Mess To Be Made

38

I can't remember the last time I smiled so hard.

A real, and uncontrollable, smile.

The type of smile that stays on your face for a suspiciously long amount of time.

The type of smile that makes your jaw so sore in the moment, you're concerned if it'll ache the next day.

The type of smile that wrinkles your eyes and welcomes whatever breath your lungs have to offer. Whether it's a sigh or a giggle or a squeal or a bellow. It's just happy that you're breathing.

It's just happy that you're alive.

You're just happy to be alive.

And in this moment, I was happy to be alive.

I'm not sure exactly how we—well, mostly I—ended up on the dance floor. I was never big on dancing at parties. I typically enjoyed loitering near the liquor or chatting with friends or guys. When I did wind up on the dance floor, it was most likely because Lindsay dragged me there after I was completely sloshed.

So the fact that I was at a nerd party, surrounded by people I didn't know—or barely knew—and happily whirling around the living room in tune to the music on my own accord, was beyond surprising.

Tyler and Scott stayed leaning their backs against one of the living room walls the majority of the time while I jumped and bobbed and sung and cheered. I danced with strangers like an innocent six-year-old at a wedding reception full of adults. No matter what I did or who I looked at or where I went—I felt not only accepted, but encouraged.

It was odd to me how the purpose of dancing here felt celebratory, not sexual. I could sway and bump by hips against other people without getting dirty looks, wandering hands, or a drink spilt on me. Random eye contact with someone wouldn't result in whispers or advances, but rather belting out the lyrics at each other, like we weren't complete and utter strangers.

It was like there was some weird agreement here. Stepping on the dance floor meant you were agreeing to participate in an experience where judgment was pushed aside and all that mattered was enjoying little moments with each other.

It didn't matter who you were or who you knew. We all simply relished in the sharing of these exchanges. And while they were incredible and exhilarating, once they ended, that was it. They passed. And we moved on to the next.

Despite feeling more carefree than I'd felt in a long time, I was acutely aware of Tyler's consistent gaze on me. Knowing I had his attention at a party with his friends, in a huge room of people, made me anxious and empowered all at the same time. I found myself jumping higher, singing louder, grinding lower. Throwing lustful glances and smirks at him over my shoulder every now and then so he knew that I knew he was watching me.

He never looked away.

I tried yelling lyrics at him. He only returned a scowl. I tried to convince him to jump to the beat of a song in sync with me. He only crossed his arms tighter to his chest stubbornly and leaned further back against the living room wall as his hazel gaze flicked between my feet and my eyes with a glint of amusement.

No matter how many times I tried to convince him to dance with me, he always refused.

Until this one song came on.

You set me free, every time your hands on me

I don't recall ever hearing it before, but it had me hooked within the first five seconds and a determined chill ran down my spine as I felt my own blue eyes darken, locking fervently on Tyler.

I wanna be your way to shine

Scott was across the living room now, dancing and chatting in a circle of people, so it was Tyler alone, still leaning against the wall, when I approached him.