Page 4 of Canadian Boyfriend

Earlier, when he’d been joking about my (lack of) grace, his smile had come in two parts, like the clicking up of a ChapStick. One click—one side of his mouth. Another click—the other side. This time, there was a third click, and both sides inched up a little more.

“Miss Rory!” Olivia exclaimed. “Your knee is bleeding!”

“It’s that nail on the edge of the dance floor that keeps coming up,” I said calmly, like my heartwasn’tabout to beat out of my chest.

Gretchen appeared with a hammer and pounded the nail down. “I’ll take over. After you clean yourself up, can you get Olivia’s registration squared away? I’ve prorated it for the weeks she missed, and the forms are on the desk.”

“Sure.” I nodded and, realizing I hadn’t properly greeted Olivia, said, “I’m so glad you’re back. I missed you.” She startled me by coming at me with a tackle-hug. She held on hard enough, and for long enough—and her dad watched us intently enough—that I started to feel awkward. I could feel the parents watching us. “Go join the class so I don’t bleed on you. That wasn’t how I was imagining welcoming you back.”

I gestured for Olivia’s dad to follow me as I clacked into the lobby, though what I really wanted to do was riff-walk my way right out the front door.Jazz hands! Nice to meet you! Hope to see you again never!But I ordered myself to get it together and said to him, this ghost of malls past, “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

While bandaging myself in the bathroom, I did my tapping routine—ha ha, not that kind of tapping, though I was still wearing the shoes. I made a couple of rounds, letting the pad of my middle finger ping off the bones around each eye, and soon I had control. Thankfully, this one hadn’t gotten veryfar—panic attack lite, anyone? Before I left, I rehearsed several questions:

What happened to your tooth?

When was the last time you visited the Mall of America?

When was thefirsttime you visited the Mall of America?

And, because I am not a monster:How are you and your daughter doing?

Back in the lobby, Mike Martin was sitting with Kylie’s mom on one side of him and Sansa’s mom, having abandoned her spectating, on the other. They were asking him questions, but none of the ones I had.

“Will you be coming to the holiday recital?” (It’s August, Jan. Calm down.)

“Did you know that for Tap 3, the requirement is a blue leotard and pink tights?” (It’s a suggestion, not a requirement, Darla.)

“Would you like some help shopping for the correct leotard?” (Stand down, Jan.)

“How is poor Olivia?” (Oh, for God’s sake.)

Mike Martin was looking at his hands and murmuring vague “Not sure yet” and “We’re fine, thanks” responses. I pitched my voice to cut through the women’s gooey, mercenary concern. “I have the registration forms for you, Mr. Martin.”

He popped up and jogged over to the desk. “You never told me your name. You’re the famous Miss Rory, I think?”

I rewound the tape, and yep, he told me his name after he helped me up, but I’d been too busy being agog and, you know, bleeding, to reciprocate. “I feel like in some cultures, me collapsing into a heap at your feet would count as an introduction.We even sealed it with blood.” I kicked my leg up so it cleared the reception desk and showed him my Dora the Explorer Band-Aid—Gretchen had been out of the regular ones, so I’d raided the stash she kept for the little kids.

He laughed, a single bark that was equal parts surprise and amusement. To make such a man laugh sent a thrill through me.

“But yes, I’m Aurora Evans. People call me Rory.”

“Aurora Evans,” he said, stretching my full name out over his tongue, like he was trying it on. “Rory.”

Oh my God. Would heremember?

Wasthere anything to remember? I’d started out sure this guy was my Mall Mike, but there was still the dimple to account for.

There was also the fact that the odds of thatsame guyshowing up in this studio all these years later wereimpossible.

I wished Mall Mike had told me his last name.

Click-click-click: this Mike, whoever he was, deployed the three-stage, ChapStick-tube smile again. “That is a great name,” he said breezily. “It sounds like the alter ego of a superhero.”

OK, so he didn’t remember. Which was probably because it wasn’t him, because there was nothingtoremember.

And/or because normal people did not remember mundane retail interactions from thirteen years ago, much less build up entire fantasy worlds based on them.

I attempted to click my own lips up into something approximating a smile. “Ha. Right. Klutzy dance teacher by day, but by night…” I had nothing. I could think of no magical abilities to assign myself. “What’s my superpower?”

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