“It makes sense,” he says, “but I think you’re wrong. Maybe not about all of it, but about dancing. Maybe you don’t dance like your sister or your mom, but anything with eyes could tell that it’s a part of you, Natalie. I’ve never seen you look more like yourself.”

“More like myself, huh?”

A small smile pulls at his mouth. “Don’t make fun of me. I’m tryin’ to be serious.” His lips settle into a straight line again. “You shouldn’t give dancing up just ’cause you think it belongs to someone else.”

I sigh. “What about you and football?”

His head tilts back in a silent laugh. “That’s different.”

“How?”

“Wasn’t my choice.”

“Beau, be honest with me. Were you scouted?”

He runs a hand down the back of his hair. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Why not?”

“Natalie, I only graduated high school because teachers made up my grades so I could play. You think I’m gonna go off and get a college degree?”

“I think you could. I also think college athletic departments are every bit as corrupt as high schools’, and they’d probably make up your grades there too.”

“Maybe,” he says. “And in the meantime, Mason would be here, losing the house, and I’d be sitting through class, going crazy.”

“Couldn’t Mason work more or get a roommate or something? It’s four years, Beau, and it could change your life.”

“Maybe I don’t wanna change my life,” he snaps, and when I recoil from him, he settles against the barre again and runs a hand over his mouth then fixes his eyes on me. “I don’t want all that. That’s not what matters to me.”

“Okay,” I relent. “What do you want, Beau?” He stares at me for a long moment, and I start to feel shaky and full. “Beau, what is it you want?”

“A porch,” he says softly. He says it like it’s my name, and right then, I think, what both of us want more than anything is something we can never have. “All I really want is to build a house with a nice, big porch that gets used every day.”

24

On Thursday morning, after a particularly unsuccessful appointment with Alice, I head over to the school to get Jack. I pull around behind the field house as practice is winding down, roll down the windows, and close my eyes while I wait. Now that the Jeep is back in working order, I’m back to dropping off and picking up Jack, and now that I’m spending the middle of the night at the dance studio with Beau, the mornings are insufferable.

Life feels too fast and bright right now, but my brain feels foggy and slow. During the day everything hurts less—I don’t have the energy to worry about Grandmother, or even Matt, whose mom texts me a steady stream of Bible verses alongside pictures of Get Well Soon balloons, with very little actual information. But when I’m with Beau each night, the world snaps into clearer focus and I’m terrified again. Terrified and awake and a little bit on fire. I spend the whole time we’re together worrying he’s going to kiss me again and then, when he doesn’t, feeling devastatingly disappointed.

The clash of shouts on the field draws me back to now. I open my eyes and scan the field until I see the two boys—Jack and someone else—pummeling each other on the ground while the rest of the team tries to pry them apart. I jump out of the car and sprint straight for the gate, but by the time I get there, Stephen Lehman has already pulled Jack clear of the other guy and Coach is shouting at them both, pointing off the field. “What happened?” I ask, voice tinny, as Jack stomps right past me and gets in the Jeep, slamming the door. I fling the door back open. “What the hell was that, Jack?”

His chin is smeared with mud and grass stains, but he has no visible injuries. Even so, his face is all screwed up in anger, and he doesn’t look like my little brother. “Nothing,” he spits, slamming the door again.

I stalk around the car and get in. “What’s going on?” I say more softly. I reach over to him, but he swats my hand away, and turns toward the window.

“Don’t tell Mom and Dad.”

“Fine, then talk to me.”

“If you tell them, I’ll tell them about that guy who picks you up in the middle of the night.”

“Jack, that’s not . . .” I shake my head but don’t go on. My phone’s buzzing in my pocket, and when I slide it out I see MOM on the screen. Jack swears and drops his forehead against the window. “Your coach must’ve called them.” Jack doesn’t reply, and I answer the call.

“Is he okay?” Mom says.

I glance sidelong at Jack, face impassive and eyes unfocused. “Physically,” I offer. “Yeah, he’s fine.”

Mom sighs, a mix of relief and blossoming concern. “Okay,” she says. “Okay, well, I can’t leave work right now, but Dad’s going to take off early. He’ll be right home.” Jack’s eyes flick to mine when he hears her words through the speaker, then away again miserably.

When I hang up, I stumble over an apology. “I’m sure they’ll understand if you tell them what happened.”

Jack says nothing, doesn’t look at me. As soon as we get home, he storms inside, and I follow him up to his room, but the door’s already shut, his and Coco’s whispers spilling through the cracks around it. I stand with an ear pressed to the door until I hear the soft squeak that escapes when you hold tears in. Jack, definitely. There’s nothing scarier than hearing someone you love cry, and the smaller the sound, the deeper it can burrow into you.

“. . . . just don’t want this sometimes,” Jack’s saying.

“Don’t want what?” Coco murmurs gently.

“Don’t want to be.”

I step back from the door and lean against the wall, mind spinning and dark splotches floating across my vision.

Three months to save him.

There’s nothing scarier than hearing someone you love cry, except imagining a world where that sound stops. Suddenly I can’t breathe. Can’t be here. There’s nothing scarier than loving someone.

Beau and I sneak out to the studio every night until my next appointment with Alice, and every night’s the same. We’re jittery and tense on the car ride over, every inch between us thick with our heartbeats. We talk and flirt while I stretch in the center of the studio floor. Then we turn off the lights, Beau closes his eyes, and I dance. Every song is beautiful, but none is mine. I wonder if I’ll ever hear that song again, or if telling Beau not to wait for me means he’ll never finish writing it. Toward the end of our time in the studio he always ends up watching me while playing, but by then I also feel comfortable and relaxed. Then, once we get into the truck, the tension falls again with a renewed fervor.