Our Chemical Hearts by Krystal Sutherland Page B

Some kind of musical chairs occurred. Someone got upto go to the bathroom, someone else got up to go get a drink, someone sat down in someone else’s spot, until no one was where they’d started, and Grace Town was next to me. Close to me. So close, our legs were touching. She was at least a bottle and a half of punch down by now, and already more casual and affectionate than I’d ever seen her before. She laughed when people told jokes. She smiled at me. She engaged. Even when no one was talking and she didn’t realize anyone was looking at her, there was a light behind her eyes. She sat up straighter. The body language she lacked when she was sober was there in spades when she was tipsy. She looked—despite being moderately dirty and unkempt—quite beautiful.
    People noticed her in a way they never had before. People noticed how pretty she was. People noticed that she was
there
. As fucked up as it is to say, alcohol made her come alive.
    When we brainstormed the newspaper, we always sat together. Accidental touches were unavoidable at such close range, but when she hadn’t been drinking, Grace always pulled back from them. Always sat so close that they would happen, then pulled back from them. Like she wanted me to touch her until it happened, and then when it did, she suddenly changed her mind. But there was none of that tonight. The casual grazes of skin only got more frequent, until I was telling a story and Grace was laughing at me and saying, “Stop, stop, you’re embarrassing yourself.” Grace put her hand over my mouth in an effort to silence me, and I mock fought her, both of us giggling at the struggle. My hand on her waist, herhand on my knee, our bodies pressed closer together than they had any need to be.
    â€œHenry! It’s our song!” she said as a cover of “Someday” started playing. I was surprised she remembered my favorite song. I was even more surprised she referred to it as
our song
. Not
my
song.
Our
song. Grace threaded her fingers through mine and pulled me to my feet and led me to the crowded makeshift dance floor (i.e., the hardwood floor of Heslin’s living room). As the beat dropped, she started moving in the most thoroughly un-Grace-like fashion. All I could do was watch. Under the gold lights of the chandelier above, time shifted, a portal opened, and I could suddenly see the girl she’d been before I knew her, the girl from her Facebook profile pictures.
    As she danced, she took off the oversized flannel shirt she was wearing and tied it around her waist, leaving her in only a fitted white tank top and jeans. Under all that clothing, there she was, lean and angular and lovely. There was something sharp about her shoulders and collarbones and jawline, like she didn’t quite eat enough. And there was something about her sunken eyes and hollow cheekbones and blunt, self-cut hair that meant she would always look at little bit like a heroin junkie.
    But the way she moved. God, the way she moved. The way she closed her eyes and bit her lip, like she could
feel
the music pulsing in her blood.
    â€œHenrik, you’re not dancing,” Grace said when she noticed, and she took my hand in hers again and kind of shookme, as if this would somehow imbue me with the power of rhythm. I wasn’t much of a dancer, but I was here with her, and I was drunk, and she was incredibly beautiful, and I wanted so badly to kiss her for the first time while “our song” was playing. So I pulled her against me, and when the beat dropped again and all the people around us screamed in delight, I danced with her.
    Grace kept touching me, kept finding excuses to run her fingers over my skin. All I had to do was find the courage to lean in and put my mouth on hers. One moment of extraordinary courage.
    â€œHenry! Grace!” yelled a familiar voice. A second later, Lola was there, hugging the both of us, dancing between us, Georgia at her