My Grandma Ellis made me take dance lessons when I was a kid.
She and I were never close, but that was the one thing we always did together that I had enjoyed. I’d been good—really good—because of all my fight training, and I’d enjoyed it.
I hadn’t attended a lesson or class since she passed away when I was sixteen, but riding on the back of Merrick’s bike, I missed it. Not because of my Grandma, though I did miss her. But because riding with him felt like dancing.
Merrick started at an easy pace, and the song began on the winding road. He leaned into a turn, and I moved with him. My body had to adjust to follow his, paying attention to his movement so I could mirror it without knocking us off balance or making steering more difficult for him. After a while, I figured out his pace. That
