I lose trackof time. My cheeks hurt from smiling. Everyone is on the dance floor—even Birdie, who is almost asleep in George’s arms. The pianist finishes his set, and Moby anoints himself Bluetooth DJ. This is when parents and grandparents begin to excuse themselves. Anh takes Birdie to bed, and Darwin procures large tumblers of scotch while Moby hands out edibles. Aurora and Betty are lining up tequila shots. I’m slightly concerned we’re peaking two nights too soon, but then Nate gives me a sloppy kiss with a sloppy grin.
“I love you,” he says. “You make me so happy.”
I kick off my heels.
• • •
I manage tosteal Aurora from her girlfriend, and we dance like eighth graders, shuffling with my hands on her shoulders and hers on my waist.
We’ve been friends for five years, since the night I popped into her tattoo parlor on a whim and she told me to come back when I had an appointment. The next morning, I scrolled through her Instagram feed, awed by the level of detail in her work. She can do anything, but she’s known for hyperrealistic flowers and animals. Her hummingbirds are astounding. I read an interview she gave about being a Black artist and how she’sdevoted to educating others about the proper techniques for tattooing darker skin tones. The way she spoke about her work—with so much dedication—reminded me of George. I booked an appointment for my second tattoo and walked out with a beautiful labyrinth inked on my shoulder and a new friend.
“I love seeing you like this,” she says.
“Like what?”
“You’re brighter. As soon as George showed up, you came to life.”
I shrug. “He’s my best friend.”
Moments later, the man in question cuts in, tapping Aurora on the shoulder.
“I’m going to steal her from you for a minute,” George says.
She gives him a look that seems like an encouragement and a threat all at once. She knows about the fight.
George tips his chin in acknowledgment, and Aurora leaves us to join Betty and the circle of dancers.
Facing me, George lifts his left palm.
“It’s been a long time,” I say, putting my hand in his and raising my other arm, the starting position of a waltz.
“Don’t worry. I’ve still got it.” He sets his hand below my shoulder blade.
And just like that, George is leading me around the room. And yeah, he’s still got it.
“Show-offs,” Moby shouts.
I smile up at George, but he looks at me strangely, his eyes darting across my face.
“Do I have something in my teeth?”
“No.” He clears his throat. “You look different.”
Aurora did my makeup. She’s managed to bring out the violet in my eyes and make my big mouth look sexy, not clownish.
“I’ve been contoured,” I tell him.
“I don’t know what that is.”
“Count yourself lucky.”
“The dress is…” George seems to struggle to say something nice. It’s a simple slip dress with a low neckline.
“Just say I look good,” I instruct.
“You do,” he says, holding my eyes. “You look beautiful, Frankie.”
I laugh at the strain in his voice. He’s never been good at complimenting my appearance.
