Dance With Me

You’ve never liked the rain. It reminds you of all those loud, stormy nights. The one time you ever caught your sister crying. The night you slept in that horror show of a basement. The first time your heart was broken. The night your parents all but disowned you. The day your cousin died. The rain is just full of bad memories for you.

But not for her.

She loves the rain. She told you as much, right off the bat. It was raining, the night you met. You’re pretty sure you didn’t notice, you were so caught up in everything she is, was, and ever will be.

And here you are, caught in the rain like in one of those cheesy rom-coms she insists you should actually bother to watch. But it's much more entertaining watching her scoff at your offer of a jacket. To watch her skip out from under the canopy you had attempted to hide away under.

She let you watch her do a twirl or two until she got bored of that, and came back. She held out her hand to you in offer.

“Dance with me,” she says. It wasn’t a question, and you know what your answer would be if it was, what with that damned smile of hers. But she doesn’t need to know that.

“In the cold, wet rain? With no music? When we have to be at your father’s fancy dinner party in 10 minutes?”

She didn’t even hesitate with her response. “Yes.”

And that's all it took.

That's all it took for her to let you lead in some kind of makeshift waltz, around the park that you swore that you would never return to once upon a time.

You’re half an hour late to her father's house. Both your dresses are dripping wet all night, and you’re pretty sure you look like a drowned rat.

She looks beautiful, of course. She always looks beautiful.