Within five seconds, he stepped directly on my shoe.
“You’re terrible at dancing.”
“Your dress is badly designed.”
We laughed until people stared.
And that was the beautiful thing about the night.
Nothing dramatic happened.
Nobody stopped the music.
Nobody applauded us.
Nobody treated our dance like some extraordinary achievement.
We were simply two eighteen-year-olds at prom, dancing badly together.
Exactly as we had promised when we were six.
Afterward, Mom picked us up.
My feet hurt, so Noah carried my heels.
He was hot, so I carried his jacket.
When we reached the car, he opened my door for me.
Then I leaned across the seat and opened his.
Mom watched us quietly in the rearview mirror.
For years, she had looked at our friendship and assumed one person must be taking care of the other.
That night, she finally understood.
