Page 44 of Power Moves
‘Hmmm.’ Archie frowns at the wad of bloodied paper I’m holding against my nose. He pulls a paper towel from the dispenser, rips it in half and starts rolling it into a cigarette shape. ‘Use this.’
‘Huh?’
He taps me softly on the nose.
‘Oh, I get it.’ Biting my lip in concentration, I take the rolled-up paper from him, remove the paper towels from my nose, and then gently slide his creation into my left nostril. I move my hand away and bob my head to see if it will fall out, but no. It fits perfectly. It is a very odd, Cinderella-esque moment.
‘See?’ asks Archie. ‘Good, right?’
His face is so earnest I have to laugh. ‘Thanks Archibald, but I can hardly go back out to the dancefloor with paper towel up my nose.’
Archie smiles. ‘So we wait.’
‘Guess so.’ I wince, putting my hand to my temple. My head is really throbbing now. Though that may just be the champagne catching up with me.
‘Want me to do a head-injury assessment?’ he asks. ‘You might be concussed. Sit on that thing,’ he says, pointing to the laminate bench.
I hoist up my dress to lever myself onto it and Archie stands in front of me, putting his hands on the bench on either side of my hips so he can lean towards me. I’m abruptly conscious of my breathing, and I try to quieten it down. He’s so close I can see the smattering of freckles across his cheekbonesand the tiny flash of a silver scar at the end of his left eyebrow. His eyes are a deep brown—almost black—with flecks of gold around the pupils, and his eyelashes—I wouldkillfor those eyelashes. It’s quite hilarious, actually. Up close, Archie Cohen is a really pretty guy.
‘What?’ he asks as my lips start to twitch. ‘Tell me.’
‘Nope.’
Archie readjusts his grip on the bench and leans in closer, as though he thinks he can find the answer in my eyes. A grin blooms across my face, which I try and fail to wipe off. Archie is grinning too and his eyes crinkle into half-moons. It’s quite the novelty, this game of chicken. There is no way I’m telling him he’s a pretty guy, and there’s no way he’s taking no for an answer. It’s spatially impossible to get closer without touching so I guess we’ll hover like this forever, or at least until one of us falters—and it won’t be me.
Slowly, without breaking eye contact, Archie rolls his shoulders as if to relax into his pose. He’s preparing for the long game. I decide I should do the same. I tilt my neck from side to side, pressing my lips into a close-lipped grin. The challenge in my eyes is clear.Try me, Archibald. I’ve been keeping secrets for years.
Our noses are almost touching; his warm breath is feathering my jaw. Our eyes are locked in battle, and that’s how I see it: the infinitesimal flicker as his eyes move to my lips. It’s so fast it almost never happened, but I saw it, and I can’t unsee it. My breath involuntarily hitches. Archie’s deepens. I’m suddenly aware of how close we are. If I accidentally inhale too hard, my cleavage will brush his chest. His hands are inches from my butt.
‘I need to blink!’ I yelp.
Archie pulls back, startled. ‘Your pupils look fine,’ he mutters. He shakes his head like he’s trying to empty it of something. ‘The concussion must be mild.’
On cue, my temple unleashes an almighty throb. ‘It still hurts,’ I whimper.
‘Use this,’ says Archie, pulling a glass from the windowsill that has an unlit tea candle inside. ‘An icepack would be better but at least the glass will be cold.’ He grabs a paper towel, wipes the dust from the glass and hands it to me.
My forehead creases. ‘Has anyone told you you’re like the Bear Grylls of Northern Beaches bathrooms?’
Archie waggles his eyebrows. ‘I have some skills.’
‘Do you mean skills with a “z”? Like, skillz? Footy players always have mad skillz, don’t they?’
‘I didn’t have any,’ says Archie. ‘That’s why I didn’t last.’
I scoff. ‘As if, Archie. The nation’s sports journos spent the whole off-season mourning your loss. I’ve never seen the words “anterior cruciate ligament” mentioned so many times in mainstream media.’
‘You read those stories?’
I feel my cheeks flare with heat. ‘It’s my job to read the news.’
Archie turns away, a smile creeping across his face. He tugs a paper towel from the dispenser, wets it under the tap and stands in front of me. ‘Give me your arm.’
‘Why?’
Archie doesn’t bother responding. He grabs my hand in his and uses his other hand to start wiping the bloody mess off my forearm.
‘Ooh yuck,’ I say, shifting on the bench to give him better access. I hadn’t realised I was still covered in blood. ‘You don’t have to do that,’ I add weakly, as I continue pressing the cold glass into my temple with my other hand.
