It’s a plastic carton. He pops the lid, places the carton on her lap, and then reaches into his pocket, pulling out a lighter.
My heart swells at the realization, and I peek into the carton to confirm.
Inside lies a slice of molten chocolate cake.
Connor’s grin has nothing on Daisy’s bright smile, a contagious one that causes our lips to lift just as high. Even Rose is showing off her pearly whites.
Chocolate cake.
That is what all four guys had been searching for. Not cigars.
It’s possibly one of the sweetest, kindest gestures I’ve seen. Because it’s something that Daisy loves.
Ryke lights the waxy candle, and then he messes her hair with a rough, caring hand. And we all start to sing happy birthday.
Daisy looks around at us, and her eyes begin to glass with tears. We’ve celebrated her birthday before, but this time it’s different. We’re all closer. She’s finally with Ryke. It’s like the puzzle pieces of our lives have begun to fit together just right.
When we finish the song, I have to wipe my eyes quickly.
I catch Rose wiping hers too, and I point a finger at her and gawk. She told me to suck it up last week when we were watching a movie and I cried at the end.
She mouths, shut up. And then she adds, hormones. Fine. I’ll let her throw out the hormone card, especially because I use it all the time.
Daisy blows out the candle. Not long after, she dips her finger in the chocolate and instead of sucking it off—not dirty like that—she draws a line of chocolate down Ryke’s lips.
“Lil,” Lo breathes in warning. I’ve scooted back up into his crotch. It’s not my fault. The way they are staring at each other—this is eye fucking if I ever saw it.
A second later, they attack each other with carnal desire, the kind that you search for in good porn. I squeeze my eyes shut at my perverted thought. This is bad.
When I open them, their kiss is front and center, spotlighted, but no one else seems to be watching. There is serious tongue. Tongue that is done right. His hand envelops her face as he deepens the kiss, and she breaks from him, just to let out a pleasured cry.
Holy shit.
This is so physical and explosive that it really does deserve a fireworks show.
The other couples are talking and flirting, and Lo suddenly stands. “Follow me,” he whispers in my ear.
“I’m okay,” I tell him quickly, whipping my head away from the PDA. Do not watch, Lily. I try to bury any gross, guilty shameful feelings. They do not exist, I chant over and over.
Lo’s brows rise and he says, “I know.” He smiles to show me that he’s being honest.
I believe him.
“Follow me, love,” he repeats.
I throb in good-bad places. Yes. I rise to my feet like a dream. He has a head start, exiting the little couch area and onto the dance floor. He walks backwards, beating his head to the music with very good rhythm. It’s a song that you salsa to, one that is full of fire, smooth vocals, and a melodic beat.
Lo’s dark gray crew-neck fits him snuggly, an arrowhead necklace against his chest: a present I gave him for his twenty-first birthday some time ago. I can see the lines of his abs tightening beneath his shirt, especially as he begins to move his body to the song. Girls record him with fangirling giggles, their cellphones directed at my best friend. But his gaze is solely planted on me.
When we were younger, Lo was the one who taught me how to dance.
He’s always been able to move like no one is watching, like no one can harm him in this brief expanse of time.
In his last year of college, before he was expelled, he refused to dance with me. Every single time. He sat at the bar and said dance by yourself when I asked.
It didn’t always used to be like that.
So seeing him, right now, dancing in the middle of the club, with no alcohol in his clutch—it possesses me in ways that I can’t express. It’s like my soul is alive. Like I’ve woken up from a long, long sleep.
I slowly walk towards him, and he holds out his hand, waiting for me to near and take it.
I do.
And he draws me swiftly to his chest, my breath escaping. His hips begin to move with mine, so sensually that a heat builds across my skin.
I flourish beneath his intoxicating eyes, drinking him in completely.
He twirls me, and I hit his chest again, my feet following his in a steady pace. It’s our bodies, melded together, that stirs every part of me.
I’m not letting go.
After a few minutes, the song dies down, and we ease to a slower sway. I want to hear his answer, even if it doesn’t make much sense now that we’re moving to the music. I grow the courage to ask anyway, “Will you dance with me?” For some reason, I still fear that rejection, the familiar response that always comes.