Remy kills the engine and climbs out. I step into the warm evening air, and Rebecca links her arm through mine as we walk toward the entrance. “One drink. That’s all I’m asking. If you’re still miserable after, we’ll take you home.”
I ignore the band, the crowd, and head straight for the bar. Dale spots me and starts pouring before I even ask, sliding a cold beer across the wood.
“Thanks,” I mutter.
He nods and moves on to the next customer.
I take a long drink, but the bitter liquid does nothing to ease the knot in my chest.
Rebecca appears at my elbow. “You planning on drinking that in the corner like a sad cowboy in a country song?”
“That was the idea.”
“New plan.” She grabs my arm and drags me toward the edge of the dance floor, beyond the first line of top tables.
“Becky, I don’t want?—”
The band ends the song. The lead singer, a woman, leans into the microphone, grinning.
“Alright, folks, we’ve got a special request for the next song.” Her voice carries over the noise. “And there’s gonna be a little show to go with it. So if y’all could clear some space in the center of the dance floor, we’d appreciate it.”
I take another drink, not caring about whatever performance is about to take place until the crowd shifts, opening a wide circle, and I almost choke on my beer as Faye walks straight into the center. Her hair is down; she’s wearing jeans and a plain white T-shirt—the same clothes from the night we danced.
Our eyes lock.
My heart bleeds like someone wrapped barbed wire around it and cranked it tight with a wrench. I want to look away, I need to, but I can’t. The beer in my hand suddenly weighs ten pounds, and I’m aware of every inch of space between us. My heart breaks free of the wire and slams against my ribs. I don’t know how to feel. Elated that she’s here. Broken. Angry. Relieved. Terrified.
I could go to her. Cross the floor and pull her into my arms and kiss her until neither of us can breathe. Or I could turn around and run out. Forget I ever met her.
Before I decide, the opening notes of “Somebody Like You” by Keith Urban fill the bar.
And Faye starts to line dance.
She’s terrible at it.
She’s doing basic combos that she keeps messing up, turning in the wrong direction, stumbling every other step. A few people in the crowd boo while others cheer her on, clapping to encourage her. Her feet tangle and she pitches sideways, arms windmilling, almost going down flat on her ass.
I step forward without realizing I’m doing it until Rebecca’s hand shoots out and grabs my arm, holding me back.
Faye catches herself, straightens up, shakes her hair out of her face, and keeps going. The blush spreading across her cheeks is pure mortification, red and bright and obvious.
She botches another turn. Shuffles in the wrong direction. She throws in a heel tap that’s out of sync with the music. And she doesn’t quit.
Faye soldiers through one disastrous combo after another while someone whistles mockingly.
I want to find him and punch him. I don’t know who’s suffering more through this routine, me or her.
When the final notes fade out, Faye stops, breathing hard, standing in the middle of the floor, and looking straight at me.
She walks across the dance floor toward me, weaving through the people who are filling the space back in. Her face is still flushed, and when she gets close enough that the unshed tears in her eyes catch the light, I have to grip my beer tighter to keep from reaching for her.
“Will you dance with me?” she asks.
A simple question, with so much weight behind it.
I should say no. Tell her I can’t do this, that what she did can’t be undone with a bad line dance and a pretty apology. But she made a fool of herself in front of everyone, for me. And I can’t stand the hope and especially the fear warring in those honey-colored eyes.
“Yeah,” I hear myself say. “I’ll dance with you.”
