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?

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.

A brief dash up the stairs and Ransom was in my apartment, slipping his hands in his pockets as he looked around my place. No one but Leann and some of my friends from the studio had ever been in my tiny apartment. Ransom filled up the space so completely, I had to step back and let him pace around, his movements a little slow and listless, before he finally crashed onto my sofa.

My place was nice, small but comfortable, though it wasn’t really more than a couple of converted storage rooms. I had a small kitchenette with a mini fridge and stovetop and there was a tiny bathroom at the back.

My style was a little eccentric—vintage because I could only afford thrift store and garage sale finds, and hand-me-downs from Leann that I knew she’d bought for me and lied about using.

The sofa was really only a loveseat, and was plush but threadbare, covered in an olive cable knit throw Leann had given me for Christmas the year before. It matched the sporadic pops of green and turquoise around the living room and on my neatly made bed at the back of the loft. Ransom took up most of the seating area on the sofa and held his head in his hands as he looked down at the whitewashed hardwood floors.

“Who did this?” I asked him, coming closer to the sofa with my knee leaning against the plank wood coffee table.

“It doesn’t matter.”

Those large hands trembling, the defeated, exhausted tone of his voice, were almost too hard to bear. I’d never seen him like this up close—broken, wounded in a way that I worried couldn’t be healed.

When I came to my knees in front of him, Ransom didn’t move. “Hey,” I said, pulling his face up to look at me. “Talk to me. How can I help?”

“You can’t,” he said, as a bitter laugh left his throat. “You can’t help the hopeless.”

“No one is hopeless.”

He stared at me a long time and when I tried to touch his hand, he sat back, fingers running through his hair.

Everyone tiptoed around Ransom when it came to bringing up the past. He was such a large, imposing figure that only Keira and Kona really got to push his buttons. They knew how to handle him, everyone else took their lead. And as much as I respected them, loved them even, I thought they did more harm than good letting Ransom wallow in his grief, not making him confront the stuff that seemed to weigh him down. Now he had brought the past to my front door. Or backdoor, however you look at it. He hadn’t come here for a damn dance lesson. I thought maybe it was being here, at the studio, getting lost in the music and movements that eased him. Maybe, just maybe, he’d come here because he needed a friend who wouldn’t try to tell him things would be fine. More likely, he’d been lost but that innate desire to please, to keep to his responsibilities had somehow pushed through the sick birthday reminder and led him here.

Ransom needed a friend, I knew that, but he also needed to talk through the ghosts that were hurting him. It was a risk to mention, but one I’d take just to get him past this. “Is this…the roses, it has to do with…with Emily?”

His fingers came down, slapped onto his leg at my question and I recognized that swift flare of anger, insult in his eyes. But Ransom was able to retain his temper holding back from it as he looked away from me. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Leann’s still downstairs. She will be for a while.” Again I tried touching him and he grunted, leaving the sofa to avoid my reach. “I thought we were friends,” I said, trying to calm him without cutting him any slack. He had his back to me as he paced, hands loose on his hips. “This is what friends do, Ransom.”

“What?” he said, moving his head to the left to glare at me over his shoulder before he turned around. He moved his hands from his hips to ball into fists at his side. “Get in your business? If that’s the case then I don’t want any friends.” It was a shock, that harsh tone, one he hadn’t used since that first confrontation after I lied to him. Instinctually, I flinched when he yelled, stepping back, then feeling stupid for pulling away.

I’d only meant to help, to get that sad frown off his face and deep down inside Ransom must have known that because his immediately softened. “Aly…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…” He laced his fingers in his hair again, staring up at my low ceiling. “Shit, I suck at this.”

Someone had to reach him, knock down the walls Emily had erected the day of the accident. “You don’t talk about her?”

That anger flashed again and Ransom stood straight, curling his fingers into a fist. I felt the tension from him, it shook his arms and lowered his deep voice. “No.”

“It might help.”

He shook his head.

“Ransom…”

“No!” This time when he shouted I wasn’t surprised and found myself annoyed that he was trying to use his size, his imposing voice to make me back off. It wouldn’t work on me. My father had done that for years and once I realized that it was my reaction, the way I’d huddle away from him for fear of that voice alone, I’d stopped doing it. It gave him too much power over me and no one did that to me anymore. Not even Ransom.

He moved his chin up, but kept his face hard, a frown that shook his top lip, reminding me of a tiger, pent up and pacing behind a glass wall at the zoo. “No one gets that from me. It’s none of your damn business.”

He stepped closer, the sadness and frustration that had covered him downstairs now replaced by a quick rip of anger.

“Fine,” I said, waving him toward the door. I had my own bullshit to handle and I wouldn’t stroke his ego if he didn’t want help. That would do him zero good. “Go face Leann on your own. Go mope in your car.”

“What…” His glare twisted, became a shock of surprise, eyebrows lifting as though he couldn’t believe I’d call him out. “What the hell did you say to me?”

“Did I not make myself clear?” More annoyed than angry, I didn’t get why no one had forced the issue with him. He had a charmed life, so much talent, so many people in his corner, so many resources there to help him excel. So why did everyone watch him fall apart, why did he refuse to get back up again? He wasn’t the only one who had lost someone. Everyone hurts. Everyone has pain. But he was loved. He was blessed, and even though his loss had been great, and tragic, it didn’t need to be a guarantee that he’d be alone forever. The stubborn bata either had no idea how loved he was or he had forgotten it, chose instead to let his grief comfort him. It made me madder than I’d been in a long damn time. “Take off. Get out, wallow in your own shit, but do it on your own.”

He looked at me hard, the muscle in his jaw clenching, and I thought he might speak, call me something insulting. What I didn’t expect was for his temper to tamper down or for him to look crestfallen, and apologetic. But silent.

“Whatever,” I finally said, tired of looking up at him expecting a response I knew wouldn’t come. “Just…whatever.”

My place was neat but confining with him standing behind me, watching as I threw my bag on my bed and fiddled with my stereo. Ransom’s angry panting had slowed, but I was still aware of his breaths and his movements as he lowered himself back down onto the sofa. I needed a distraction, something that would keep me from lashing out again, so I chose Van Morrison, “Into the Mystic” because that voice, that song always settled my simmering temper.

Outside my window, Metairie was a bustle of activity, with cars shifting on the Interstate, drivers eager to hit the city, and I had a fleeting notion to follow them. I still had to work at the diner tonight, after all. But I wasn’t needed for another couple of hours and being around customers and Carl’s nagging wouldn’t do me any good. So instead I closed my eyes and let the music roll over me like a balm, easing away my anger.

I’d almost forgotten that I wasn’t alone when Ransom cleared his throat behind me. “I don’t know what to do with myself.”

His voice was quiet, as though he wasn’t sure if he wanted me to hear him. Now this – this was Ransom being honest, not pretending like he had all the answers, or that he knew exactly what he needed. None of us did. I was grateful that he’d finally admitted to being as clueless as the rest of us.

I turned, shuffling to stand in front of the sofa and extended my hand to him. “Dance with me,” I said. He only stared up at me blankly.

“I don’t feel like practicing.”

“I’m not asking you to practice. I’m asking you to dance.”

Ransom’s body stiffened when I picked up his hand, but he didn’t fight me. “Just be here with me. Me and you and the music.”

We came together in the center of my living room with that slow, soothing music wrapping around us. There was no Kizomba, no prequel to a seduction we both wanted to avoid. There was just Ransom bending low, arms around me, hand taking mine to hold against his chest. After a few seconds, the tension lessened, and his body did not feel as rigid. It felt peaceful, and safe, and simple—just two people, holding each other, swaying to the music.

His mouth hovered near my forehead and as we moved together with no form or practiced steps, Ransom’s grip on my waist got tighter. “I wish I could breathe again. I want that so bad.” The words were whispered, low.

I closed my eyes, reminding myself that I couldn’t touch him.

“Ransom. You can.”

He looked down at me and right then I saw just how lost he was. This realization didn’t come from flippant comments he made to me or desperate excuses I overheard him make. It was all there right in his eyes—the loneliness, the pain, as though each mistake he’d made was etched into the rise of his cheekbones and the worried, faint lines on his forehead. He was still drifting; he had been drifting for so damn long.

The pain in his eyes drew me in. There was nothing I could say that would make his hurt lessen. There was nothing that would take him from the lingering sorrow he’d created for himself. So I didn’t speak, didn’t give him advice I knew he’d never take. I just watched Ransom’s eyes, and felt the slow way he moved. And then with my hand on the back of his neck, I pulled his face towards me, I took his lips, kissing him, pouring into that kiss everything I’d held back from him since we first met.

This is who I am. This is what I want. That voice came from someplace hidden and secret inside me.

It was minutes, minutes of nothing but my mouth on his, nothing but two people finding solace in each other, before I realized I’d messed up.

He didn’t seem to want me to pull away, but didn’t stop me when I did. Shaking my head, I smoothed the collar on his shirt, unable to look at him. “I’m…modi, Ransom, I’m sorry.”

Ransom pulled my chin up and smoothed his thumb over my cheek, down the slope of my chin before he returned his attention to my eyes. “I don’t think I am.”

It was a moment I thought I’d always wanted. Him looking at me like I was real, like he saw me, finally saw me. I’d seen that look once before, just as Ransom whispered my name and kissed me over and over the first time. It wasn’t the look of someone hopeless. It was open and raw and I realized right then that I’d give anything for Ransom to never stop looking at me.

But this was against our rules. This wasn’t how we were supposed to be. I took his hand, thought of pulling it away from my face but didn’t have the strength, liked how it felt on my face too much. “Friends don’t kiss, Ransom.”

A small nod, and his eyes narrowed. His grip around me tightened. The music around us swelled. “No, they don’t,” he said, still touching my face, inching closer and I knew, right then, he was definitely not my friend.