21. SARA

Chance’s house reminds me a lot of the Atlas offices: sleek and understated, with lots of wood and glass. The foyer opens onto the front room and the elegant staircase to the second floor, with a glimpse down the hall at a modern kitchen.

There’s no hint of a feminine touch to the décor anywhere. I can’t help but take that as a good sign.

“It’s beautiful,” I say as he closes the massive walnut front door behind us.

“Thanks. I don’t get to spend a lot of time here; mostly I’m traveling for work. There’s a little suite adjacent to my office, too, for those nights when I don’t make it home from work.”

“Oh, sure,” I say, nodding. “I mean, who doesn’t have one of those, right?”

He grins as he leads me down the hall, past a tasteful dining room with a low table that looks like it was made from a solid piece of ebony, and into the kitchen.

“Parties always seemed to end up in the kitchen when we were kids,” he says. “Might as well start there.”

It’s a huge space, with about twenty feet of counter space and polished ash cabinets that go all the way up to the ceiling. An eight-by-four-foot island separates the kitchen proper from a subdued family room with a huge TV on the wall and a floor-to-ceiling window onto the back yard.

“I feel like I’m dreaming,” I say. “Something like this – I never could have imagined it when we were young.”

“You and me both,” he says, pouring us each a drink from a sideboard in the family room. “I used to dream about just having my own bedroom back then, let alone this.”

Grace and I were far from well-off, but at least we had our own rooms. Chance never had a room to himself in the foster care system; the closest he ever came was the sofa in the basement of Tre’s house.

He hands me my glass and I raise it in a toast.

“To you,” I say. “You did it, Chance. You made your own reality. I always knew you would.”

“I’ve got a better one,” he says. “To those kids in the storeroom of the rec center, who never gave up on themselves.”

That slices like a blade, but I don’t let it show. If only he could have said we never gave up on each other.

For a moment, we stand there quietly, looking out at the night sky and the stunning landscaping of the yard. It looks like a Japanese garden of sorts, with cedar and stone and a fountain in the center.

“Come with me,” he says, taking my hand and leading me to a spiral staircase in the corner.

“Where are we going?”

“Up.”

Two flights later and we emerge through another walnut door onto a rooftop patio. There’s outdoor furniture that forms a conversation area overlooking the yard and the rest of the downtown neighborhood.

I scan the 360-degree view.

“It’s gorgeous.”

“Yeah,” he says, looking at me. “It sure is.”

I down my drink in the hopes of slowing my suddenly rapid heart rate. What’s going on? Is it what I hoped when he invited me here? What did I hope? Am I ready for this? Do I want this?

Chance places his glass on a low end table and takes my hand.

“Remember when we used to slow dance in the storeroom?” he asks. “Just swaying back and forth to whatever was playing on that shitty little transistor radio that only picked up the oldies station?”

I nod, unable to speak.

He takes a remote control of the table and taps a button. Immediately, Madonna starts singing from an unseen speaker about being crazy for someone.

Chance pulls me toward him and I move as if in a trance. We take our places like we always did back then: me with my arms around his neck, him with his hands clasped at the small of my back. It’s like the last fifteen years just disappear like steam on a windowpane.

I can’t seem to swallow as we sway back and forth under the stars, staring into each other’s eyes, with the muffled sounds of downtown and the song on the radio. Finally, he brings his forehead down to touch mine.

“I missed you, Sara,” he whispers.

“I missed you, too.”

The little oboe line signals the end of the song as he draws my hand to his lips and kisses it.

“Thanks for the dance,” he whispers.

This is crazy. I shouldn’t do this. Quentin will fire my ass if he finds out. I need that money.

“One more,” I whisper back as The Cars start to wonder who’s going to drive someone home tonight.

The world comes to a standstill for the duration of the song. Our hips move as one, in perfect synch, just like they used to when we were young. It’s as if our bodies remembered things our brains forgot.

I want to stay in this moment for a month, then collect my check from Quentin and…

And what, Sara?

Chance pulls away slightly as the song ends. “One more?” he asks.

“No, thanks,” I say. “How about you show me your bedroom instead?”