Hypothetical Heart (Farewell Fairwood #2)

Chapter 8

8

M y first ballroom dance practice with Winnie goes about as well as a bull in a China shop.

Seriously, thank God there was nothing of value anywhere in the rehearsal room, because I would have found some way to trip and fall over it.

Between the too-fast music and the amount of steps involved, I’m moments away from calling myself a lost cause by the time we leave.

Winnie can move with such grace and fluidity, while I dance like I’m stepping barefoot on gravel with two left feet.

“That wasn’t… awful,” Winnie says as we walk out of the studio. I’m carrying her pink ballet duffle back to the car because she claims it’s just too much work–and also because I just like doing things for her.

“Are you kidding?” I ask, completely out of breath. “Winnie, that was terrible.”

If I thought I was athletic before, I take it all back, because Winnie’s athleticism showed me up today.

“Yeah, it was pretty terrible.” She laughs. “But it was only your first practice. You can only get better from here on out.”

“I’m trying, Win. I’m really trying.”

“I can tell. You were working up a sweat today.”

All throughout practice, I could feel myself trying to overcompensate, to make it seem as if I wasn’t worried about my ability to ballroom dance, but in reality I’m scared out of my fucking mind.

If I screw this up, the person I’m hurting is Winnie, and I would rather put my arm in a blender and put it on the highest speed than cause Winnie any type of hurt.

“Thank god we don’t have to do any lifts, you would slip right out of my hands,” I joke.

“I don’t think I would let you do lifts at the state you’re in,” she teases.

“What days are we practicing again?”

“Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”

“And when is the gala?”

“The beginning of May.”

I cringe at how soon that seems. “Is there any way we could bump up the amount of practice we do?”

I pull into my driveway, parking my car in the garage. Winnie follows me inside. “I tried, but there are no more open hours at the studio. But you do have a gym in your house. We could always practice by ourselves there.”

“Let’s go.” I unbuckle both of our seatbelts, motioning for her to follow me inside. “We’re going to be so good by Wednesday, Madame Bitch isn’t going to know what hit her.”

Madame Bacri may have kicked my ass today and made me sore in places I didn’t even know could be sore, but I’m not going to let it happen again.

“Logan, I’m tired,” Winnie sighs as we enter the house. I kick off my shoes and give her a pointed look.

“We can sleep once we nail this dance,” she groans because we both know what that means. This could take a while.

We head downstairs, where my house’s gym and basketball court are located. Winnie gripes the entire way, and when I hook my phone up to the surround-sound system and start playing our ballroom music, she rolls her eyes.

“The less you complain, the faster we’ll get this done,” I repeat the phrase Bacri said over and over to us today, placing a light kiss on the top of Winnie’s head.

Her cheeks flush when I pull back, grabbing her hand and dragging her towards the center of the gym floor.

“You’re going to be in heels, aren’t you?” I ask, and she nods and then stands on her tiptoes.

The music blares through the gym as we try to get the steps right. Winnie is obviously much better than I am at dancing, but my inaccuracy is causing her to slip up. We’re stepping all over each other and missing our marks.

Frankly, it’s a mess at the moment.

“You need to go faster,” Winnie tells me.

“No, you need to go slower,” I argue.

She swats my arm right as the music starts over and we get back to our starting position. “Either way, one of us is off and I’m the one going on beat, so you keep up with me.”

We spend the next hour like this, going over our four-minute routine again and again until we are somewhat on time, no longer stepping all over each other.

It’s definitely not the best display of talent, and Winnie says I need to have better technique—whatever that means—but it’s much better than when we first started.

“Okay, I’m done for the night,” Winnie says as she lies on the floor of the gym.

I lay down next to her, both of us staring at the ceiling as our stomachs rise and fall with each breath we take.

“Remember when we used to play with those little rolling scooters in here?” Winnie asks, laughing at the memory.

“Yeah, and we’d have to stop as soon as you got your fingers ran over every. Single. Time,” I joke. “Gosh, you would cry like we chopped your fingers clean off.”

“Hey! With the way you and Luke used to ride those scooters, I’m surprised we all still have all our fingers!”

“Win, you can admit it, you were a crybaby.” It’s a well-known fact among our friend group. If something unfortunate happened, Winnie was always the first to be crying.

A loud noise? Winnie was crying. Someone got hurt? Winnie was crying, even if it wasn’t her. But she never cried to get her way. They were never bratty, miserable tears; they were either provoked by fear or sympathy.

Or pain, in the case where she used to get her fingers run over.

It reminds me of all the times Eloise would try to have Nerf gun fights in the backyards of my and Winnie’s houses. When Winnie didn’t know how to shoot the gun, let alone aim toward the enemies, the game always ended with her crying and running to me, begging for protection. I was always happy to oblige, letting her stand behind me, and use my body asher own human shield. In fact, I’d do it a million times over, even now.

She stands. “And so what if I was? That doesn’t take away from the fact the two of you somehow always managed to run over my fingers!”

“You’re right.” I stand alongside her, cupping her jaw with one of my hands. “We were reckless. It was one hundred percent our fault.”

“Exactly.”

We walk back upstairs, and right before Winnie walks out the door, I grab her arm to stop her. “There’s something I need to tell you,” I say.

“What?” she asks, looking confused.

“I’m glad you didn’t choose another guy to dance with you.” Her face softens and my confession.

“I thought you hated dancing?” She smirks, bumping shoulders with me.

“Oh, I do.” I nod. “But I would hate watching you do this with some other douchebag more.”

Winnie has always been my girl, and not because I staked a claim on her or scared every other guy off, it’s just common knowledge.

“Other douchebag?” she asks, looking appalled. “Logan, you’re not a douchebag.”

“Thanks, Win, I try not to be.” I laugh.

She steps further into the entryway like she’s planning on staying longer. Secretly, I’m hoping she does.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah, of course.” I step out of the way, giving her room to move out of the way of the door so I can shut it.

She looks worried for a moment, and then forces her gaze down at her feet, twiddling with her hands as she thinks about what to say.

My brow furrows. “What is it, Win?”

She sucks in a breath, and on its release she blurts, “Do you know what went wrong?”

My stomach drops. She could be talking about anything, but the way she’s looking at me now tells me everything I need to know. I’ve always been able to read Winnie like a book, and right now, part of me wishes I couldn’t.

We haven’t talked about what happened when we were fifteen since it ended. I wasn’t sure either of us would ever broach the topic again.

“I ask myself that question every day, Win,” I say. “And honestly, I have no idea.”

“It was my fault,” she replies, sucking in a long breath. “I should have never gone on that date. I used it as a way to get your attention, and that should have never been my goal.”

“You think I care about that?” I almost laugh, fighting the urge to reach out and touch her. My whole body is screaming at me to offer her some type of comfort, but I know it’s not the right time.

“Winnie, whether you were trying to get my attention or not, you already had it. You’ve always had it.”

“That was different. I did it on purpose to see if you would do anything, and then it was my fault it ended badly.” The guilt crossing her face makes my eyes burn.

“There’s nothing you could have done about the situation, Winnie. You were right, it wasn’t the best time, and I was upset, but looking back at it, I agree.”

A tear drips down her cheek, and I give in to touching her, reaching forward and using the pad of my thumb to wipe it away. “Then when will the right time be?” she asks, her voice cracking.

I’m stunned, like the feeling of ice water being dumped over me, type stunned. When Winnie ended things between us, I never thought there would be a second chance. I thought I was going to live the rest of my life with Winnie being my best friend and nothing more, because although I’ve allowed myself to fantasize about Winnie and me, I’ve also conditioned myself to pretend to be okay with that.

The fact that she sees a possibility in us fills me with a newfound joy. “Whenever we want, Win.”

“I don’t want to ruin anything,” she says. Her body is tense and locked up tight.

“Winnie,” I sigh, trying to get my point across. “My entire life has been centered around waiting for the right time to love you.”

There’s never been a wrong time to love Winnie—it’s always come naturally to me—but there is a right time for us to act on that love further than friends, and that’s the tightrope we’re currently walking.

“I’m sorry.” She tips her head back, and I watch her throat bob when she swallows. “I’m making this difficult.”

“No, you’re not.” I grab her hand. “This is real life. It doesn’t always go perfectly, and that’s not a problem for me.” I need her to understand that I’m not trying to force something before both of us are prepared.

“Logan,” she whispers. “I’m not ready for this to end.” She motions between the two of us, and it feels like a double-edged sword is stabbing us both in the heart. Not only am I watching her tear herself apart, but I’m also trying not to let it break me, too.

“Nothing is going to end.” There’s not a day I don’t think about a life with Winnie, and whether that’s as her friend or something more, I know she’s going to be a part of it forever.

“But what if we ruin our friendship?” she asks.

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take if it means starting something even better with you,” I tell her.

“You’re not worried about this?” The only thing I’m worried about is her apprehension surrounding this.

“No, I’m not. Whatever you need me to do, I’ll do it, you know that.”

Her look of relief gives me room to take a breath and inhale the moment. It feels like the freshest type of oxygen, the feeling of Winnie letting me love her.

“I need time,” she replies cautiously. “The anniversary of my mom’s death isn’t far from now, and it’s something I haven’t fully gotten over. But I’m going to talk to someone about it. I have an appointment with my therapist next week, so maybe that will help.” I squeeze her hand tighter.

“Take the time you need.” I know how the death of Winnie’s mom affected her. It was sudden. One day, she was here and the next she wasn’t. That isn’t something anyone can grow to be okay with. “I’ve waited eighteen years already, Winnie. A little longer won’t kill me.”

“You’re sure?” she asks, rocking back on her heels, looking uncertain.

“Of course I am.” It’s a no-brainer. Having the opportunity for Winnie to be mine is all I’ve ever wanted, and whatever I need to do to make that easier for her, I’ll do.

“I’m sorry if this isn’t how you imagined this happening,” she says.

“Winnie.” I grip her chin, forcing her head up so her eyes meet mine. “I’ve never imagined the path, only the ending. However it happens, I’ll only be happy that it did.”

She closes her eyes, nodding. “Me too.”

It’s the ending both of us have imagined, one we never knew was possible. Now, we’ve broken down that wall, and the only thing stopping us is us.