First Dance (Strip in the City, Book 3)

11 • Moving In

Kennedy

We sit cross-legged on the floor with our backs against his bed, and Lucas hands me folded up t-shirts and flannel pajama shorts from my suitcase. I try not to think too hard about my life as late afternoon slides into early evening, and I finish tucking away all my leotards and leggings into the dresser drawers Lucas emptied out for me.

I know I'm here, in my best friend's apartment, but a part of me still can't believe I'm moving in with him. I don't think sharing a New York standard studio and full size bed with a stripper was exactly what Flynn had in mind when he told me to find somewhere else to stay while he figures things out.

But here I am, doing just that.

I can only imagine what Mamaw would say if she walked in right now. She'd pack me up and take my behind straight to church. Daddy would say he was right when he argued against sending me to the city. My auntie would swear she saw this all coming.

Selfish Kennedy. Spinning in circles.

Except right now, I'm not spinning. I'm spiraling.

Everything in my life is upside down, and I'm not sure what to believe anymore.

No, that's not exactly true. I do know one thing: I feel safe here.

Like Lucas and his apartment can hold all my secrets and sins, and I won't be judged for the mess I'm in. I know I'll be treated like the photographs sitting on top of the dresser–dusted and facing his bed so they're the first thing he sees in the morning.

We sit in comfortable silence as I stare at the smiling faces.

I want to ask about the man in the navy blue uniform and sailor hat who looks just like Lucas or the old man with sharp eyes who seems to be watching us as we reach the bottom of my suitcase, but I don't.

Instead, I pull out the only picture I had the wherewithal to snatch from Flynn's apartment–one of me, Momma, and Mamaw. In this one, I'm six years old and we're at the first beauty pageant I ever won.

I'm clearly not as good of a housekeeper as Lucas because I have to use the edge of my shirt to wipe the dust off the glass. The little girl in this picture has no idea she'll leave Carolina and everything she knows to pursue a career in ballet because important people tell her she is too good not to.

My stomach hollows out, and tears burn in my throat.

Good gracious, she is so naive.

Lucas moves the suitcase from between us and scoots closer until our bare shoulders are just barely brushing. He's warm, and the heat of his skin soaks into me. His signature piney scent surrounds me.

It's wrong in so many ways, and for so many reasons, but without breaking eye contact with my six-year-old self, I lean on him. My head tips sideways, and falls on his shoulder.

For a few slow, steady breaths, we say nothing. Not because there's nothing to stay–but because I think he knows nothing can be said to put me back together.

I feel him swallow and shift his weight, and then he points at the little girl staring back at us.

"Have you always had such straight teeth?" he asks.

The question is so left field I sputter out a laugh that I didn't know I had in me, and I find the strength to lift my head off his shoulder.

"What?" he says, shifting again to face me. "Look at how perfect your teeth are! They're so shiny and straight. At that age, I think mine were stained blue from that juice that comes in those plastic barrels and all crooked."