Page 22 of Second Position (Astor Hill #2)

“Ha—no. It was my dad’s.” She smiles, fondness blooming across her features.

“We would go to Central Park a lot, after ballet especially, and watch the pictures in the sky.” She huffs a laugh, and I’m imagining her and this man I’ve never met in my mind’s eye.

“I remember when he told me they weren’t pictures—just clouds.

I was so mad. I felt like he’d lied to me.

But he asked me if I liked thinking they were pictures, and I said yes, and he said then it was worth it for a little bit.

” She’s shaking her head, laughing. “Told me he was waiting to let me in on the real magic. That he was a weather magician , could predict when the rain would come. Seeing the pictures was like a test, he said, and because I passed, he could teach me his ways.”

She turns to me, nostalgia and amusement swirling in her eyes.

“I had no clue I knew a real life weather magician,” I say, unable to stop my mouth from tugging upward.

“I know,” she quips, one shoulder shrugging. “We’re incredibly rare.”

A wave crashes on the shore, looks like it’s going to meet us as the tide comes in, but retreats.

“Talking about him isn’t hard for you?” Just talking about my very much alive birth mom had my stomach caving in on itself.

“Years of therapy.” Her laugh is sad as she continues.

“I was developing these weird habits. Like, saving things. Hoarding them. I had a stack of boxes from this bakery he’d always pick up from.

Before a big show, he’d bring me a chocolate croissant from there—it was his thing.

And after he died I would go, kind of to like, remember him—I don’t know.

But I couldn’t throw the boxes away.” She pauses, looking down at where her toes dig into the sand.

“So my mom put me in therapy. Probably her only gold star parenting moment,” she adds, laughing sardonically.

“Did you go?” Her eyes shine with earnest curiosity.

“To therapy? For what?”

“Uh…” she chuckles in disbelief, “for the adoption? The foster care? They didn’t like, make you guys do any of that stuff?”

I shake my head, setting my gaze on the darkening horizon. “Not that I remember. I mean, I feel like my parents probably thought they could handle it.” I can still see them, Beau and Evie, the past decade washed clean off their faces, on their porch, waiting for us.

“And could they?” she asks, hesitant.

“ I was fine,” I tell her, catching the doubtful rise of her brows.

“Seriously! I was perfect, compared to Sloane. She was okay with our dad, but with Mom…she was like a horse she couldn’t break.

” I spot my sister and Jean in the distance, crouched above a sand dune with her camera aimed at the waterline.

“But they were good to you guys?” Worry creases her brow, the sight so at odds with the reality of our situation, and I feel a pang in the center of my chest.

“They were amazing. Still are. There’s just a lot of pressure that comes with being theirs,” I tell her, the greyed out hallways of Fielder Foods appearing in my mind.

“Fielder Foods,” she says, nodding.

“I still haven’t told them about the draft,” I confess.

“Well…not only is it not their business ,” she tells me, smirking before turning earnest, “but you have time.” She turns to me, this faithful smile on her face, and a rain drops between us. “I told you it was going to rain.”

Like it’s listening, the sky above us opens up, warm, misty drops of water sprinkling on us with increasing intensity.

I squint down the shore, looking for the amateur photographers, but can’t spot them.

I get up hastily, taking Gen’s hand before leading us to the closest thing with a roof.

I pull her into a rickety shelter, tugging her close to me to keep her dry.

“It’s just some rain,” she laughs up at me, sheer amusement glittering there.

“It could lightening any second,” I argue, realizing I’m breathing harder than usual from moving so quickly.

“But it won’t. Weather magician, remember?” I look past her, checking the sky for a sign of… something. “Trust me.”

The words feel like a command, feel like something I can’t refuse, and I realize I want to trust her more than anything.

“Let me keep you safe,” I counter, watching her process all the things we’re not saying.

She stands on her tiptoes, her lips hovering from mine. “Deal.”

And slowly, like time is at a standstill and we have infinity before us, our mouths claim each other’s.

Sheets of rain fall around the shelter, fall around us, shielding us from time outside of this.

Our bodies meld together, perfectly made to fit, as she falls into me.

Sinking my fingers into her hair, I angle her head back, brushing my lips against her neck.

And I take my time, and she lets me, her fingers running against my scalp and around my neck, down my chest. My hands ghost over every curve, and the feel of her between my hands after watching her from a distance, watching her glide through time and space on that stage, has me pressing bruising kisses along her skin to remind myself she’s really here.

She forces my gaze back to hers, holds my head in her delicate hands, and brings us back together.

It’s languid, and consuming, and I hold her in my arms like she belongs there.

And she lets me, like she wants it for more than just now.

I let myself lean into that. Let myself lean into her as we tip head first into the searing intimacy of each other’s touch.

Dusk breaks around us as the rain stops, the intermittent pitter patter of lingering rain drops telling us it’s mostly over. She doesn’t let go or back away, though. She rests against me, ear pressed against my chest like she’s listening to my heart beating .

“Veeeee!” we hear Jean’s voice ring out in the darkness.

“Grant!” Sloane shouts.

Gen’s eyes peer up at me, hazy and unfocused.

“Should we keep hiding?” she asks me. My chest rumbles as I laugh, and she wiggles against me, as if to get closer.

“Sloane would hitchhike, is the thing.” Her shoulders softly tremble and she finally pulls away.

“Jean would, too,” she says on a sigh.

I take her hand and lead her out into the night, wishing I could bottle up this feeling. Save it for when this is over.