Page 83 of Limbo

I reach up to my neck and rip off the necklace he gave me. When I go to throw it, he catches my wrist, his eyes never leaving mine. Neither of us moves, the air between us as charged as ever. Love. Hate. I can’t even tell the difference anymore. I’m starting to think I never could and fear I never will. The person who makes me feel the most also makes me feel the least. Crazy and numb, and I want the fuck out.

“We’re done,” I tell him. “For good.”

He smirks and slips the chain from my grasp. “Remember that’s what you wanted when all this shit”—he swings the necklace around, his eyes dancing around the room—“closes in around you. Because we both know it will, and we both know what happens when it does.”

Brock walks out the door, leaving me on top of the dresser, and I know it’s for the last time. I won’t let him in again. And as the screen door slams, I promise myself to never fall in love again. It’s toxic. But I guess all I needed to do was look at my parents to see that. Love ruins everything, and I’m done with it.

No more love.

No exceptions.

Ever.

In the fourth grade, our class learned how to play those little plastic recorders. Our semester’s worth of practice culminated in a recital. Before the performance, the teacher pulled me aside, asking me to only pretend to play so as not to ruin the experience for the other children. If only Jordan knew before he let me near a guitar.

We’ve been back at his house for a few days, every waking moment spent together. He’s lying in his boxers, watching me play at the foot of the bed. The more offensive the sound, the more he cringes, and the more I smile. The sole reason he tolerates me mocking the guitar gods is I’m strumming away in nothing but my bra and panties. I end my noise with a note not meant for human ears and return the poor instrument to the floor.

“When Beta Void finally decides to replace their awful guitarist, I’m auditioning.”

His eyes narrow, and the current guitarist attacks the future guitarist in a fit of jealousy. I giggle as he drags me back onto the mattress with him.

I’ve never had so much fun with someone before. Alone, around other people, freaking grocery shopping—every second with him is incredible, and I hate that we lost so many.

I flip around to straddle him. “Are you bored of me yet?”

“Not yet,” he says, his hand gliding up my side. “And when I do tire of you, we just need to have sex, and I’ll be good for another few hours.”

I roll my eyes and crawl off him to go search through a bookshelf full of CDs. The eclectic collection belongs to Benji as well as the bed and, technically for the next five months, the room.

Turns out, Benji picking me up from class that day cost Jordan his bedroom for six months. The guy went from a master with an en suite bathroom to a glorified broom closet for me. Since Benji failed to disclose this vital information in hisJordan wants morespeech, he owes me and can loan me his room for a few days.

I slide an album out. “Polka?”

Jordan swipes the case away, turning it over in his hand even though he eyes me. “Come on.”

He tosses the CD on the bed and leads me downstairs to the living room. I stand out of the way as he scrapes the coffee table legs over the wooden floor, dragging it out of the way. He completes the same ritual with the two couches on either side, clearing a large area in the middle.

“What are we doing?”

He plugs his laptop into a bunch of cords hanging next to the stereo. “We’re going to polka.”

An accordion plays through the speakers.

“You know how?” I ask, doubtful.

He nods on his way over. “My grandmother on my mother’s side taught me before she died.” He throws my hand over his shoulder and holds the other out, his spare hand on my hip. “All right, beautiful. We start with—”

I step back with my right, then left, and my right again, proving his tutorial unnecessary. A smile tugs at his lips as he shakes his head, then we polka our way around his living room. The song ends with a cymbal crash as he swings me onto the couch, dropping down beside me.

“You could have given me an ego boost and at least pretended to let me teach you,” he says.

Never, Waters.

“Don’t bother trying with the fox-trot, waltz, or square dancing either. Our gym teacher ran out of sports and taught us how to dance.”

“I’m with you all the way to square dancing. I draw a line there.”

Not a problem. If I need a fix, an intoxicated Tony still calls out steps at random and dosey-does my ass around. In our microscopic class, since no last names fell between Henders and Long, we experienced every group project and partnered activity together, dancing no exception.

---