Page 3 of Take 2

Chapter Three

Twelve Years Ago

M y black flats stick to the floor with every little step in my awkward attempt at dancing.

Cece is more graceful in stilettos than I could be in the comfiest of shoes.

Somehow, room seems to be made for her on the crowded dance floor while people wall me in.

I’ve never thought I was claustrophobic.

I’ve survived Disney World in July. This place is just as hot, humid, and packed.

Hands land on my waist from behind, and I lean into Morgan as we dance to “Single Ladies.” We probably look like idiots, but I doubt many people here are coherent enough to judge.

“I’m so glad you can finally come out with us!” Cece yells over the music and wraps her arms around both of us, sandwiching me between them.

“Yeah, I can’t believe I’ve been missing out on all this glory.”

Cece releases us, and Morgan turns me toward her to inspect my eyes. “The pre-gaming wore off. This place is not fun sober. I told you!”

“I’m going to get shots.” Cece is eighteen, like me, but unlike me, she is brave enough to use a fake ID. “I’ll meet you in the bathroom.”

“No! I saw the bathroom. It’s not even fit to pee in. I cannot consume something in there.”

“Everyone does it!” Morgan shouts.

Cece nods. “The alcohol kills everything. You’ll be fine.” She elbows her way to the bar, disappearing into the crowd.

“Come on.” Morgan pulls me toward the bathroom, our hands slick.

“I’d rather go cool off for a second first,” I say when we get to the short hallway to the bathroom.

“Well, I actually need to pee, so meet us back here?”

“Sure.”

As I push out to the patio area, I tie my hair up.

It must look like crap by now, anyway. The time spent straightening and then curling it was a total waste.

Outside, I am quickly reminded that the human body makes sweat to cool it.

It’s extremely effective when you step out into twenty-something-degree Wisconsin weather.

I shiver and rub my arms as goosebumps spread over them.

Don’t need to dress for the weather if you’re just going to run from the car to go inside .

The advice seemed sound at the time. It’s the way everyone lives here, but despite being a native Wisconsinite, I’ve always been weak when it comes to low temperatures.

Mom is too, and though I'm only half-Cuban, apparently it's enough to thin my blood.

It works with my love of sweaters and scarves.

The break from the noise and people is worth potentially freezing for, though. Being seventeen for a semester and a half of college initially felt like I was missing out on so much, but now I’m not sure getting into the bars is important to me.

There are two girls sitting on the concrete floor crying and a couple pressed up against the wall making out.

Yeah, going out doesn’t need to be a frequent thing .

I sigh and lean against the iron railing that borders the patio.

It’s frozen, and I immediately pull back.

The chill working its way into my bones will probably be enough to keep me from melting for a while, so I guess it’s safe to head back in.

The door swings open, and a guy comes out with a hand covering one ear and a cellphone pressed to the other. “… Saturday during off-season! I get to have a life!” He listens while he crosses the patio and leans back against the frozen rail I’m standing in front of. “That’s bullshit!”

He’s so close to me that to leave now will look like I’m uncomfortable being two feet away from someone having a fight on the phone. I am, but I’m not sure I want to look like he scared me away. I was here first.

“I am nowhere near losing my position on the team,” he says.

I glance at him from the side of my eye and wonder what sport he plays.

The clue of being off-season is lost on me.

I don’t know what sport is in or out of season.

Wisconsin has enough trouble figuring out what actual season it is—warm one day, snowstorm the next.

Whatever sport he plays must give him quite the arm workout because those arms are amazing.

He’s not dressed to be outdoors either, in a T-shirt that hugs his body way too well.

“Sure, whatever. Bye.” He slides the phone into his back pocket and drops his head back. “Sorry about that.”

I look around for whoever he’s speaking to now. He turns his head toward me, and his gaze pins me down.

“Me?” Geez, I sound like a mouse.

“Yeah, this seemed like the least awkward area of the patio.” He tips his head toward the crying girls.

“I’m only slightly less awkward.” Why did I say that? I glance away, mentally kicking myself for managing to be more awkward than the drunk make-out session in the other corner.

He chuckles. “No, I brought the awkward. Nothing like being at a bar on a Saturday night and getting reamed out about grades.”

“Oh, yeah. That must … suck.”

Something about the way I said that makes him scrutinize me. “You don’t sound familiar with the experience.”

“I … um …”

“Have perfect grades?”

“Yes?” Why do I sound like I’m apologizing for that? I guess I don’t want to rub it in his face.

“That’s not a bad thing,” he says as if the apologetic tone bothered him too.

“I know.” Finally, my voice comes out with some confidence.

“What’s your major?”

“English. Yours?”

“Business Management. Figured that’s useful for almost anything if football doesn’t work out.”

I nod, unable to add anything. Football is a big deal here. To me, it’s always just been an inconvenience when traffic becomes insane on Saturdays.

“My dad thinks there’s no excuse for me doing poorly in English since I speak it.”

At that, I smile. “There’s a little more to it than that.”

“As I’ve tried to explain.”

An awkward silence descends upon us, and I’m about to mutter something unintelligible about going, but he holds his hand out and says, “I’m Ryan.”

“Bella,” I say, putting my frozen palm in his warm grasp.

“Like Swan?”

A chuckle bubbles in my chest. “You don’t strike me as someone who would read or watch Twilight .”

“My little sister’s fault.”

“Right.” I drag out the word.

“Whatever. I’m surprised you even know the reference. Don’t English majors just read stuff by dead Russians?”

Ah, dueling stereotypes.

“ Twilight ’s popularity made it impossible for a girl who goes by Bella not to read it,” I say. “And I’m into all types of movies.”

He scrunches his lips to the side, and somehow, it’s in that twisted expression that the full force of how attractive his face is hits me. His strong jaw is dusted with stubble as dark as the waves on his head and those eyes … why is this hot football player even talking to me?

“A movie buff?” he says. “I assumed all English majors were book nerds.”

“I am also a book nerd, but funny thing about movies—they have to be written too.”

“Is that what you want to do?”

“Mhmm.” Admitting this feels a lot like saying I believe in unicorns. It’s kind of a long shot.

“It’ll be cool to see a name I know in movie credits someday.”

His quick acceptance that my dream will be reality pushes the chill out of my bones. Even a professor who applauded my talent told me not to get my hopes up about Hollywood. Not that a stranger who doesn’t know anything about it or me should outweigh that, but I appreciate the optimism.

“Hey,” he says, “this is kind of bold to ask, but—”

“Bella, what the fuck?” Cece’s heels clack against the concrete as she stomps over to us. “I had to take your shot.”

I roll my eyes and swallow the lump that was building at bold to ask . “You poor thing. I really hope you can forgive me someday.”

“Do I need to save you from this guy?” She points at Ryan but keeps her eyes on me.

“Um, I don’t think so?” I glance at him, and Cece turns to face him too.

“Oh, he’s super hot.”

My eyes widen. “And your filter is broken.”

She turns back to me. “That doesn’t mean you don’t need to be saved.”

“You are correct. I don’t need to be saved because he seems not to be an axe murderer.”

“I’m Ryan, nice to meet you.”

Cece shakes his hand but keeps her eyes narrowed. “Okay, Ryan. I’m going inside because I’m not dressed to be outside. But I will be watching you.”

“I’m sure you’d get to me before I can go get my axe from the car.”

“I would.” She turns to me. “I don’t give a shit about hurting his feelings. Do you really want me to leave you out here?”

“I want you to go drink water, and I’ll catch up with you in just a minute.”

“Fine.” She points to her eyes and then to Ryan as she backs toward the door.

“She’s fun,” Ryan says.

“And now you know you did not pick the least awkward spot on the patio.”

“I picked a great spot.” His smile makes my stomach do stupid things.

“So, what I was going to ask you”—my heart is doing stupid things now too—“do you think you could help me with English?” Oh.

“I have a paper I’m working on, and it’s hell.

The people who volunteer to do tutoring act like jocks are morons. I’d totally owe you.”

It’s such an obvious reason for him to be talking to me that the lump in my throat and butterflies and speeding heart all seem really, really, dumb now. “Oh, uh, yeah. Sure. I’d love to help.”

“Thank you.” He pulls his phone from his back pocket. “What’s your number?”

My heart is still being stupid as I give it to him. Because giving Hot Football Player Ryan my phone number is still kind of insane, even if it’s for academic purposes. My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I grab it, flashing him the screen. “This is you, I guess?”

“Yep. Are you free tomorrow night?” He ends the call and puts his phone away.

“Wow, you waste no time.”

“Or I’ve already wasted a ton of time and need to catch up. I bet you never do that.”

Isn’t it illegal to irresponsibly wield a smirk like his?

“Nerds procrastinate too, thank you very much. But tomorrow is a holiday.”

His eyebrows pull together. “What?”

“The Oscars. I’m hosting a watch party.”