Leann used the infrequent lessons and smaller classes of summertime as an excuse to repaint the studio. Freed from a packed dance schedule, I worked longer at the diner, sometimes nearly ten or twelve hour shifts, and when the bussing of tables and tolerating drunk assholes was done, I’d return to my apartment bone tired but eager to help Leann with what I could.

It was a Sunday afternoon, the kind of hot summer day where the heat from the paved parking lot and the quiet road in front of the building came off in waves, blurring the cars passing beyond the intersection. The heat was barely tolerable, the humidity indecent even as sundown neared. I’d stopped my solitary painting on the front entrance molding to grab a bottle of water from the kitchenette inside, distracted by the sweat pooling at the center of my back and the voices on the other side of the window. Both were deep, and male; one placating, the other, at first flippant, but then as that voice rose, anger surfaced in a loud, cursing clip.

“Come on, man, it’s one night. One night out of the dozens you spend on your sofa flipping through bad 80’s movies and ESPN. She won’t go with me otherwise.”

I could make out Tristian’s pleading tone, and I thought about walking away. I had no business eavesdropping on that argument, but the second voice had me stopping, leaning against the counter in front of the window. Ransom.

“Why the fuck am I repeating myself, Tristian? I said no and I mean that shit. I’m not interested.” And he wasn’t, not then, not since then, as far as I knew. Ransom was starting college soon and much of his summer had been eaten away with football practice and camps that Keira had complained about more than once when she came to visit Leann, feeling that they kept the men in her life away far too long.

“It’s one damn night. One.”

Ransom’s curse was so quiet I couldn’t hear what he said and then came the rumble of garbage cans being kicked, or possibly punched. I straightened, not even aware of how tightly I was gripping the water bottle.

“Why not?” Tristian asked, his voice softer now, the tone missing that whine. “Man, you can’t…it can’t be like this forever.”

“Yeah, it can.” Ransom voice cracked, a small fracture in the careful composure that always made him seem cool and aloof. “I wouldn’t be good for anyone, brah. Not some girl who I might like or even your girl’s sister who just doesn’t want to be a third wheel.”

Damn. It had seemed like he was getting stronger. Now I realized that the laughs, the jokes he told Tristian when they worked around the studio, the friendly attitude he sometimes gave off had all been a mask he wore to keep others from worrying about him. He did it for his family, and maybe to avoid pity from people who had moved on, who had forgotten that he had lost something excruciatingly precious.

“Ransom, you can’t live like this.”

“Who the hell said I’m living?”

I closed my eyes then, almost able to feel the weight of his words as they crippled him. What kind of girl would keep such a grip on Ransom? And what kind of woman could help him break free from that hold?

Present

We had kept to our agreement over the next week. Ransom was very welcoming, a little too cordial and platonic during our practices and the one voice lesson at the lake house. I didn’t like it, had a hell of a time fighting the itching need to touch him, to give him a smile or kiss him soundly anytime we were alone.

I didn’t like it, but I hadn’t acted on a single impulse. If he could be my friend—despite how often I caught him staring at me while I listened to Leann’s instruction or watched Kona and Keira flirting—then I could swing it too.

This night would be our last Kizomba practice. With the approach of November, the football season was kicking into high gear and the coaches on his team were expecting more from their players. Since that day in his car, we hadn’t practiced much at all and though I’d seen him at his parents’ house, there had been very little time for us to be alone. Koa had taken to sitting between us during lunches and wouldn’t leave us in peace when we sat in front of the piano to practice my audition song.

Now Ransom was nearly twenty minutes late for our last rehearsal. I wanted to text him and find out what was going on, but I felt that would come across as too needy (and it probably was). When another ten minutes passed and Leann had given up on him to return to her office, I decided to head for my apartment, disappointed, but eager for a nap before my shift at the diner.

It was only when I left through the back entrance and headed for the stairs that I spotted Ransom in the parking lot, sitting alone in his Mustang with his head lowered onto the steering wheel.

We were friends, right? Friends gave you shit for standing them up and this was twice he’d flaked on me. Friends offered a hand when you looked like you were ready to hit something. Just like Ransom did then.

The engine was running and from the muted volume of the radio, I heard Breaking Benjamin’s “Ashes of Eden” pulsing from his speakers. A few taps on his window and Ransom pulled his head up in a jerk, fists still tight on the steering wheel.

“What are you doing?”

Ransom’s long blink was slow, like he was coming out of a stupor, and he stared at me for a few seconds as I tilted my head, waiting for an answer. “You’re late,” I finally said when he rolled the window down.

“I’m sorry. I just…”

I reached for the door handle, and he suddenly jerked up straight, seeming to fumble for the latch. “No don’t…” he managed to get out, but it was too late to stop.

I opened the door and dozens, hundreds of rose petals fell out of the car and fluttered onto the ground.

“What’s all this?”

He was on autopilot, I was sure of it, letting me pull him from the car, standing blankly as I brushed back the petals that covered his floor and seats. There were sharp, broken stems with sharp thorns around the car’s console and on the dash.

Ransom’s fingers had been pricked and were bleeding, with small cuts crisscrossed around his knuckles. I didn’t think, just grabbed his big hands to examine the marks more closely, not concerned that this was the first time I’d touched him without the pretense of a lesson since I’d danced for him at Summerland’s.

“It’s her birthday.”

My gaze sliced up and I tightened my grip on his hands so that it was no longer tender. He looked completely lost, worse than I’d ever seen him before, and any irritation about a missed lesson completely evaporated, replaced by something fierce, some consuming desire to take care of him, to make that washed out, pale flush on his face disappear.

What could I say? The roses, that defeated, weary expression could not be eased by something as simple as “I’m sorry” or “Do you want to talk about it?” Of course he didn’t. He never did, and though we were friends, or so I thought, it was clear that Ransom didn’t share his secrets with anyone.

Behind us, the back entrance swung open and Leann’s voice echoed across the parking lot as she yammered to someone on her phone. She couldn’t see us, not with the dumpster blocking Ransom’s car, but her appearance seemed to waken Ransom from his trance and he pulled his had from mine.

“I shouldn’t have come here. Leann sees the damn roses and she’ll bother my folks. Mom’s already worn out…”

His face was now a mass of worry, and his voice had taken on a slightly panicked tone. It was heartbreaking. “Come on,” I told him, pulling him away from his car by the hand.

Ransom didn’t ask where I was taking him. He followed me like a child, like he was so lost that he had no idea where to turn.