Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 90503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90503 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 453(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
“Good.” He laughed a little. “Your face when you thought I might be trying to take you up to a hotel room was priceless.”
“I bet. Are you even staying here?”
“Yes. It’s a nice place.”
“So when did you decide to do all this?”
“Today. Your story about missing the prom kinda got to me. I felt bad.”
“So this is a pity date? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Totally.” He grinned at me, and suddenly I knew how he’d felt the night he hadn’t wanted to say goodbye.
I didn’t want to do it tonight.
But you will, said a voice in my head. You have to. This isn’t real, Maren—it’s pretend. Maybe it’s not a pity date, but he did all this to be nice, not because he still has feelings for you. You don’t really have feelings for him, either. You’re just remembering what it was like when you did. And it’s making you feel lonely. But he lives in Portland, you live here, and you’re most likely never going to see each other again. So feel your feels, get your closure, and go home before you do something stupid. You’re strong, but you’re not invincible.
A moment later, Jason returned with Dallas’s credit card, waited while he signed the check, and told us there was no rush to leave. When he’d gone, I sat back in my chair and sighed, looking out over the city lights. “Dallas, this is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. Thank you for a wonderful night.”
He looked surprised. “Do you have a curfew or something?”
“No.”
“Good, because we haven’t even danced yet.”
I laughed. “You want to dance with me?”
“Of course I do. It’s the prom, isn’t it? Grab my phone in my inside jacket pocket.”
I reached into the pocket, pulled it out, and handed it to him. He searched for something, tapped the screen, and set it on the table. A song began to play, and I gasped. It was “Hey There Delilah,” a song I’d loved back then.
“You remembered,” I said, feeling a lump in my throat.
Dallas pushed his chair back, came around to my side of the table, and held out his hand. I took it and stood up, letting the jacket fall from my shoulders. He led me away from the table and slightly closer to the edge of the roof with a full view of the city beneath us. Without a word, he took me in his arms, and it was like home. Warm, safe, solid, familiar. I laid my head on his shoulder and pressed my body close to his. We swayed slowly, much slower than the tempo of the song, but I didn’t care. I wanted to be out of time with the rest of the world, I wanted us to be in a place where past, present, future didn’t exist. There was only us, here in this place, holding on to each other as if we’d never been apart. As if we’d never let go.
The lump in my throat grew bigger, and I tried hard to hold back the tears. I breathed in and out, attempting to center myself in the moment and simply be grateful for it. But the scent of his skin only made me want the impossible even more. Eventually, a tear fell. And then another. I sniffled.
Dallas stopped moving and leaned back from the waist. “Hey, you. I told you, there’s no crying at this prom.”
I laughed and let go of him to wipe my eyes, hoping my mascara hadn’t run. “Sorry. I guess this trip down memory lane has me a little emotional.”
“It’s this song. It’s sappy as fuck.”
I poked him on the chest. “Stop it. I still like this song.”
“I know, but it’s making you sad, and I want to remember you smiling tonight. Let’s do something else. Something fun.”
“Like what?”
His eyes lit up in the dark. “I’ve got an idea.”
“What is it?” I asked suspiciously. Dallas’s ideas could be trouble.
“You’ll see.” He let go of my waist and took my hand, trying to pull me toward the door. “Come on.”
“Dallas, my bag!” I cried, laughing as I tried to dig in my heels. “And your jacket and phone.”
He hurried to the table, grabbed everything, and bolted for the door again.
“Is this idea of yours even legal?” I asked, trying not to break an ankle hurrying down the stairs in my heels.
“That’s debatable. But it doesn’t matter, because we’re not going to get caught.”
I groaned. “You always said that.”
“And we never did.”
He was mostly right. As a couple, we’d been lucky—our parents had never walked in on us, a cop had never knocked on the window of his car, the condom had never broken.
“Okay, we never did, but you did,” I reminded him. “Half the time, I used to think you wanted to get caught, you were so blatant about breaking rules.” We exited the stairwell and headed for the elevators. Dallas kept my hand in his.