,” he says.
The song ends. For a few seconds we stay where we are, holding on without speaking. Then we let go.
• • •
When we return to the table, Livia has taken the chair someone left open. Before I can reach it, Rhys sits and pulls me across his thighs as if there was never any question.
The message is obvious: if I raise the stakes, he’ll raise them too.
I have no intention of backing down. I settle against his chest and comb my fingers through his hair again. His hand travels along my thigh, its warmth coming through the red fabric. My pulse shifts. He leans toward my neck. His lips skim the skin there as he breathes, never quite turning it into a kiss.
The server comes by with the fries Livia ordered. “Could I get a glass of white wine?” I ask, too loudly.
“Sure.” He gives our arrangement a wide berth and heads back toward the bar.
When the wine arrives, I drain it. At this point, slowing my thoughts seems like the less disastrous option.
“You doing all right, Mara?” Rhys asks, his voice lowered into a teasing imitation of a crooner.
I turn to face him, bringing my chest against his. My arms cross behind his neck; his gaze moves down me and back up. His jaw works once. When he breathes in, we press closer. His heartbeat is fast under my hand. He adjusts my place on his lap, both hands at my hips.
For the thrill of getting a reaction—and because five months of anger have nowhere else to go—I lean toward his ear. “Couldn’t be better.”
His fingers tighten before sliding along my legs, passing the hem and finding bare skin. We’re pretending for our friends, but the heat between us isn’t pretend. I can feel his body respond. Every nerve in me seems awake. I refuse to be the first to retreat.
“Darts?” Livia calls from the other side of the table. “I’m looking for a challenger.”
“I’ll play!” Jules says, already getting up.
I keep Rhys’s eyes. I’m waiting to see who gives in. He glances toward Livia, then looks back at me. “Maybe later. I’m fine right here.”
• • •
Livia beats four locals and Jules at darts. Dane and Bianca get pulled into a conversation with the bachelorette party about redistricting and Dane’s public-interest work. The group takes the unexpected turn in stride. Dane has a way of making any crowd feel like his living room, and Livia keeps arranging rounds of cinnamon shots.
By the end of the night, she and Dane have traded actual business cards with a couple of the party guests. I hadn’t known either of them carried cards. Rhys, Bianca, and I have to help get the three celebrating hardest—Livia, Dane, and Jules—out to the cab. Even then, Dane manages to put on the atmospheric closing track he always saves for the ride home.
In the back seat, Livia droops against me, nearly asleep. I lean into Rhys as the movement carries us together. He keeps one hand around my knee. I can’t tell whose pulse is pounding harder.
At the lodge, those of us still steady guide the others into the kitchen and get water into their hands. Upstairs, we exchange goodnights. My heart is beating too high in my throat as I follow Rhys into our room. I hesitate at the door, suddenly unwilling to shut us in together.
He reaches past my shoulder and closes it. His palm stays on the wall beside my head.
We’re a foot apart, but the space between us feels charged: like that dark nook beneath the stairs, like being draped across him in the middle of a crowded bar.
His gaze moves over my face. His tongue passes over his lower lip. “Are we done?” he asks, voice rough.
I lift my chin. “Done with what?”
Somehow we’re closer now. One corner of his mouth shifts, though his eyes remain fixed on mine. His breath brushes my lips. Either of us could end the distance with a single movement.
“Why are you punishing me?”
I try to laugh angrily, but nothing comes. He looks so earnest, so lost, as if the answer truly escapes him.
As if he can’t understand that my love didn’t vanish when he left. It had to go somewhere. I’ve been turning it into anger because that’s the only way I’ve found to get through these last two days.
The thought leaves me feeling alone and worn down.
He swallows. “Could we call a truce? Just be friends for the next few days?”
Friends. The word is so small and sterile that it stings. It lands on my hurt like another injury. But I can’t hold on to my anger.
“Fine,” I say. “A truce.”
He takes his hand off the wall and steps away. After a pause, he nods toward the bed. “You take it.”
He doesn’t look any more relieved than I feel.