I stand up and take the guitar from his hands and put it off to the side.
Without it, he slumps over even farther and covers his face with his hands. I sit down next to him and put my arm around his shoulder. He leans into me and I wrap my other arm around him.
I don’t tell him everything is all right, because it’s not. His best friend died a stupid, completely avoidable death, and it sucks, and it doesn’t make sense, and everything isn’t all right.
I don’t know how much time passes, but after a while, he straightens up. I let him go. He wipes his eyes with the heels of his hands and gives a smile somewhere between embarrassment and gratitude.
“I’ll get you some water,” I say, not because I think he needs more to drink, but to give him time to pull himself together. It’s what I’d want.
“Nah, I’m good,” he says.
“I’m trying to give you a minute alone,” I tell him.
His eyes are damp and red around the rims. “I get what you’re doing, Evie,” he says. “And I appreciate it, but I’d like it if you stayed with me. If that’s okay.”
I don’t know how he manages to let himself be so vulnerable. I sit back down next to him, and we watch the sky get darker together.
I ask him to tell me about Clay and he does. They met in a music store when they were kids. Both of them were just starting guitar lessons, and their dads had taken them to the store to get sheet music.
“He was in the guitar section holding a bass that was about fifteen sizes too big for him. We were friends as soon as I sat down next to him.”
He looks at me. “He would’ve liked you. Would’ve liked how snarky you are.”
“I’ve never been snarky a day in my life.”
He laughs. “Says the snarky girl snarkily.”
Across the way, Mrs. Chabra starts playing music. The song starts off slow but gets faster almost immediately.
He taps his feet to the rhythm. “You ever dance to Bollywood music?” he asks.
I shake my head.
“One of my buddies back home is Indian American. Man, his parents know how to throw a party. The music is loud and the dancing is wild.” He’s grinning now, and I’ve never been happier for Mrs. Chabra’s music. “None of this closed-position ballroom stuff,” he says.
“Show me,” I say.
He springs up and suddenly he’s all movement—neck popping, wrists twisting, hips circling. He even does some knee slapping. He looks like an enthusiastically malfunctioning robot.
I’m sure he’s not doing any Indian dance any actual justice, but it’s so nice to see him smiling instead of crying that I forgive him.
I join him, dancing the moves I’ve “learned” from the handful of Bollywood movies I’ve seen. Pretty soon we’re trying to one-up each other with more and more elaborate neck and wrist action. Somehow my dance morphs into the Robot. He stops dancing to laugh at me and I （robotically） flip him off. He laughs even more, and then he’s looking at me the same way he did on the beach right before we kissed. His hands are on my waist and my palms are flat against his chest.
A light flashes in my periphery. I know I should pay attention to it, but all my concentration is on precisely how close X’s lips are to mine.
X is the one that stops us. “I think someone’s home,” he says.
I step back just in time for Mom to turn the corner into the living room.
She slides the patio door open. “What exactly is happening out here?” she asks.
We aren’t doing any of the things parents worry about—sex, drugs, experimental body piercings—but I still feel caught.
Mom scrutinizes my state of dress. Once she’s satisfied I’m wearing all my clothes, and in the way they’re supposed to be worn, she downgrades her face from scowl to frown. “Who’s this?” she asks.
“This is X,” I say.
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Thomas.”
“Oh yes. You’re the dancing boy. The grandson,” she says. “How’s the practicing coming along?”
“Good, good. Our instructor hasn’t killed us yet,” X says.
“Funnily enough, I didn’t realize I was in danger of losing my firstborn,” Mom says, deadpan.
X laughs. “Ballroom is deadlier than most people realize, Ms. Thomas.”
Mom tilts her head to the side, considering. “You’re funny,” she says. “Well, it’s nice to meet you. Hopefully both you and my daughter will survive the dancing.”