“And standing me up was your way of telling me you didn’t like me back?” I ask, incredulous.
“Not exactly. I wasn’t out. You weren’t out. My feelings were all jumbled up. All I knew was that those plansfeltlike a date. A date I was in no way ready for. I had literally only kissed a guy for the first time a few weeks before, and I was reeling from it.” His elbows are spread apart on the table and his hands are clasped, almost in prayer. “You know how my family is.” His forehead smacks into his knuckles.
He saysfamily, but I’m almost certain he means his dad. That harried whisper in the restaurant returns to me. Derick being commanded back into his chair. It wasn’t that it was a family meal and getting up without excusing himself was rude. It was that he was coming over to seeme.
“I hate myself for doing that, but avoiding you was easier than facing any of those feelings.” On a sigh, he meets my gaze again. “One kiss can cause a whole lot of trouble. You know what I mean?”
“Actually, I don’t. I’ve neverbeenkissed.” The admission flies out of my mouth before I get a chance to gobble it back up.
I know I shouldn’t feel inhibited by this. Everyone evolves at their own rate. Some people never kiss anyone, and they don’t want to and that’s normal. So why, oh why, do I feel bottom-of-the-barrel rotten and bruised?
Oh, right. Because the boy I wanted to kiss more than anything is sitting across from me asking me to be vulnerable with his probing eyes.
Derick looks at me for what feels like a long time. Then, “You mean you’ve never hadthe kiss, right? The big one with the butterflies and the swelling score you loved in all those famous movies?”
I’m not sure why I tell him the truth. Maybe because, despite what happened four years ago, he’s always been so easy to be myself with. “No, I mean, not at all. Not ever.” I shake my head. “I had four almost-kisses. You included. You weren’t the only one who got an email.”
His interest ignites. “What? Who were the others? Do I know them?”
“Do I owe you that answer?”
He’s silent for a long beat. “No, I guess you don’t.”
Needing somewhere to channel these unexpected feelings, I line up the gritty paper football. Noticing, Derick does his own finger field-goal. With a harder hit than I intend, the triangle goes soaring up and over Derick’s hands, angling dangerously close to his upper face. He swerves just in time for the paper to land in the tray of a nearby busboy who looks up, befuddled.
“You almost took out my eye.” In the years since high school, I’d forgotten how elastic his features are; expressions instantaneously grow and shrink like a Slinky. Always so legible, always sohim.
I apologize for my bad aim.
“I’ll accept your apology if you consider accepting mine.” He catches my eyes, his own serious. Earnest. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m sorry I avoided you. I’m sorry I didn’t…” Derick hesitates, then shakes his head, sad almost. “I’m just sorry, Wren.”
Just as I’m about to answer, the vibrating timer goes off in my pocket.
Then, abruptly, the mood in the bar shifts. “I’m Gonna Getcha Good!” by Shania Twain begins playing so loud that the table is shaking.
Every waitress from the back struts out onto the floor, grabbing the patrons’ hands and lifting them to their feet.
Oh no. They’re about to do a line dance. I’ve heard about these before. They do them every half hour.
Even though our section isn’t being attended to by one of the women, Uncle Leon comes out and starts a clap to the beat. Derick, moving like the slippery embodiment of mischief, reaches an open hand across the table. My two left feet quake inside my shoes.
“I don’t think so.”
“Come on! It’ll be fun!” Those are his famous last words.
Before I know it, I’m thrown between two flannel-clad women dancing with more energy than you’d expect at 2:00 a.m. The brunette breaks down the footwork with Derick and me. It’s simple, but I still get turned around a few times.
When the chorus kicks in, adrenaline kicks me in the ass. I shift into high gear, forgetting about my long night of cleaning up messes and excruciating paperwork. I even let the anxiety about being here with Derick spring away. Each heel dig is another shot of dopamine.
It doesn’t even bother me that some of the more macho men in the room are looking on and laughing at the two young guys making absolute fools of themselves.
I glance sideways at Derick, who’s already looking at me. Mischief has been replaced with maddening charm. “You’re a natural,” he shouts over the music.
“Hardly,” I tut back. But still, his compliment catalyzes me to go all in. Iyeemy besthawwithout a cowboy care in the world.
When the song ends, something has shifted in me. The brunette and blond escort us back to our table by the hands. Before they part, they plant blood-red kisses on our cheeks, mementos of the night and a hallmark of this torrid, kitschy establishment.
Derick glances up at me, the apology still tagged on the tip of his tongue, sweat dotting his brow. I swear I blush so hard the lip stain on my face disappears into my complexion.
