I don’t do that now. Not every day. But I’ve gotten lazy over the last year or so. Forgetting that a slice of pizza here or a cup of frozen yogurt there adds up. Everyone tells you “a spoonful of this” or “a little bite of that” won’t hurt, but those spoonfuls and bites could be the difference between sixteen fouettés and thirty-two. Between dancing at Marisa’s studio for another year before I graduate or going to year-round ballet school.

Or it could all mean nothing. The trial is a little over two months away, and auditions start a week after that. If I find out Chris abducted Donovan, if I have to tell my story to a courtroom, I’ll be judged for much more than my dancing. Or worse, they might not give me a chance. They might recognize my name, my face, and politely but firmly suggest it’d be better if I focused my energy elsewhere. Ruthie said it was about the dancing, but I can’t imagine anyone would want me affiliated with their program if my ex-boyfriend turns out to be the worst kind of criminal.

* * *

I run into Hosea in the lobby of the studio. He’s coming from the direction of Marisa’s office and looks surprised to see me. This is the first time we’ve been alone since the science lab.

“Hey,” he says, rearranging his backpack on his shoulder as he smiles at me.

They’re becoming easy now, his smiles. It shouldn’t be so hard for me to ignore someone who has a girlfriend. Especially after what Klein said. What Ellie suspects. And how bad I feel when I think about what we’ve been doing.

We still text. I’m happy to know he’s thinking about me, that he wants to be with me, but sometimes I think it’s better that we can’t be alone very often. Because he may never break up with Ellie. Or worse, what if he broke up with her for me, only to end things if I tell people the truth about Chris and me at the trial?

“Hi.” I smile back at him. Cautious, but grateful that for the most part, the studio is a safe place.

“How often do you stay late?” he says before I get a chance to ask what he was doing in Marisa’s office. He holds the door open for me and I look at him before I cross through, simultaneously appreciating and hating the gentlemanly gesture. It makes it that much harder to stop liking him.

“A few times a week now. Just getting in some extra practice.”

“Like you need it.” He closes the door firmly behind him, then digs around for his keys in the front pocket of his backpack. “You want a ride?”

“I can take the train.” It’s automatic, something I’ve become accustomed to saying when people offer. And I’m glad, because otherwise I would have hesitated. Possibly said yes as soon as he asked, because sometimes it takes a while for my heart to catch up to my brain. And of course I would rather ride in his car.

“Do your parents pick you up at the station?” He looks at me curiously, and I wonder if he knows how hard I’ve been trying to avoid him.

“No, they trust me enough to drive there.” I slip on my wool gloves before sticking my hands into the pockets of my peacoat. “Just not into the city.”

“Well, it’s on my way, so I’ll give you a ride,” he says, already starting to walk.

I stand in place on the concrete. “I shouldn’t. I . . . We shouldn’t.”

He stops, turns to look at me. Eyebrows wrinkled, gray eyes blinking in confusion. “I know we haven’t met up lately, but . . . did I do something to piss you off?”

I stare at the brick on the building’s exterior. Red. Weathered. It matches the corridors inside. “No, I just . . . Things happen when we’re alone and maybe we should try to be good.”

“Oh.” He shifts his weight, shifts his backpack. Doesn’t quite meet my eye. He looks out at the street, packed with honking cabs and hissing buses and commuters road-raging their way back to the suburbs. Then he nods. “We’ll both be good, okay? It’s not just about that. I like talking to you, Theo.”

Oh. Maybe I’m weak, but knowing it’s not just physical, that he doesn’t expect anything . . . it makes me feel better about accepting his offer. So I do.

He’s parked a couple of blocks over from the studio, and as soon as we’re out of sight I feel him move closer. A moment later, his arm is around me. I’m stunned at first. No one has ever been affectionate with me in public. Well, Klein, I guess, but he doesn’t count.

“Is this okay?” Hosea asks when I remain silent. “I swear, I’m not trying anything. You looked cold.”

I take in a breath. Let it out. This isn’t being good, but I say, “It’s fine.”

And a few seconds later, I relax into him. Because being under Hosea’s arm feels good and I need to feel good right now. Friends can put their arms around each other. I do it all the time with Sara-Kate and Phil.

We fall into step together as we make our way across the cold pavement. It’s supposed to snow this weekend; if we get as much as the weathermen are saying, we might have a white Thanksgiving in a couple of weeks. I don’t mind the snow, but it makes my parents flip out even more about my driving. They start dumping sandbags in the trunk of my car and yelling out safety instructions every time I leave the house and I think they’d put snow chains on my tires if I let them.

I hate when we reach Hosea’s car because it means he has to move his arm. I felt so cozy under there. Comfortable, like I belonged.

And then I squash that. We’re friends.

He opens the door for me again and I say thank you as I slide into the passenger seat of his little orange hatchback. Fasten my seat belt and sit with my gloved hands in my lap as I wait for him to get in.

The engine starts up after a few tries and he twists the knob on the heater but the car has been sitting too long. The vents send out a rush of cold air, so he turns it off again. “I hate this thing. Nothing works.”

“It’s not so bad,” I say, squeezing my fingers together so he won’t see them shake from the cold. “At least it still runs, right?”

“I guess.” He kind of laughs as he rubs his hands together and blows on them. “Klein won’t ride in here. He thinks any car without seat warmers should be taken off the road.”

“Classic Klein.” I shake my head, then: “I’m not exactly his biggest fan right now.”

I look at the people sitting in the tiny café across the street from our metered parking spot. Two girls in dark sweaters, laughing over giant mugs of coffee. It reminds me of Sara-Kate, how it’s so strange for me to be keeping another secret from her. But there’s no need to tell her, because nothing’s going to happen between Hosea and me. We’re both being good. And there’s nothing to tell if we’re just friends, right?

“What did Klein do?” Hosea looks at me. Waiting. Ready. Maybe a little nervous.

“He said Ellie is pissed.” I turn back to him, move my eyes down to the elbow of his black coat. “At me.”

He casually reaches for the pack of cloves by the gearshift. Turns it over in his hands a few times before offering me one. I decline and he lights one for himself, takes a long drag before he puts the car in drive and starts down the side street toward the expressway.

“Well, nobody’s said anything to me,” he says, exhaling his smoke toward the sliver of open air at the top of the window. “Klein knows I don’t put up with that gossipy bullshit.”

I don’t want to care, but that statement lets me know I do. A part of me deflates as he says that. I know it shouldn’t matter because he’s not my boyfriend. But it makes me feel as if he’s downplaying our connection. As if I’m in this alone and imagined everything that’s happened between us.

“But it’s not bullshit. This. Us.” I spread my hands around the interior of his tiny car.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says impatiently. “Of course it’s not bullshit. It’s just . . . I’m not exactly in the habit of cheating on my girlfriend. And then you . . .”

I’m dying to know what’s on the end of that sentence, but when I look over, his eyes are flashing and I know better than to ask before he’s ready to tell me. I don’t want to push him away.

So I stare out the window as the lights of downtown Chicago twinkle around us. I remember when I’d come into the city as a kid, how I thought it was magical. The buildings seemed positively gargantuan back then, and I loved the overhead chugging of the El as we walked the crowded sidewalks, navigating our way between the patches of stores.

The car is too still. The busted radio means we’re dependent on the sounds outside to break up the silence: the uneven rumble of the engine, the hum of cars in the lanes parallel to us, the long, high wail of sirens in the distance.

Hosea exits smoothly off the expressway, makes a couple of right turns, and pulls onto a quiet residential street near the Ashland Hills train station, then turns to me, ready to finish what he started to say when we were back in the city. He takes a deep breath. “And then you came around and made me feel something . . . new. Something good. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this way, Theo.”

Now the heater is blasting hot, stale air and the car is too warm. I take off my gloves, slowly lay them across my lap, one on top of the other.

“What about Ellie?” I say weakly. I didn’t expect him to be so upfront about his feelings. Does this mean he’s going to break up with her?

“Ellie is . . . Ellie.” He shrugs. “She knows about the music stuff, but she doesn’t care. That’s why I didn’t tell her about my job at the studio. She doesn’t make me want to be better, like you do. She doesn’t get that it’s scary . . . to want something so much and not be sure if you’re good enough. I guess sometimes I feel like she doesn’t know the real me, or something.”

“Then she’s missing out. Anyone should feel lucky to know the real you,” I say. Softly, because I didn’t think I would say it out loud.

“That’s, like, the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” His voice is quiet. Then he inhales from his clove one last time and smashes the butt into the crowded ashtray under the dash.

“It’s true.” I fiddle with my gloves because I don’t know what else to do with my hands. Because telling me I just said the nicest thing to him is sort of the nicest thing in itself.

He looks down at the gearshift, where his fingers tap out a quick rhythm. “Did you say something to Marisa?”

I give him a funny look. “About us? Of course not.”

“No, I mean . . . what I said about music school. She called me into her office to ask what my plans are after I graduate. She gave me some sheet music she thinks I’ll like and said she knows someone in the music program at Columbia College if I wanted to talk about applying. Why would she do something like that if you didn’t talk to her?”

“Because it’s not exactly a secret that you’re good enough to be serious about music, Hosea.” I look down at the gearshift, wish his hand was touching me instead. “Marisa likes to help people who work hard.”

“She told me to think about what I want to do next fall, and that I could practice on the piano at the studio when there are no classes. For free.” His voice is incredulous, his eyes wide. “Do you know how long it’s been since I really played a piano? Like, with my own music? I have one at home, but it’s hard to compose on that thing. It’s an old spinet and it’s shitty and . . .”

He trails off as if he’s so overwhelmed by Marisa’s kindness that he doesn’t know what to say.

“You’re going to do it, right?” I say encouragingly.

“I think so.” He leans against the headrest.

“But?”

“But . . . you don’t think she’s just being nice?”

My eyes lock on his wrist. I imagine my fingers wrapped around it, his pulse beating warm and quick against my skin. We understand each other. We like each other. This isn’t my imagination.

“No,” I say. “And your piano teacher wasn’t saying those things to be nice, either. Neither was I. You’re really, really good, Hosea.”

He looks at me, lets out a long, quiet breath. Then his lips meet mine with urgency. But it’s not demanding like Chris, or chaotic like Klein. It’s full of intense yearning that makes me pause for a moment to look at him before I return it with an urgency of my own, a kiss so steeped in need and craving, it must be radiating from me. I pull away, look at him as I wonder why I can’t seem to control myself with him.

“Hey.” He smooths a hand over the top of my head, squeezes the bun at the back. “We can stop. I should stop. I didn’t mean to break my promise.”