Page 98 of Everything's Coming Up Rosie

The heat between us is charged, like there are tiny zaps of electricity no matter which way I move.

He brushes my hair back away from my face, his eyes searching mine. Without permission, my gaze reaches his lips. They’re good lips. Full. Soft. And for a fraction of a moment, I’m certain he’s going to kiss me.

And I’m certain I’m going to let him.

But then he gives my hand a tug, and we make our way out onto the floor, through the crowd of people around us dancing like no one’s watching. They make it look so easy.

And I think about all the moments in my life that have been defined by this overwhelming concern about what other people think.

And tonight, I don’t want to care. So I close my eyes, fold into his arms, and start to dance.

Chapter 25

“Did you kiss him?”

I’m staring out the front window, lost in the memory of last night, eating a bowl of cereal in my pajamas when Daisy’s voice behind me startles me back to reality. Unfortunately, it startles me so much my spoon goes flying, landing on the hardwood floor yards away from me with a clang.

I spin around and see Daisy standing there, also in her pajamas, the remnants of yesterday’s makeup still streaked on her face.

She quirks a brow. “You’re jumpy.”

“You should wash the makeup off your face at night,” I tell her. “You’re going to clog your pores.”

“Thank you, Mom,” she says.

I walk over to my spoon and pick it up, ignoring her question as I walk into the kitchen and get a clean one. “You’re up early.”

“So are you.” She pulls a bagel out of the cupboard, splits it, and sticks it in the toaster. “And you didn’t answer my question.”

I scoop a bit of Frosted Flakes into my mouth and chew, trying to come up with a way to end this conversation. Because I already know what Daisy will say when I tell her that no, I didn’t kiss Booker.

I really wanted to. I think he wanted to kiss me too.

But we didn’t.

While it might be fun initially—sharing truths and getting to know each other better—I’m proud of myself for remaining cautious. Because now, in the light of day, without the influenceof line dancing and lemonade, all I can do is fast-forward a few months to see hownotfunit would be to be head over heels and have to say goodbye.

Daisy pulls her bagel from the toaster and slathers it with cream cheese, then takes a bite like she hasn’t eaten in days, letting out a slightly inappropriate-sounding moan. “Oh my gosh, this is so good.” She’s wearing plaid boxers and an oversized sweatshirt that hangs off her shoulder. Her hair is piled in a bun on top of her head, and for some reason I can’t figure out, she looks gorgeous.

And then it hits me—she’s happy. Genuinely happy.

I study her for a few seconds, the way I often study people, thinking to myself,So this is what happiness looks like. No concern for what’s up ahead, just a willingness to let go and go along for the ride. I dipped my toe in those waters last night, but today? I’m firmly back on solid ground.

“You good?” Daisy says, her mouth full of bagel.

I eat the last bite of my cereal and rinse out my bowl. “Yeah. I’m good. I need to get to the theatre.”

“I want details,” she pouts, like a toddler whose parent won’t let them have ice cream for dinner.

“There are no details,” I say, sticking the bowl and both spoons in the dishwasher. “Booker and I are just friends.”

She laughs. “Friends? Girl. Friends donotlook at each other the way you two look at each other. Or dance the way you two were dancing.” She wags her eyebrows. “Did you also carry a watermelon?”

I ignore theDirty Dancingreference and a vivid, pleasant memory assaults my senses—me, standing on the dance floor, Booker’s arms around my waist, my hands clasped behind his neck, my head on his chest. I drew in a deep breath, memorizing his scent, every nerve in my body waking up from a long hibernation.

I want to give in to it, this new, strange, delicious desire, but I can’t.

I can’t.

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