Out On a Limb(69)

“That must feel really strange. I’m sorry,” I offer gently.

“It’s bizarre to live more life than the person who gave me mine…” he says, his voice far off.

“Is that a quote?”

“No,” Bo shrugs one shoulder, his brows inching together. “Just something that’s been rattling around my mind.”

You’re brilliant, I want to say. “We’ve never talked about how your mom passed. Would you want to?” I ask instead.

“Not now, if that’s okay.” He smiles wistfully, turning toward me as he pats my ankle, signalling that he’s done.

I shift off him, sitting up and crossing my legs in front of me. I rest my cheek against my hand, supported by the back of the couch. “Of course. Whatever you need.”

He looks at me sideways, appreciation in his eyes—mixed with a request. For a change of subject, I think.

“Are you excited to see your dad?”

“Yeah, I am. I can’t wait for him to meet you.”

My expression squeezes tight as I tuck my face into my palm, and my heart squeezes too. “Oh, well, I hope he likes me.”

Bo shakes his head, scratching his chin. “He’ll love you.”

Now it’s too tight, the burst of joy in my chest. I have to rub my palm over it, attempting to loosen it. I’m not sure exactly when such lovely sentiments from Bo began to feel slightly painful, but that’s where we’re at these days. It’s a longing sensation. A reminder of the limitations and parameters we have to abide by. Still, it’s better than blushing.

The song playing from the dining room fades, and then the turntable clicks into place, signalling that it’s time to flip the record.

“Want me to?” I ask, pointing over my shoulder toward it.

“Nah, I’ll grab it,” Bo says, sitting up and adjusting his pants, pulling at the fabric bunched around the top of his prosthesis’s socket. Lately, he’s been going without his prosthesis around the house. Usually when he’s freshly showered or has just woken up. I like it when he does. It feels like his trust is being extended.

“Fred?” Bo says, pulling my focus toward him.

I watch as he places a new record down on the turntable and lines up the needle. He turns a dial, and the music starts, an orchestration of string instruments. He turns to face me, his eyes sparkling but his lips tightly sealed. Then he holds out a hand. “Come dance with me.”

My stomach nearly leaves me behind, flying across the room. All the more reason to say no, probably. “I don’t really dance.”

“What, why? Two left feet?” he asks, smiling wickedly. “Still more than I got.”

I make a point to roll my eyes exaggeratedly.

“C’mon… Please?”

I’m screwed.

The scary truth of the matter is that Bo could get me to say yes to just about any request by adding a please that sweet and sincere at the end of it.

“I don’t know what to do,” I say, approaching just as Frank Sinatra begins singing “Strangers in the Night.”

“Then I’ll lead,” he says, taking my smaller hand in his and pulling me closer. “For once,” he mumbles. I reach up to shove his shoulder before resting my cheek against his chest next to my free hand.

“Like this?” I ask.

“Perfect,” he says, curling his other arm around my back.

We rock from side to side, rotating slowly in mindless circles as the song plays on.

“This isn’t so bad,” I whisper.

I feel Bo’s chest rise on a deep breath against my cheek.

When the song builds to the pinnacle chorus, drums picking up tempo and horns blaring, Bo tightens his grip around my little hand and pushes me away from him, spinning me in circles out in front of him as I yelp and giggle in surprise.

“You’re a natural,” he says, pulling me back to him, his hand falling dangerously low on my back.

“Do not do that again,” I laugh out, falling back against him.

There’s something so intimate about being held with zero expectations or reason beyond wanting to. Something so natural about Bo and me moving our bodies in sequence, in no rush to step away. Something so inherently safe about being in his arms.

Bo may slip up and check me out every once in a while, with his eyes held on me and his jaw taught, but he hasn’t once tried anything since we agreed to remain platonic. He’s too respectful for that. And I’m sure my eyes have done far worse damage to him over the past few weeks.

So when he presses me even closer, dips his chin to the top of my head, and curls his arms around me in more of an embrace than a dance, I let him, with zero hesitation, as I relax into the warm, solid comfort of his hold.

“One more?” he asks, his voice broken.

I nod against him.

One more song fades and blurs into five, or maybe even more. I’ve lost track. Eventually, when the turntable clicks, signalling the need to flip the record over, neither of us moves. If anything, Bo holds me tighter against him.

“You okay?” I whisper into his chest after a few moments of silence.

“I’m just trying to come up with the right words,” he says, leaning his cheek against the top of my head, his nose on my hairline with deep, steady breaths. “To thank you for everything.”