So when he stopped in front of me, I looked behind myself.
There was no one there.
“Hi, Mara,” he said.
My name sounded strange in his voice. Like he had practiced it.
“Hi.”
His eyes did not dart to my scars.
Not once.
That made me nervous.
People who worked too hard not to look were sometimes more obvious than people who stared.
He held out his hand.
“Would you dance with me?”
I stared at him.
The room seemed to narrow around us.
“What?”
His mouth curved, but it wasn’t a teasing smile.
It was careful.
“I asked if you’d dance with me.”
I looked toward the tables. Several people had noticed. Of course they had. Caleb Turner did not walk up to the girl with scars at prom and ask her to dance without creating a ripple.
“Is this…” My voice dropped. “Is this a joke?”
Something moved across his face.
Pain.
Fast, but unmistakable.
“No.”
I searched his eyes for laughter. For cruelty. For a dare hiding somewhere behind his pupils.
I found none.
“Why?” I asked before I could stop myself.
He lowered his hand slightly.
Then he said, very quietly, “Because I’ve wanted to ask for a long time.”
