Every Little Thing

23

Our next stop is a hole-in-the-wall restaurant with a live band and a crowd that, finally, doesn't seem to be too rowdy. Reed orders fries for the both of us and we sip at water with lemon in a corner table, with the seats elevated so that my feet don't even touch the floor. He smiles at me from across the table. Subconsciously, I wonder if I am blushing as wildly as I think I am.

"So," Reed says, breaking the slightly-uncomfortable silence between us, "I want you to read this. The whole thing."

I watch as he takes She out of his pocket and slides it across the table to me. I hesitate, not wanting to take something that seems so valuable to him and potentially tarnish it, or lose it, the list goes on and on.

I shake my head with a slight laugh. "No, you—you don't have to do that."

Confusion flickers across his features. "Why not?"

"I mean, I already know how it ends. And I don't want to—I feel like I'll accidentally ruin it. I'm a clumsy person, Reed, and I forget things and that's your book and—"

"Evelyn," Reed laughs, "You talk about borrowing my book like you're borrowing my prized possessions. There are a million copies of this book in stores all over the world. If something were to happen, I wouldn't be mad. It probably wouldn't even be your fault."

"How would it not be my fault?"

He shrugs, and I lean forward, suddenly interested in arguing my case.

"So you're saying," I say slowly, the competitiveness in me rising up, "That if I were to accidentally trip and drop your book in a puddle, it wouldn't be my fault."

"No," Reed says, not even missing a beat. "It would be the puddle's fault."

I can't help it; I laugh outright.

"What?" He asks, although his eyes are crinkled with mirth.

"You don't make any sense."

"I guess I'm just trying to stop you from blaming yourself for everything."

His tone is gentle, but the laughter dies in my throat. I cough, avoiding his gaze as he murmurs,

"Evelyn, your life deserves to be lived. And I know you wonder at every twist and turn whether you're doing the right thing, or whether you should hold back or not, but—if you just forget all that, if you just close your eyes and forget and take a risk, you could change everything."

There's a long pause.

I will not look at him. I will not look at him. I will not—

"Evelyn," he says then, pleadingly, "Look at me. Please."

And slowly, I lift my eyes to meet his. He blows out a breath.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't—I shouldn't just assume things. But I can't help wishing you could realize what a statement you are."

"A statement?" I ask, and my voice creaks like a floorboard. Clearing my throat, I open my mouth to repeat myself, but Reed has already heard.

"Yeah, a statement. You're captivating. And when you allow yourself to be seen, people can't help but look away."

"I'm not shy or anything," I protest, and he holds up a steady hand.

"I know you're not," he says, softly. "God, I know you're not. It just seems like you're so caught up in what other people think that you forget the fact that you're a person, too, and you deserve to live your life without constraint."

"It doesn't work like that." I reply, through a weak laugh.

"And why not?"

"Because anxiety just doesn't work that way. I can't just make it disappear."

"Ah," Reed says, a soft breath, and that's when I realize what I've just said. There is no hiding my blush now.

"There's the diagnosis for you," I say, trying to make the words sound like a joke, but they come out bitter, and he doesn't break eye contact. He just nods.

"Okay, then." He says, not pausing to think or anything. "Okay. I'll stop pressing you about it."

Thank you, I want to say, but for some reason, something inside me caves. Why do I feel disappointment? Why isn't he repulsed by my mental issues? Why isn't he walking away already?

I wish he would just walk away already.

But instead, he smiles and taps his feet against the barstool, fingers drumming to the beat of the music, eyes scanning the crowded dance floor, the murmur of conversations around us, the cheers from sports onlookers.

"Want to dance?" He asks finally, and I feel my entire face break out into a smile.

"Seriously?"

"Dead serious."

I laugh in spite of myself, starting to protest but then deciding that it's okay, that no one will notice and that—deep down—I want to dance with Reed Bishop.

"Okay," I say finally, "Okay, let's do it."

He grins and extends a hand, which I take as we dismount our chairs and make our way, slowly but surely, onto the crowded floor. The music is upbeat and lively, and Reed starts to bop along to it, grinning like an idiot as I watch him, moving this way and that, making a complete fool of himself.

"Oh, my God," I wheeze, clutching at my stomach in laughter. "What is that?"

"Dancing," he replies, sucking in a large breath of air, his face already red-tinged from excursion. "I'd like to see you try it."

"Anything I do will look better than your spasms," I joke, and he waves me off good-naturedly.

"Alright, if you're that sure of yourself, be my guest."

So I dance. I move to him, my hands at his forearms, head tossed back and feet moving back and forth in one fluid motion. As I find the beat of the music, the steady thumpthumpthump, I'm able to let go, to not think, to allow myself to become one with the music and to melt into the moment, my entire body a mere instrument, a vessel from which the music plays, my arms and legs no longer limbs but keys to a piano, my heartbeat no longer the ebb and flow of blood circulating throughout my body but rather a drumbeat, a tempo. I dance, parting from Reed and forgetting about my existence entirely until the song comes a stop and so do I, and when the world is back in focus is when I realize what I've just done.

I open my eyes, tuning out the noise of the crowd and the band announcing a five-minute break as I fixate my gaze on Reed, whose jaw looks like it could hit the floor. Instantly, I feel heat in my face and I look down, clearing my throat.

"Sorry," I half-laugh, half-cough, "I—I don't—"

"Damn," Is all he says, stepping back as a smile begins to spread across his face, "Evelyn! Why didn't you tell me you could dance like that?"

"I didn't think I could," I admit, and it's the truth. The last time I danced was when Georgie and I were thirteen and making faux-Beyoncé music videos in her bedroom.

Reed doesn't look away from me, and the blush slowly begins to fade as I smile at him.

"Surprised, are you?" I ask, trying to play off my inexplicable embarrassment. He nods, swallowing hard and averting his gaze for a split second.

"Yeah. Damn. Yeah, I am."

"You up for another song?" I ask then, gesturing to the stage, where the band is now tuning up and preparing to play again. He grins.

"Just as long as you slow down enough for me to catch on."