As soon as Maeve entered the gymnasium, a pulse of energy shot through her body as if she’d been shocked with a bolt of lightning. Here she was — her senior prom. The last dance of high school, and her last opportunity to tell Mick how she felt about him before they went their separate ways to the opposite ends of the state.
She looked down at her palm. The capital letters, written in thick sharpie, looked back. “WHAT IF,” they said.
Her sister Celia-Marie had written the message just before Maeve had left the house for the dance. Celia-Marie had asked if Maeve was excited to see Mick, and rapidly moved her eyebrows up and down in an attempt to be playful but it was really just annoying. Celia-Marie had returned from her freshman year of college only a week earlier and loved flaunting her newfound freedom and worldliness all around the house. She wore it like a coat. This freedom and worldliness made Celia-Marie stand taller, with her shoulders pulled back on her erect spine, and she had gotten into the extremely irritating habit of telling Maeve had to live her life.
So, before the dance, when Celia-Marie had asked Maeve the question and wiggled her eyebrows up and down, Maeve’s face grew hot and she yelled, “No, I am not excited to see MICK!” The timing could’ve been better, as it was at that moment Mick had pulled into the driveway in his father’s car, windows rolled down and a gorgeous somewhat-goofy grin on his freckled face.
He didn’t seem to hear what Maeve had shouted because he honked the horn a few times in celebration. “Senior prom, baby!” he called out to the neighborhood, and Maeve was sure her face had to resemble the biggest and brightest tomato in the garden by this point. Still, she raised her hand to wave, her breath catching at the sight of him in a suit.
As Mick got out and started to clear out the passenger seat, Celia-Marie took Maeve by the arm and pulled her back into the hallway of the house.
“It’s now or never,” she said. “You have to tell him you love him.”
“But I don’t.” Maeve’s shaky voice convinced no one, not even herself.
“Do you want to spend the rest of your life asking what if?” Celia-Marie snapped. Maeve hesitated before shaking her head. Celia-Marie pulled a sharpie out from who knows where and scribbled the words onto Maeve’s palm before she could stop her.
“You got this,” she said, blowing Maeve a sissy-knows-best kiss.
Maeve was transported to the present with the touch of a hand on her shoulder. She turned towards it and Mick was looking at her, his green eyes questioning. “You okay?”
She took a deep breath. “Never better.”
“I’ll grab us some punch. Want to find a table?”
Maeve nodded, her eyes scanning the gymnasium. It was almost unrecognizable. Was this really the same room where she had gotten a black eye from a soccer ball or barely survived the pacer running test?
The theme was ‘Midnight in Paris’ and twinkle lights hung all around the ceiling, resembling a starry night. A giant cream-colored orb hung in the middle, presumably the moon. A crowd was already forming on the dance floor below.
Maeve took a seat in a free table in the corner, draped in a black tablecloth. The centerpiece was an Eiffel tower painted onto a wine bottle, the inside of it filled with more twinkle lights. A single rose stuck out of the top. Absentmindedly, Maeve reached out to stroke the petal. It was soft, fragile.
Was it hot in here? Yes. Too hot. Too many people. Maeve tugged at the collar of her dress, regretting the choice of a high neck. The beads at the top felt like a thousand ants crawling around her neck.
“Oh, what am I going to do,” she said out loud, leaning over in her chair, pressing her cool hands to her burning forehead.
“Here you are,” came Mick’s friendly voice from beside her. If he was suffocating the way she was, he didn’t seem to show it. He placed her punch glass in front of her, and she sat up tall again.
“Thanks.” She forced a smile and brought the cool punch to her lips.
Mick cocked his head. “Maeve, you’ve got something on your…” he pointed to his own forehead, a frown forming on his face.
Maeve’s eyes widened. She quickly turned away, once again burning all over. “Don’t look at me!”
But of course, Mick didn’t listen. He got up and sat at chair on the other side. Maeve held up her hands to hide her face, and Mick gently grabbed her right wrist.
“What is this?” he asked, turning it over to look at her palm. The sharpie was a bit smudged and faded, but still readable.
Maeve gritted her teeth. “My lovely sister wrote it before we left.” She rubbed her forehead with her other hand. How ridiculous did she look to him right now?
“What if…” Mick whispered. He looked at Maeve, his eyes narrowing. “What if what?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly.
“Maeve,” Mick said softly, moving closer. Their knees bumped each other. He tried again. “What if what?”
Maeve looked away, but could still feel Mick’s fingers curved around her wrist. Now or never, huh? Some things you can never take back. She took a deep breath and blurted out, “What if I told you I love you?”
Unable to help it, she risked a glance back to Mick. She could see his expression opening up. His eyes wider, his lips parted, his eyebrows raised.
“What if you loved me,” he repeated slowly, as if trying to work through a math equation.
Maeve forced her lips together and nodded. Her heart was pulsing throughout her body now. Her ears, her stomach. Surely he could feel it in her wrist.
Locking eyes with Maeve, Mick moved his hands from her wrist to her hand. Their fingers interlocked. A shy smile formed on his face, punctuated by his dimples. “And Maeve. What if I loved you back?”
Paige Gardner 