steps while Mom repeatedly stepped the wrong direction.
Finally he sighed.
“Mrs. Jane, Chrissy dances better.”
“That’s why she’s your date.” Mom’s voice softened. “Thank you for staying.”
Noah frowned as though she’d thanked him for breathing.
“She stays too.”
“Thank you for staying.”
Mom closed her eyes.
That was the answer she’d needed for years.
***
At prom, when the first slow song began, Noah held out his hand.
“Chrissy… You owe me.”
“Twelve years?”
“Yes.”
He stepped on my shoe within five seconds.
“You’re terrible at this.”
“Your dress is badly designed.”
“Chrissy… You owe me.”
We laughed until people stared.
Nothing extraordinary happened.
Nobody applauded us.
We were simply two 18-year-olds dancing badly together.
***
Afterward, Mom waited outside.
Noah carried my heels because my feet hurt.
I carried his jacket because he was feeling hot.
At the car, he opened my door.
We were simply two 18-year-olds dancing badly together.
I climbed inside, leaned across the seat, and opened his.
Mom watched us in the mirror.
For years, she’d seen me beside Noah and thought one of us was
She finally understood.
Nobody was rescuing anybody.
Nobody was fulfilling an obligation.
Nobody was rescuing anybody.
We were just two people who had figured something out at six that adults sometimes spend their whole lives learning.
When somebody matters to you, you stay.
And sometimes, if you’re lucky, they stay too.
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