She’s done something to make the makeup she wears to work even more stop-and-stare-worthy than usual, with black stuff that turns her eyes all cat-like and lipstick so deep red it’s almost purple. She’s got a gorgeous mouth, and the way the colour contrasts with her hair and the roses just makes it even harder to stop staring.
“What’s up, Zachy Zach?”
Her voice has a trace of tiredness to it, and her shoulders are slumped so slightly I’m sure no one else notices, but I do. Something’s been bothering her all night. It snaps me out of the black hole of workplace inappropriate fantasies her lipstick was pulling me into.
“Monroe says we’re good to go.”
“Oh, thank fuck.”
She lunges for the time clock and jabs her finger against the screen like it’s personally offended her before taking off into the back. I punch my own code in and follow after her.
“You, uh, okay?” I call out after spotting her in the corner of the kitchen where we all hang our coats and bags.
It’s marginally quieter back here, but we still have to speak in louder than average tones. Only one set of overhead lights is on, casting the empty kitchen in shadow.
DeeDee looks up from where her fingers are flying over the screen of her phone. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry, I just had to send a text.”
“You don’t have to be sorry. I was just...worried about you.”
It feels like an intimate thing to admit, and I stumble over the words.
DeeDee doesn’t seem to notice. She gives the screen a few final taps and then crosses her arms, letting out a few choice French curse words.
“Men are so frustrating.”
I force a chuckle. “I can’t help feeling a little attacked.”
She scoffs like I’ve said something ridiculous. “I meantmen, as in like, men that I date or...”
I do my best to keep my internal flinch from becoming an external one. The brief flash of regret in her face tells me I might have failed.
“You know what?” She unfolds her arms and tucks her phone into her purse before I can embarrass myself any further. “It doesn’t matter. I did not put this flower crown on just so I could be sad about somemaudit mec. Let’s dance.”
She marches forward, hooks her arm in mine, and drags us back into the front.
She doesn’t stop moving until we’re in the very center of the dance floor, weaving her way between bodies and leaving me to elbow out a path beside her. I dish out a few apologetic glances, but I’m caught in Hurricane DeeDee, and there doesn’t seem to be a way out.
The crowd is really getting sloppy now, and I’m glad I won’t have to be the one to announce last call. DeeDee turns to face me once she’s found her desired spot, and all the tension has drained right out of her. The frustration and fatigue are gone, like the music is a life force filling her up. Even with the flailing arms and fist-bumping undergrads jostling against us, even with the smell of spilt beer in the air and the throb of EDM beats pounding in my skull, looking at her with that grin on her face is like stepping into the sun.
She’s radiant.
She lets out some unintelligible exclamation, and then she’s moving, bouncing along to the beat and circling her hips in that mesmerizing way of hers, the one that instantly gets the attention of everyone around us.
“Dance, Zach!”
She screams it loud enough for me to hear, and then she takes my hands in hers and lifts our arms into the sky. She leads us in a weird routine that resembles an interpretive dance about tree branches in the wind, and I’m sure the entire room is wondering where the hell these idiots came from, but I don’t care. I smile down at her and let her switch things up until we’re moving our joined arms in some kind of choo-choo train motion, followed by a wax-on-wax-off pattern, and then a good old fashioned ‘raise the roof.’
It’s stupid and freeing and fun. Like a cheesy movie scene, the rest of the crowd fades away. The music gets slower. The spotlights flash over her skin as she unlaces her fingers from mine and lets her hands drop to my shoulders.
She’s close. She’s so fucking close I can see the faint spray of freckles that runs over the bridge of her nose and the tops of her cheeks. Her face is framed by pink flowers. Her lips are the same deep burgundy as a glass of red wine. She parts them just slightly, just a fraction of an inch—and this is it.
I don’t know how or why, but I’m not going to stop to question anything, because this is it. This is the magic moment I seize instead of backing down and turning away.
This is it. This is it. This is it.
“Oh my god, is thisPony?”
The shout comes from a very drunk girl right beside us. It’s more of a scream, loud and shrill enough to make me cringe and glance toward her.
