Page 49 of Changing the Playbook
As he disappears toward the bar, I collapse into my chair, heart trying to escape through my throat. What am I doing? The boundaries exist for a reason. One night only. No complications. No hockey players.
My dad doesn’t need the complication.
Mike doesn’t need the distraction.
I definitely don’t need another person to worry about losing.
Yet I’d almost?—
“I need two volunteers!” The performer onstage calls out. “Two people who don’t really know each other well.”
Mike materializes beside me, fresh drinks in hand. Before I can process the danger, he shoots both our hands skyward. “We’ll do it!”
“What—”
“New experience.” That grin should be illegal. “Never been part of performance art before.”
“This is a terrible idea,” I say, but I don’t resist as he tugs me toward the stage, because apparently my self-preservation instincts took the night off.
“All my best stories start that way.”
The performer positions us facing each other center stage, quietly thanking us for taking part as she does. The crowd perks up, scenting either entertainment or disaster or possibly both.
“This piece explores human connection through movement.” The performer’s voice carries the particular confidence of someone who’s never experienced social anxiety. “Because five minutes of dancing with a stranger teaches you more about them and yourself than hours of conversation.”
“We’re not strangers,” I mutter.
“No.” Mike’s lips twitch. “But we’re definitely something.”
The woman launches into her spoken-word piece—all about boundaries and bodies and the language of touch. Then some music starts. Slow. Rhythmic. The kind of beat that belongs in a bedroom, not on a stage surrounded by drunk college kids.
“Dance,” she commands.
I stare at Mike. He stares back. Someone in the crowd snickers.
“I don’t dance.”
“Neither do I. Remember the moonwalk?”
“That wasn’t dancing. That was physical comedy.”
He extends his hand. “Come on, Sophie. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“Someone films this and it goes viral and?—”
His fingers close around mine, tugging me closer. “You’re overthinking.”
“It’s my superpower.”
“I know.” His other hand finds my waist. “That’s why you need this.”
The performer continues her piece, but her words dissolve into background noise. Mike starts swaying—barely more than shifting weight—and I follow because the alternative involves standing rigid while everyone watches. The entire bar feels like it’s leaning in, waiting for us to fall apart.
“See?” His voice drops low enough that only I can hear. “Not so bad.”
“This is mortifying.”
“You just read a poem about your deepest fears to a room full of strangers.”
