Page 20 of Always

Anika couldn’t help feeling a little thrill at his words. It had been a long time since she’d been on a date, whether he meant that seriously or not. This would be good for her. James had made it clear that he wasn’t interested in her anymore. It was time to move on.

Still, whatever James might say, however he might have changed in the last eight years, Anika knew him very well. She knew the micro-expressions of his face, how he shifted his weight when he was nervous, how he pressed his lips together when he was angry. And though James might not admit it even to himself, she knew that when Marco couldn’t stop staring at her, James had been jealous.

Her suspicions were confirmed a few minutes later when Anika made her way down to the dance floor. She had spotted Liam Doyle chatting with Aunt Molly. She joined them, hugging her aunt round the waist and complimenting her deep purple gown and amethyst earrings.

“Anika, I’ve never seen you look so beautiful,” Aunt Molly said seriously. “It’s like seeing your mother standing in front of me again. You know that was her favorite necklace.”

“I know,” Anika said.

“Anika,” Mr. Doyle said, “you’re full of surprises. Look at this place! I was here a month ago for a bar mitzvah. You’ve completely transformed it.”

Anika was about to demur again, but something came into her head that James had told her a long time ago. “You know,” he had teased her, “sometimes you can just accept a compliment.”

“Thank you,” Anika said to Liam. “Gwen tells me we’re definitely going to hit our donation goal.”

That was an understatement. Gwen had actually said they’d doubled their goal already, and the guests had yet to reach peak drunkenness, which usually coincided with peak generosity.

The band—consisting of a bass player, pianist, trumpeter, clarinetist, and drummer, fronted by a curvaceous beauty in a sequined gown and elbow-length silk gloves—was playing ragtime covers of modern songs. They had just wrapped up a jazz rendition of Tove Lo’s “Habits.”

“They sound fantastic,” Liam said. “Where did you find them?”

“That was Gwen.” Anika said. “I think she used to date the bassist.”

“Ah, thank you,” Liam said to James, who had just brought him a drink from the bar. He had one for Aunt Molly as well.

“Would you like anything?” he asked Anika. His stiff politeness made her sigh.

“No, thank you,” she said.

She was about to say she’d better check on the food, make sure they weren’t running low on anything, when the band struck up a version of TI’s “Whatever You Like.” Anika couldn’t help turning back to James, laughing out loud.

“Do you remember—" he began.

She knew what he was going to say. They used to joke it was “their song.” Of course that was when they were students. They couldn’t buy each other jets or cars or vacations, just a latte from their favorite cafe or a shared password to a Netflix account.

“We have to dance to this one,” Mr. Doyle said, pulling Aunt Molly out onto the ballroom floor. With her heels on, Liam was slightly shorter and probably lighter, but he managed to twirl her around with impressive grace. Aunt Molly bent her head slightly to rest her cheek against his. She looked extremely content.

Her aunt’s happiness made Anika happy, and the glow of her smile lit up her whole face. When James saw it, he couldn’t help but open his mouth to ask her to dance.

But someone else asked her first—Marco Moretti, sliding smoothly between them and holding out his hand to pull Anika onto the dance floor.

“Oh,” she said, “alright...”

She glanced back at James. Now she was certain of his jealousy—he’d never been able to hide his emotions from her. And truly, the idea that she was causing him any amount of pain made her insides twist into knots. But on the other hand, what good was his interest in her if it only flared up under direct competition with someone else? It didn’t mean he still loved her. It only meant that he found it unpleasant to watch her flirt with someone else.

Marco took her hand, placing his other palm on the small of her back. He steered her between the other couples on the dance floor.

His hands were strong—he was strong. His muscles were taut beneath the expensive fabric of his crisp white dinner jacket. His intensity and energy intimidated her a little. He stood very close to her as they danced, as Italians tended to do. The song changed to “Glass Heart,”—a little slower—and he pulled her even closer.

“You’re an excellent dancer,” Marco said approvingly.

“It’s been a while,” Anika said. In some ways, dancing was like horseback riding—it was moving in sync with someone else, matching them so closely that you became like one creature.

“Did you take classes as a child?” Marco asked.

“A few,” Anika said. “My mother wanted us to try everything—ballet, tennis, painting, French...”

“My father was the same,” Marco said. “All the elegant pursuits. And he wanted me to excel at school too. But I only wanted to kick a soccer ball or be a race car driver.”

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