Page 76 of Nobody in Particular

I’ve sat in this piano seat so many times now, and tonight isn’t any different—other than my aching tailbone. I’m in the ballroom, and no one else is here, and the only people listening are the people crossing the courtyard. I’m safe.

Then I catch Rose’s eye, and she breaks into a grin, and I almost believe what I’m telling myself.

I start to play with shaking fingers, and, surprisingly, I don’t passout from fear. It helps that it’s an easy song, like I said. Just something I composed a couple of weeks ago, when none of the songs in my repertoire seemed to really capture my feelings. This tune is all Rose. It’s about how much better euphoria feels after you’ve been living your personal hell. How beautiful it is to kiss someone for the first time, and how much more beautiful it is to kiss them when you thought you never would again. How it feels to find someone who makes you into a version of yourself you want to be forever.

At first, it was only going to be for my ears. But then when I was trying to figure out what, exactly, I was going to give Rose for Valentine’s Day with a budget of zero, I thought of this. And I don’t know, maybe it’s cringey, or not enough. It obviously can’t measure up against a brand-new pair of leather skates. But it’s all I’ve got to give.

Then I dare to look out at the crowd, just for a second. I thought I would feel terrified, but no one’s laughing. No one.

I find Rose, who’s watching me with a hand over her mouth. I can tell she’s smiling behind it. As wide as she possibly can. And Molly—the only other person in the room who has any idea what’s happening right now—is watching Rose smile at me.

To anyone else, it probably just looks like Rose is proud of me for getting up here. Part of me knows that, even though another part of me can’t believe that anyone else can hear this song andnotknow all of my most personal feelings. It feels like I’m standing in the middle of the dining hall, screaming at the top of my lungs that Rose and I are together, and I’m falling for her harder than anyone I’ve ever met before.

It’s the closest I’ll ever come to doing just that, I guess.

And I’m so glad I did it. Because Rose’s face tells me she doesn’t find it cringey or not enough at all. I’ve never actually seen her look exactly like this.

I’m not sure I’ve ever seen anybody look at someone the way Rose is looking at me right now.

Later that night, when I’m already in my pajamas, there’s a knock on my door. I’m hoping it’s Rose before I open it, and when I see heron the other side, I can’t help smiling. That is, until I notice the wild look on her face, and how out of breath she is.

“What is it?” I ask, letting her in. As soon as my door closes, she’s up against me, kissing me and steering me toward the bed. I’ve kissed her hundreds of times by now, but these kisses seem intense, and urgent. Starved.

We hit the bed hard enough to bounce, and then I’m stretching out underneath her, tangling my fingers in her curls. One second her bodyweight is pressing down the length of me, and the next she shifts to the side a little. She rests her knee in the space between my legs, and at first I think it’s for balance. Then she shuffles higher, and her knee makes contact with me, and I pause mid-kiss.

“Is it—” She breaks off just before it becomes a question, but I answer it anyway by bringing my hips up toward hers. Until I found this friction, I had no idea how much I wanted it. It gives instant relief to the aching feeling I’ve become familiar with recently. More than relief, even. Something way better than that.

I try to press into her harder, and she responds by leaning her weight forward to meet me more firmly, kissing me deeply as she does, and I make a sound I’ve never made before. She takes both of my hands in hers, threads her fingers through them, and then rests them both on the mattress above my head, so all I can do is arch my back and kiss her harder as she starts to move forward and back. Every time she pulls away from me, the ache returns, heavier and more insistent than last time.

At first, it makes every time she rises back up better than the last. But eventually, it stops being enough. I grab at her as she goes to move away and pull her back in, shaking my head. She’s happy to oblige, and she closes her eyes, lips slightly parted, as I pull the full weight of her down on me. “Danni,” she whispers, letting go of one of my hands. “I want to…”

When I realize what she means, it’s like being slammed by a hurricane wall. So many things are true at once. I want her to as well, so badly, more than I’ve ever wanted anything, because her knee isn’t enough to subdue the ache anymore. And my heartbeat is going crazy, and I can barely breathe, and I can hardly eventhink. Butthe part of me that can think is coming up with lots of very scary thoughts. Like, how will I know what to do? And, what if I’m really awkward and horrible, and it makes her not like me anymore? And, what if she hates what she sees under my clothes?

She studies my face, and swallows. “We don’t have to,” she whispers, and no,no,I definitely—

“Want to,” I breathe, and it’s not even a proper sentence, and I don’t even care. “Please? But I haven’t done it before.”

“Me neither,” she says, dropping her knee back down. “But I’ve thought about it. Quite a lot.”

Her chest presses against mine, and I can feel her heart racing, too. And I guess somehow I’d forgotten that this is as new to her as it is to me, but remembering that makes me feel much more confident. Enough that I slide my hand between us without wasting any more time worrying about it. Unlike me, she hasn’t had a bit of friction this whole time, and when I find her over her underwear she lets out a strangled gasp that turns into a series of shallow, shaking breaths. It makes me feel powerful, and wanted, and so turned on I feel like I might pass out if it goes on for much longer.

When she undresses me, I stop worrying altogether, because it’s not possible to see the way she’s looking at me and be self-conscious. She drags her eyes and her fingertips down from my collarbone to my hips in sync, and she tips her head to one side and shakes it slowly, and I feel—

“Just so fucking beautiful,” she murmurs, and it’s the last thing she says to me before she finally gives me what I asked her for.

THIRTY-TWOROSE

By Monday afternoon, the Valentine’s Day photos are everywhere. And not, unfortunately, the quite convincing couple photos of Alfie and me. Rather, other photos, taken by the public, from their area across the traffic cones. Between the dozens of people filming us at any given moment, they’ve captured every slipup. From Danni and me meeting eyes across the ice, to the look of fear on my face when she fell, to me lifting her head off the ice. And though most of these moments lasted a second or two at most—a longing glance, a micro-expression—when captured in still-frame, they last a lifetime.

It’s not only one or two accounts posting these ones, either. It may have started out that way, but while the last round of speculation online failed to take off, this time multiple people are starting to listen. It’s the subject of multiple forum discussions, and theory videos, and personal essays, and trashy tabloid articles.

PRINCESS ROSEMARY’S PRIVATE SCHOOL PASSION

WHO IS DANNI BLYTHE? HERE’S WHAT WE KNOW ABOUT PRINCESS ROSEMARY’S RUMORED LESBIAN LOVER!

“DANNI SLEEPS IN PRINCESS ROSEMARY’S BED AT THE PALACE”: ROYAL INSIDER SPILLS ALL

People are talking on social media, too, now. Quite a lot of them. Danni grimly passes her phone to me while we wait outside history class to show me the dozens of notifications and message requests she’s received since lunchtime alone. Even Molly pulls us aside to show us the barrage of comments on her posts asking about Danni and me.

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