“Yes.”
“Your list is her list.”
She tilts her head, looking at me, but I don’t think she’s grasping what I’m saying. “Well, yeah. Remake,” she says.
I stretch my arm out along the back of this couch and stare the woman down. Because I am certain she has actual thoughts. Actual desires. Ones that are her own, ones that aren’t copyrighted.
But does she ever share those?
“So, what’s on Fran’s list?”
Her brows knit and she shakes her head. “We did mine. I mean, not really the two places at once. But that was probably a good call. I would have been soaked, and it’s spring, so hypothermia?—”
“That was Jamie’s list.” I motion to the TV. “What’s on Fran’s list?”
“Oh.” Her forehead wrinkles as she thinks, her eyes lifting to the ceiling for a moment. “Doing the remake. That’s always on my list.”
As if I have no control over my own mouth, I squawk out, “Bzzzt. Try again.”
She scoffs. “Cal.”
“Try. Again.”
Holding up both hands as if in surrender, she glowers at me, then crosses her arms over her chest. “Fine. Let me think.”
I wait, and after a minute—not even two—she’s got it. I knew she had something.
“I would probably have said, ‘Watch the sunrise in Tesoro.’” Her mouth twists, and I think she’s attempting to hold back her grin. Though I’m not sure why. Fran’s smile is beautiful. It’s like a secret you wait to hear. It makes you wonder what she’s thinking and what plans she’s working on—because there are always plans. “And I’d like to learn to swing dance.”
It’s seven at night. The sun has several more hours untilit rises. So, swing dancing it is. I stand and slap my palms to my thighs before pushing her coffee table off to the side.
“What are you doing?”
“I learned a few moves in fifth grade right before I started homeschooling.”
“You homeschooled?” she says.
“Yeah. That way, I could travel and play with different academies. My parents toted me all over the place—bless them.” I slap my hands together. “But not before I learned to swing dance in fifth grade. Let’s go.” I hold a hand out to her.
Fran slips her palm into mine, and I pull her to a standing position, careful not to yank. I don’t need another collision with wrecking ball Fran. Her leap off that wall and the crash course of her body into mine has kept me up three nights in a row.
“Today, Franny Fairchild, I’m going to teach you the basic step and the tuck turn.”
My “Franny” mistake earns me a glare—I should know better. But I like the nickname. It fits.
So, I ignore her glower and keep talking. “Because those are the two moves that adult Callum remembers from that fifth grade P.E. swing dance series.”
I hold out my hands, palms up, and Fran slaps her hands into mine.
“This is a two-beat rocking rhythm, also known as the Rock Step.” I take her hands in mine, step out so that our arms form a wide circle. I step in at her left, and she follows my lead. We replay the move again and again as if there was a live band playing music for our swing dancing debut. “Are you ready for the tuck turn?”
“I don’t know. Am I?” she says, her grin wide and exuding joy—like always.
“Oh yeah, you are officially an expert at the Rock Step. Okay.” I lift my arm, holding Fran’s hand in mine. “I’m going to lead you into a turn and then swing you out.”
“Swing me out,” she repeats.
“Yep, here we go.”
