The next day, Tori returned to the cafeteria and asked whether the flowers were together.
“They are,” I told her.
She said her mother had told her I had never danced again.
I admitted it was true.
Tori held out her tiny hand.
“Then will you dance with me?”
For a moment, I could not speak.
Finally, I took her hand.
She stepped onto my shoes, and we swayed between the empty cafeteria tables while music drifted from the gym.
Tori stepped on my feet twice, and I began laughing.
It was the first time in forty years that happiness did not feel like betrayal.
When the music ended, she hugged me and called it the best dance ever.
I thought about Michael, the matching flowers, and the girl before me.
Tori’s family existed because Michael had been exactly the person I remembered—a boy who could never pass someone in need.
I smiled through my tears.
“Yes,” I said. “I think it was.”
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