My phone vibrates in my pocket and I pull it out. James. “What,” I answer, annoyed. I don’t want his voice on the phone, I want it in my ear. “Has anyone ever told you how sexy you are when you dance?” A hand comes around my waist and I grab the wrist, twist it, then turn to find myself right up against James, and everything is right again. I lean against him, tip my face toward him. “Oh, hi,” I say. “Oh, ouch,” he says.

James is mine. He is my north, and as long as we are together, everything is okay.

Fia,” James says, and I love the way he always answers the phone with my name: a statement, not a question.