Page 38 of Lovesick
I turn over my left shoulder, performing a calypso that ultimately sends me to the floor as I use the outside of my thigh to swing myself a few feet across the space. Relying on my left hand to support my body weight, I arch my spine into another twisted shape, pushing my pelvis up with the help of my feet planted firmly into the ground. Then I lower back down, straddling in my middle splits, before rolling back up to a stance.
I try that octuple fouetté again—with Ms. Carmine’s voice in the back of my head—and focus on a spot on the far wall so I can whip around without getting dizzy. And somehow, without falling out of it, I land the spin, finishing it off with a side tilt so my leg is completely extended over my head.
As the song dwindles, I shift my weight to my right foot, letting the momentum spin me around so I can replicate the same position I was in when I started—knees bent, head lowered, spine curved.
The turbulent choreography ends. Everything is still. I’m one with my head, heart, and body. I’ve never been able to perfect that turning portion. I wasn’t given the chance to on stage before I collapsed. But this…this is a fresh start for me. Things are going to be different.
I relish the silence, listening to the heave-ho of my breaths while my success whets that hardworking appetite of mine. And just as I’m about to run the sequence again, the distinct noise of someone clapping yanks me from my heavenly reverie. Turning around—too flustered to tell them off—I’m in acomplete state of shock when my eyes land on Crew of all people.
There he is, still clapping, staring in awe at my performance. I’ve never been shy when it comes to dancing, but to dance in front ofhim? I feel like he just jammed his thumb into a lockbox of all my secrets and wrenched it open.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I ask, doing my best to cover up my crop top, though I’m not sure why because it’s not like we haven’t already seen each other naked.
“I came here to deliver a message,” Crew explains, bowing like an idiot, and I hate that the beginning of a smile eventemptsmy lips.
“Your dad approved the hockey team’s involvement in your fundraiser.”
Don’t squeal. Don’t squeal. Don’t squeal. Act cool. It’s not a big deal. I’m not giving Crew the benefit of being my savior…even though he is.
Keeping it prim and proper, I utter a simple “thank you,” hoping that my apathy dissuades him from encroaching on Merit-only territory. I appreciate him going out of his way to tell me, but that doesn’t mean we need to start a conversation. He’s off-limits. And annoying. And a hockey player. What more convincing do I need?
But he has a big?—
Merit!
Heart. He has a big heart.
And penis.
Something is seriously wrong with you.
I walk over to retrieve my bag—you know, the universal sign that I’m about to leave—but Crew must’ve missed social etiquette class because he continues to yap my ear off.
“I didn’t know you could dance like that,” he says, thoroughly impressed, eyes all big and glossy like he’s a kid in a candy store.
I try to hide how much Ilovethe praise. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” I reply, furling my hand around the strap of my duffel.
I’m ready to put a pin in this conversation, but leave it to Crew to prolong my torture in the most unmenacing way possible. Before I can beeline for the door, he implores me with that sensual voice of his, and it drips down my spine like honey straight from the comb.
“I want to learn more.”
His—seemingly unequivocal—declaration sets off the alarm bells in my head, piquing my interest despite my father’s warning. I have no idea why he’d want to get to know me when all I’ve done is give him hell.
“Why?”
He doesn’t hesitate, and my belly fizzles with a foreign warmth.
“Because you seem like someone worth knowing. Plus, we’re going to be working together for an entire semester.”
I tip my head up at him, hyperaware of the fact that I’m tightroping on a knife’s edge, destined to plummet to my death if I so much as move aninchoff target.
My words are brittle, and it feels like there’s a fishing line caught in my throat, tugging on the delicate tissue. “If you think we’re going to be friends, we aren’t.”
Crew inches closer to me, hooking his index finger under my jaw and forcing me to look into the irresistible, blue quarries of his eyes. “Merit, I don’t want to be your friend.”
Dear God. His touch should repulse me—he’s a hockey player for Christ’s sake—but it doesn’t. It never has. I’ve never been putty in a man’s hands before. It’s terrifying and exhilarating and I’m not in the right headspace to consider the consequences.
Eschew eye contact, girl! Push him away! Don’t give in.
