Hector laughs off his inhibitions. Thinking back on the rainbow crosswalk, the unicorn speech, Noelle coming out to me, I assume these folks won’t bat an eyelash at two guys dancing together, so I bring Hector to the center of the room and walk him through theone-two-threefootwork.
“Where did you learn to dance like this?” he asks, catching on easily. He’s got natural rhythm and good timing. He doesn’t even question it when I lift my arm and allow him to pass under. I like that he’s letting me lead for a change—twirling about, carefree.
“I’ve been to enough black-tie functions to be able to do this in my sleep,” I say. “It’s basically a developmental requirement. At seven you get fitted for a tux with tails, at eight you learn to waltz, and by nine you’ve become entirely dependent on Dom Pérignon in social settings.”
“Is Dom someone from your past I should be worried about?” Hector asks, eyebrow cocked.
“No, Hector, Dom Pérignon is—”
He stops my sentence by dipping me in his strong, sturdy arms. It takes my breath away. “I know, dude. I was just teasing you.”
Our laughs get interrupted when we notice the other couples stepping out onto the floor, putting those new hip replacements to good use. There’s a saucy, big-haired woman in a frumpy red sweater who locks eyes with Hector as we continue to sway. With a lick of her lips, she gets up and approaches us. She’s got gusto, that’s for sure.
“Mind if I cut in?” she asks. Hector looks at me with uncomfortable eyes. “You don’t mind, do you, young man?” she asks me.
“Not at all,” I say, knowing I’m about to get far too much pleasure out of this.
She drags him away by the hand, leaving me partner-less. Hector keeps looking back at me over the heads of the other couples who’ve shrunken in their old age. I playfully wave.
“Thanks for doing that,” Scrubs says upon returning. “It’s hard to get the residents up and moving these days. I really appreciate it.”
“Don’t mention it,” I say, picking up my cup of punch and taking a sip.
“Looks like Greta stole your man. She’s a minx, that one.”
“We’re not… He’s notmy man,” I say, flustered.
She scrunches up her face. “Yikes, sorry. I don’t know why I assumed that. I guess he was looking at you a certain way while you were dancing, and I just thought… I don’t know. Sorry.” She scurries away to assist a woman struggling with her cane.
Alone again, watching as Hector dips Greta like he did me, I think about what a relationship with him might look like. It’s not the portrait of power you frame for the wall of a legacy mansion, but it might be the kind of candid photo you place in the living room of your shared apartment. I don’t hate the idea of the two of us together. What started as sexual tension could be something more if I let it.
Jeez, we haven’t even talked about yesterday and I’m practically picking out vintage china patterns over here. I need to calm down.
Except telling myself to calm down always does the opposite.
My breathing picks up. My thoughts pick up too. Krampus lets out a piercing cry only I can hear, but I shush him with an event. Not an imagined one though. Instead I picture the Wind River Charity Gala.
The photo booth.Inhale. Count to ten.The Christmas tree centerpiece from Arthur’s farm.Exhale.Thevermiliontablecloths.Inhale. Ten count.A walk-through mobile of images from galas past.Exhale.
It doesn’t take as much to resettle, which astonishes me. I make a mental note to ask Grandma for help sourcing old gala photo albums. I need to get a move on that Past exhibit. Still so much to accomplish before the big day.
Swingin’ Six announces they’ll be taking a five-minute break.
“You’re lucky they stopped playing or you would’ve been next, sweet cheeks,” Greta purrs, handing Hector back. I’m momentarily concerned by which set of cheeks she’s referring to.
“That’s too bad. Maybe next time,” I say. She stalks off, still snapping her fingers to an unheard beat.
Hector glares at me. I can’t help but chortle right in his face. It was fun. Being with him is always fun. In surprising ways, every time. I want to extend the fun for as long as possible.
Bruce Harlan comes our way, and before he hits the food table for intermission fuel, I call out to him.
“You the gala guys?” he asks. He’s got big eyes and short blond hair. He picks up a loaded piece of bruschetta. We nod. “What do you think of the set so far?” Tomato bits fly out from between his teeth.
“I certainly enjoyed myself,” I say, nudging Hector.
“Glad to hear it,” Bruce says. “We’ve got an arsenal of Christmas classics we can do for your event if you’re into us.” To avoid another spit shower, Hector and I both move a few inches to our left and hope he doesn’t notice.
“That would be great. We would just need to figure out a rate,” Hector says, pulling up the budget again on his phone.
