The thought did not soften me.
It complicated him.
That was more dangerous.
During the first dance, he held me with practiced distance. One hand rested at my waist, the other around mine. We moved beneath the chandeliers while hundreds of people watched.
“You dance well,” I said.
“I had tutors.”
“Of course you did.”
“You sound offended.”
“I am attempting to imagine you at twelve, being corrected by a dance instructor.”
“You would have found it satisfying.”
“Were you terrible?”
“I was impatient.”
“I believe that.”
He guided me through a turn.
“You are less frightened than I expected.”
The music continued, graceful and restrained.
“I made a promise not to let you see it.”
His eyes sharpened.
“That is not the same as not being frightened.”
“No.”
“Then you are frightened.”
“Yes.”
The admission seemed to unsettle him more than denial would have.
His hand at my waist became still.
