Kendall's story. Description to come.
Tropes: strangers to friends to lovers, new adult, good girl/bad boy, ballerina, street racer, Formula One, diabetes awareness, she saves him
My phone vibrates on the café table, inching away from me. I set my turkey sandwich into its biodegradable container, flipping the screen to read the message.
Darius: Seniors moved up auditions. I'm going in now.
"Son of a nutcracker," I murmur, wiping my mouth on a napkin. I tuck my lunch into my dance bag, exiting the coffee house with an iced matcha latte in hand.
A soft breeze carves its way down Ninth Avenue. Stepping out from under the restaurant's awning, I get sucked into pedestrian traffic. I'm a small fish in a rapid current, peering around the fins in front of me. A block later, I'm passing a recessed stoop when a familiar voice calls out, stopping me in my tracks.
"Hey, doll."
The person behind me clips my shoulder. I exit the unforgiving human riptide, standing before River.
He's seated casually on a set of concrete steps, leaning back on his elbows. He may be the only New Yorker without a place to rush to on a Friday afternoon. Today, he's wearing a fitted black t-shirt, which is appropriate for the warm weather. The short sleeves reveal permanent ink and muscles naturally toned from mechanical work. The towering block casts shadows over him, darkening his silver hair. A lock falls in front of his eyes, but I still see the telltale blob in his right iris. He also appears proud to have caught me off guard.
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"How've you been?" he asks, smirking.
"Oh, you know," I recover quickly, drawing an imaginary halo above my head. "Dodging police. Committing felonies."
He narrows his eyes, and there's a question in them. "Felonies?"
Yes, apparently I've been breaking federal law for the last two and a half years. Despite being ignorant to the penal code, I am not immune to its consequences. But my parents secured me the best representation.
Erica Alonso is a shark, rapidly achieving her goal to prove she's just as effective as the white men that dominate her field. She arrived at my apartment moments after the cops left, trash bags in hand. We spent the evening removing any evidence of Raphael, starting with the obvious—photographs, check stubs, government summons, mail from his mom in France. By the time Immigration showed, wielding a warrant to search the premises, all that remained was circumstantial evidence. The clothing and toiletries could belong to any man, Erica assured me. And when federal agents checked the security cameras for traces of Raphael's comings and goings, the footage had been deleted.
Thank you, Uncle Blake.
"I don't want to talk about it," I tell River, noticing a colorful piece of waffled fabric on his left wrist. My cheeks heat. "Is that my scrunchie?"
"I kinda like the look, don't you?" he muses, extending his arm to analyze the makeshift bracelet. "It softens my edges."
I... I don't know what to think about this. It's been a week since I spent the night at River's house. I hadn't realized I left anything behind, least of all an impression. Something tells me my scrunchie on his wrist isn't just a fashion statement.
