And I’ve laughed a lot.
The waiter approaches our table as the sky outside deepens into something soft and golden, the ocean catching the last of the light.
“Would you like to see the dessert menu?” the waiter asks.
I give him a small smile. “I’m okay.”
“Actually, mate,” Finn cuts in, “we’ll have the kelp-infused ice cream. Two spoons, please.”
“Yes, sir.” Says the waiter, already turning away.
I blink at Finn. “I’m sorry. Did you saykelp-infused?”
I don’t even need to say anything else—my face is doing all the work. His grin spreads, wide and unapologetic.
“My nan taught me to always order the odd dessert.”
That makes me smile.
“Kelp, though?” I ask.
He laughs, and I can’t help but laugh with him.
Dessert comes and goes, and somehow the kelp-infused ice cream is far better than it has any right to be. Salty, sweet, and creamy, something I’d never order on my own and will absolutely be thinking about later.
Finn insists on paying the bill, waving off my attempt to at least split it, and before I can argue any further, he’s already standing, helping me into my jacket.
We’re almost at the door when a voice cuts through the room from the far corner of the restaurant.
“Hello, Depoe Bay!” an older gentleman calls out into the microphone, dressed in black from head to toe, complete with a leather jacket and sunglasses that feel straight out of another decade. The room erupts in cheers.
I slow my pace, my attention snagging on the makeshift dance floor on the opposite side of the restaurant. The tables there are filled with couples who look like they’ve been dancing together for years.
The familiar beat starts, and the singer draws out the first word.
“Roooooxaaaanne…”
I let out a laugh, and Finn notices immediately.
He turns toward me, grinning, and holds his hand out. “Ah, go on.”
“No.” I look up at him. “We were leaving, remember?”
“What’s one song?” His hand stays outstretched. “Come on, lass.”
I glance back at the dance floor, at the couples joining each other there, then look back at him.
The man standing here with his hand out, waiting.
I sigh, even as a smile tugs at my mouth.
“Fine. One song.”
His grin widens, victorious but gentle, and he laces his fingers through mine, leading me toward the dance floor as if this was always part of the plan.
Turns outRoxanneis not a song you slow dance to.
My mom loved to dance, and that’s something we always shared. She taught me early, turned the living room into a dance floor more times than I can count. I know how to salsa, how to follow a rhythm without thinking too hard. I’ve stumbled my way through bachata, survived a few attempts at swing, and I even know a bit of foxtrot.
