Mark wasn’t only my first love but my best friend. We had this instant connection that made me trust him implicitly. I’m not even sure how to describe it—what we had just existed. I’ve never felt anything like it since.
I miss those simple times. The ease of just being with the person you loved—no games, no deception, no fear of judgment. We were the best of friends, and because of that, we pushed each other to succeed, even if it meant letting him grow further without me.
How has it already been thirty years?
“What’s goin’ on in that head of yours, Faye? It’s been a minute, but I’m certain your wheels are spinning at Mach 1.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I hedge, knowing I’m nowhere close to spinning out of control. “It’s just… weird, awkward, unexpected to have you here.” I never in a million years would have put running into Mark Lancaster on my bingo card, yet here we are.
Reaching out, he squeezes my hand, and instantly, I feel as if the world settles. “I get it….” Inhaling deeply, he sighs. “No need to explain.”
After a few long moments, he lets go of my hand and uses it to suggest I continue eating. Nodding to me, he demands, “Eat.” Then, on a low chuckle that makes my pulse race again, he adds, “It’s not like I’m going anywhere.”
Not. Going. Anywhere.
Why does that simultaneously calm and unnerve me?
But I do as I’m told.
Picking up my sandwich, I dip it into the au jus and squeeze the end quickly so I won’t end up wearing it while I eat. “Mmmmm… This is good,” I practically moan after chewing.
The prime rib is cooked to perfection, and my lack of eating from nerves catches up with me. Before I know it, I’ve completely consumed half my plate.
We watch in silence as couples fill the dance floor.
As a song ends, the lead singer talks up the crowd.
Eventually, one loud guy from the bar yells, “Got any country in you?”
Looking at his band, the lead singer’s voice turns gravelly. “What do ya say, boys? Can we do country?”
The members of his band grumble among themselves for a moment, but then the drummer’s sticks count off a beat, and they set into playing “Watermelon Crawl,” originally by Tracy Byrd, and the crowd goes wild. Couples pile onto the floor, and I find myself tapping my toes to the beat and grinning as I watch the sudden commotion. There’s a group line dancing in the center, while others partner off around the edge of the wooden floor. Some are two-stepping, others in full country swing—twisting their partners like a pretzel and flipping them like they haven’t a care in the world.
When the song switches to a cover of “She Don’t Know She’s Beautiful,” originally by Sammy Kershaw, my heart floods with memories. Back in the day, this was the song that changed everything between Mark and me.
We’d built a fire by the beach and were leaning against each other, watching the sunset. This song was playing on the radio, and the wind was blowing my hair around like crazy. Mark had reached up and placed a piece back behind my ear, like he’d done a million times, but this time, he hesitated. His eyes caught mine and never let go.
We’d been flirting around things for a long time, but I could tell in that moment that a decision had been made. He was willing to cross that imaginary line we’d been skating around for months.
All it took was one look, and I was on board with his plan.
Leaning in, he never took his eyes off mine.
That is, until our lips brushed, and all bets were off.
It was one of those all-consuming kisses that you never want to break from. The kind that I’d spent months fantasizing about but was too chicken to make the first move. The kind that could only mean one thing—Our days of being “just friends” were over, and I never wanted to go back.
Mark bumps my shoulder, breaking me out of my reverie, as he asks, “You still know how to dance to this?”
Heat floods through me as I return from memory lane.
Somehow, I manage to keep a straight face and shrug. “I might.”
Holding out a hand, he says, “Let’s see if we’ve still got it in us.”
Like a moth to a flame, I let him take my hand and lead me onto the dance floor.
Damn, he’s filled out over the years.
