“Being happy wasn't the point.”
She's still looking at me, and I can feel the weight of it. Like she's seeing something I didn't mean to show her.
“For what it's worth,” she says, “I would have loved to see seven-year-old you performing Gene Kelly routines in your living room.”
“I'm sure it was more enthusiastic than technically sound.”
“That's the best kind of performance.”
There's a beat of comfortable silence. The highway narrows, exit signs appearing more frequently now.
“Did Elsbeth stay with your family?” Holly asks. “After you left for school?”
“She did. Through college. My parents traveled a lot—still do—and they needed someone at the house even when I was gone most of the year.” I hadn't thought about this in years, but now it's clear. “I think they kept her on so they wouldn't have to be home during my school breaks.”
“Evan.”
“It's fine. It meant I got to see her. And when I was home,” I trail off, not sure I want to admit this part.
“You still danced with her.”
How does she know that?
“Sometimes. When my parents were out. Elsbeth would put on the old movies and we'd go through the routines. She never forgot a single step.” I can picture her in the library, counting beats, demonstrating footwork even though she was in her sixties by then. “She said it was good for me. That I shouldn't lose it completely.”
“She was right.”
“Maybe. But I did lose it. After college, after business school, after I started at the foundation full-time. I haven't danced in years. Haven't even thought about it until?—”
“Until yesterday when you needed an excuse to help me?”
“Until yesterday,” I agree.
The GPS interrupts: “In one mile, take the exit toward Pinewood Falls.”
“Almost here,” I say, glancing at her. “Are you ready to be my fake girlfriend?”
She laughs. “Are YOU ready? You're the one about to meet my entire family.”
“How bad can it be?”
“You've asked that before. You're going to regret it.”
“Noted.” I take the exit, and now we're on smaller roads. Trees instead of buildings. “So what's the move? Do I need to practice looking besotted?”
“Please don't practice anything. Just be yourself.”
“The version of me that watches Gene Kelly movies or the version that runs board meetings?”
“The version that offered to help a stressed event planner save her niece's debut.” There’s no teasing in her voice now. “That version's pretty good.”
I don't know what to say to that, so I focus on driving. The town is what I pictured—small, charming, the kind of place where everyone knows everyone. There's a town square with a massive tree already strung with lights. Storefronts decorated for the holidays. People walking around with shopping bags and coffee cups.
“That's the bakery,” Holly points to a corner shop with “Bennett's” in gold lettering. “My parents' place. We'll probably end up there later whether we want to or not.”
This is the most aggressively charming town I've ever seen. I can picture young Holly here, reorganizing the holiday festival before she was old enough to spell “logistics.” She left this for the city. I'm starting to understand why her family thinks she'll come back.
“Okay,” Holly says. “Let's get you settled in your cabin, and then—” She grins. “It's showtime.”
