“Hey.”
I looked behind me because I truly thought he had to mean someone else.
He noticed and let out a quiet laugh. “No, definitely you.”
“That’s brave,” I said.
He tilted his head. “You hiding over here?”
Then he held out his hand.
“Is it hiding if everyone can see me?”
But his expression shifted—softer now.
“Fair point,” he said. Then he held out his hand. “Would you like to dance?”
I stared at him. “Marcus, I can’t.”
He nodded once.
“Okay,” he said. “Then we’ll figure out what dancing looks like.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
Before I could object, he wheeled me onto the dance floor.
I went rigid. “People are staring.”
“They were already staring.”
“That doesn’t help.”
“It helps me,” he said. “Makes me feel less rude.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
When the song ended, he rolled me back to my table.
He took my hands. He moved with me instead of around me. He spun the chair once, then again—slower the first time and faster the second after he realized I wasn’t afraid. He grinned like we were breaking some unspoken rule.
“For the record,” I said, “this is insane.”
“For the record, you’re smiling.”
When the song ended, he rolled me back to my table.
I asked, “Why did you do that?”
I spent two years in and out of surgeries and rehab.
He shrugged, though something uneasy lingered in it.
“Because nobody else asked.”
After graduation season, my family relocated for extended rehab, and any chance of seeing him again disappeared with it.
