Page 89 of About to Fall

“You know how it is,” I said, trying to steer the conversation somewhere less mortifying. “Tension. Proximity. Passion.”

“Sexy as fuck skaters getting undressed in front of you in hotel rooms,” Adrian added helpfully.

“Ooh, I like where this is going.”

“No! I mean, yes, that does happen but—but we were just hanging out, watching TV—”

“Boring,” she whined.

“And I kissed him.”

Kat's eyebrows shot up. “You kissed him? You made the first move?”

“Why is that so shocking?”

“Because you're you. You once waited three months to hold Théo's hand.”

“Different circumstances.”

“Different boy.” Kat looked at Adrian with renewed interest. “What is it about you that makes Mr. Cautious throw caution to the wind?”

Adrian shrugged but there was nothing casual about the warmth in his eyes when he glanced at me. “I'm irresistible. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” I muttered.

Kat was looking between us with an expression I couldn't quite read—amusement layered over something softer, something that looked almost like relief.

“And then what?” she pressed.

“And then I told him I wanted more than just hotel hookups,” Adrian said. Simpler now, the jokes falling away. He looked down at his plate, pushing a piece of chicken around with his fork—a rare moment of self-consciousness from someone who was never self-conscious about anything. “I've never been in a relationship before. Never wanted one. But Nicky makes me want to be better than I am. He makes me want to deserve the way he looks at me.” He glanced at me, quick, almost shy. “So I asked him to give me a chance.”

The room was very quiet.

“Holy fuck,” Kat said softly. “That is romantic.”

“I have my moments,” he said with a wink.

We finished dinner while Kat bemoaned her latest terrible date—some hedge fund manager's son who'd taken her to a Michelin starred restaurant and spent the entire evening talking about his father's yacht.

“He called it a vessel,” she said, disgusted. “Unironically. And then he asked if I was flexible no less than six times.”

“Because you're a ballerina?” I asked.

“Because he's a pig.” She stabbed a piece of chicken. “The only reason I stayed through dessert was because they had a crème brûlée that was genuinely life changing.”

“Priorities,” Adrian said approvingly.

“A girl has to eat. Especially when a man is paying for the privilege of boring her to death.”

They argued about whether the lemon sorbet counted as dessert or a palate cleanser. Kat told Adrian about the time I'd tried to choreograph a program to a Tchaikovsky ballet and nearly knocked myself unconscious on a death drop. Adrian told Kat about my water bottle placement compulsion and the fact that he moved it three inches twice a week just to watch me frown. Kat laughed so hard vodka came out of her nose, which made Adrian laugh, which made me laugh, and then we were all on the floor of my living room wiping our eyes and catching our breath.

Kat left around eleven, slightly unsteady in her combat boots, pulling me into a fierce hug at the door.

“I like him,” she whispered in my ear. “He's good for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She pulled back and held my face in her hands the way my mother did—searching, assessing, making sure the person behind the smile was actually okay. “You look lighter. Happier.”