by R.S. Grey
My first dance partner, Mary, is sweet and talkative. She does all the work as I lead her around the small dance floor. The space is so crowded that we jostle against other couples, but no one minds. The music is loud and the laughter is louder. We’re having a good time. I could dance with Mary the rest of the night and go home happy, but then I spot the person I came here to find.
Lauren.
There’s never been a beat this hard in my chest, in my ears. I can hear it thumping.
Mary keeps talking and I’m nodding, but my attention is on Lauren LeBlanc. She’s dancing with someone on the other side of the dance floor, flitting in and out of view. I crane my neck to find her again—there. I get her for one second then she’s gone again. There are too many people in this room, too many couples separating her from me. I turn Mary and we cut through the crowd, jostling people out of the way.
“Uh, could you slow down just a bit?” Mary asks with a sheepish laugh.
I’ve forgotten she exists and I’ll probably feel bad for that later, but right now every single cell inside of me is vibrating with a need to get to Lauren.
The music hits a crescendo and I lose her. Dancers start to slow down and I know it’s going to be over soon; I worry I might not find her again after that. People are clapping and bowing to their partners, and then couples part, turn, and separate. I’m still holding Mary’s hand, absent from this moment. She yanks and I release her. She sighs in relief, mumbles, “Thanks”, and dashes off, glad to be rid of her inattentive partner. Somewhere Russ is watching us and laughing. I should care, but then the crowd parts just enough that I catch sight of Lauren and now, she’s not moving. She’s standing off to the side of the dance floor, stuck between two devil-masked men in tuxedos who smile down at her like they want to eat her up.
It hits me then: I came tonight with the intention of reconnecting with a ghost from my past, but the woman standing a few feet away from me is no ghost. She’s flesh and blood, rose-colored cheeks and golden blonde hair. It falls down her back, the same length it was a decade ago, except now the curls aren’t wild and free. Even with her mask, I know it’s her the second I spot her from across the room. The top of her dress is tight, fitted to her curves, but the skirt floats around her like a cloud. I see enough hints of her younger self to know my old friend is in there somewhere, but so much has changed. Her cheekbones seem imperceptibly higher; a face that used to be round and sweet is now heart-shaped and demure. My stomach squeezes tight when I see the sparkle in her eyes that seems to whisper, The rules have changed. Back then, her beauty was irrelevant, like a delicate work of art tucked safely behind museum glass. The thought never entered my mind to cross the velvet rope—she was too young, I was too old…
But now she’s too close, and she’s leaning closer.
To another man.
Four strides and then I’d know if her eyes are still as expressive, if her voice still sounds as sweet, if she still loves to talk and talk and talk or if time has made her into someone I never knew.
She laughs and presses her hand to her chest, giving in to the moment with her whole body. Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m smiling with her, infected just like the two schmucks on either side of her.
I catch a glimpse of her open dance card as one of the men paws at it. Full, every line filled in, and I’m sure if she’d allow it, there would be scribbles on the sides as well. The back would be filled in with ink twice over, layered with every name in the room except mine.
I HAVEN’T BEEN able to catch my breath all evening. I was expecting tonight to consist of old friends, some of my dad’s coworkers, maybe a few of my mom’s eclectic hippie pals, an intimate affair, not this—this is a three-ring circus. My parents invited half the town and apparently, everyone’s been given strict orders to intervene in my love life. When I arrived, I stepped out of the car with my parents and was immediately whisked away by my mom’s friend who wanted to introduce me to her son. He’s a doctor, she said. A plastic surgeon—talk about two birds one stone! From there, I’ve been passed around like a hot potato. Everyone has a cousin, brother, or (God forbid) an uncle they’d like me to meet. At first, I was flattered, but now I think I made a mistake mentioning my love life to my mom the other day at breakfast.
What I said: “I think I’d like to date more now that I’ve moved back.”
What she heard: “I’m a desperate, lonely loser. Please turn the upcoming party into a cattle auction in which I’m the heifer of honor.”
It’s not like I’m ready to throw myself on the next eligible bachelor that comes my way. It’s more like I finally have the time to realize how little intimacy I’ve had over the last few years. I wasn’t kidding before. I do think I put more thought into pizza than my love life. Pepperoni > sex? That shouldn’t be the case, not even if it’s a fresh-out-of-the-oven, ooey-gooey, cheesy masterpiece. I’m in New Orleans and I’m ready for love, though now I regret telling my mother I’m “actively searching”—I suspect that most of the attention I’ve garnered tonight has something to do with her and her grandchild-craving mouth.
Take these two guys for instance. They’re nice enough, but I can’t shake them. I tried to break away to use the restroom earlier, and one of them said he would escort me—ESCORT ME, as if I’d be mugged by the punch bowl. I’m surprised the other guy didn’t offer to warm the seat.
“So your mom tells me you speak Spanish,” Bachelor #1 says.
I smile awkwardly. “Oh, uh, not really. I think I took it for a semester or two in high school.”
“Te quiero mucho,” he says, pleased with himself.
“Oh,” I say, uncomfortable with the exaggerated tongue roll on the R. “Quiero Taco Bell as well.”
Bachelor #2 uses this opportunity to tell me he speaks French.
“Fluently, I might add. They say it’s the language of love.” And then I swear his eyebrows do a little dance like he’s trying to seduce me with them. I have to admit, I’m more impressed with them than I am with his language skills. They look like two caffeinated caterpillars.
“Do that again.”
“What?” he asks.
“That eyebrows thing.”
He humors me and then Bachelor #1 tries it out himself, as if I’m actually going to choose my next boyfriend based on eyebrow-wagging abilities. The entire thing sends me into a fit of laughter, and they join in as if they’re in on the joke. As my laughter dies down, I wonder to myself if insane people are aware of the moment they go crazy. Are my pickings actually this slim?
It’s disappointing, really. It’s been years since I’ve been this dolled up, and I can’t help but feel like I’m back in my debutante days. I reach down and feel the silky skirt of my dress between my finger pads. It’s funny, I would have given anything to fill out a dress like this in high school. I was so used to filling my bra with tissues, toilet paper, padding, napkins—really whatever was on hand—that now, I’m still a little in awe that when I look down, there’s actual cleavage. I mean, it’s not cleavage with a capital C. Rose still has me beat in the curves department, but they’re there, and tonight I feel feminine and fierce. I want to push bachelors #1 and #2’s faces together so their eyebrows get stuck like Velcro. I want to sneak away and find someone worth wearing this dress for.
The dance card situation doesn’t help though. I’ve already suffered through two awkward encounters because of it. The first man was my Uncle Larry. Hopelessly old, extravagantly gay—great dance partner though. He twirled me around like a fabulous ribbon on a string, and unfortunately, he set the bar too high. My next partner was terrible, better suited for the robot than the waltz. I ended up having to lead him instead of the other way around, which inevitably made me think of Beau and that night all those years ago.
Would you have liked that when you were 17?
If a girl knew how to lead?
And maybe it’s because I’m already thinking of him that I think I see him standing in the crowd at the ball.
It’s about an hour or so after I arrived and I’m humoring an eclectic group of partygoers when I glance up and spot him across the room. The masked-man is raven-haired, tall, and broad-shouldered, like my old Ken doll come to life. He eclipses every man around him, and it’s not just that he’s bigger or impeccably dressed. It’s not the cheekbones or the full lips or the eyes, eyes that are…focused right on me.
I flush and turn away.
It can’t be him.
God, I really am starved for affection. I want Beau to be here so badly that I’ve hallucinated him into existence.
“What’s in this punch?” I ask the person beside me.
He’s a tiny man with big teeth and bigger glasses. His name is next on my dance card, but I will tower over him. Even now, I feel like he can see up my nostrils when he turns to me. “What?!”
“Do you think someone put drugs in the punch?” I shout over the loud music.
He grins and nods enthusiastically. “Thanks! I just got it cut!”
“Never mind.” I motion for him to come closer so he can hear me. “Do you see that man over at my nine o’clock? Tall, good-looking, kind of has that strong, silent-type vibe?”
He turns and rises up on his tiptoes, looking around for who I could be referring to. He employs such little subtlety in his search that I regret enlisting him right away.
“Jesus, stop swiveling your head like you’re caught in a spin cycle. I said nine o’clock. Yes, that way. Do you see him?”
“Tall guy?”
I nod eagerly.
“Handsome?”
My heart swells three sizes. “Yeahyeahyeah.”
“Black tuxedo?”
Oh my god, my hands are sweating.
“Yes, yes!”
“No, I don’t really see anyone with that description.”
You’ve got to be kidding me.
I turn back to where I just saw him and sure enough, he’s not there. I really was imagining him. I feel disappointment on an atomic level. I didn’t even realize I was hoping he’d be here tonight until this exact moment.
I asked my parents about the old Fortier house this afternoon and they weren’t sure about the new owners. Apparently, whoever made the purchase did so under a private trust, very hush-hush, which probably means it’s a celebrity. Boo, thumbs down—unless it’s Blake Lively and Ryan Reynolds. In that case, fine, whatever—just let me babysit your kids.
I really wanted it to be Beau though.
The next dance starts and I’m led back out onto the dance floor. Soon my card is half finished and my feet hurt. Any excitement I had for the night vanished in a poof after my Beau phantasm. I try to put on a smile and cover my yawns as best as possible, but dancing is hard, especially with partners as bad and boring as these. I’m contemplating how I could realistically feign an illness (fingers down the throat too much?) to bow out of the second half of the dances when a deep, husky voice speaks behind me.
“I know your card is full, so I got you a new one.”
A wave of goose bumps cascades down my body as I turn. My shoulder brushes his and my smile is stretched across my face before I can think of how I should respond to him. How did we leave things all those years ago? I forget because he’s here now and he’s so much more than I remember—more handsome, more sure of himself, more magnetic. His features, somewhat hazy in my mind, condense all at once into a disarming sharpness. Even now, my skin itches to touch him, drawn by an invisible force. I fist my hand harder around my drink.
“Beau,” I say on an exhale, leaning into him as he bends to kiss my cheek. My eyes flutter closed on their own. His scent is subtle but strong, a provocative mix of citrus and wood, and it makes it that much more difficult to open my eyes and step back again. I don’t let go of him though. My fingers grip his muscular forearm. I’m too scared this isn’t real, too afraid he’s not actually standing there and smiling down at me after all this time.
His eyes are just as I remembered: the darkest shade of blue before gray, like the sky an hour after sunset.
“You look beautiful,” he says, stealing a quick glance down my body.
“And you look…”
My eyes catch on the expanse of his chest in that bespoke tuxedo. I think I’m shaking, but that can’t possibly be right because that would be embarrassing. I’m an adult now. Beau doesn’t make me quiver in my boots—and besides, I’m wearing heels.
“Older.”
That’s the adjective I settle on, and it makes him laugh. That little dimple on his right cheek draws my attention and I think maybe I should have spit out all the other adjectives swirling around in my mind instead. They wouldn’t have made him laugh, at least I hope not.
“You’ve been busy tonight,” he says, drawing me to his side as someone tries to pass behind us.
How can he still keep up with our surroundings?
For me, there’s only him.
I finally pull my hand away, but I’m still pressed right up against him. It’s not like I have a choice, right? If I take a step back in this crowd, I won’t be able to hear him. Yup, it makes perfect sense.
“My parents really went all out. I thought this was going to be much smaller.”
“Clearly everyone wanted to see you. You’re the toast of the town.”
“Pshh, nothing like you.” His eyes meet mine and then they drop pointedly to my lips for one second. Another. Finally he glances back up and I’m flushed from head to toe. “I saw your newspaper article,” I continue in explanation. “My dad brought it to lunch.”
I don’t volunteer that I read it two more times once I got back to my apartment.
“The press likes to overstate things,” he says, glancing away briefly.
He’s embarrassed, and the concept makes me smile.
“Has your mom seen it yet? I’m sure she’s proud.”
He drags his hand across his jaw and I follow its path along that chiseled line. My tongue wets my bottom lip and I force my attention back to his eyes.
“She has a few copies.” He laughs. “I think she bought out a few of the drugstores near her house.”
I smile. “And how is she? Good, I hope?”
A part of me can’t believe we’re here, talking about his mom like that day at her house was 10 minutes ago and not 10 years.
“Lauren?” a voice asks behind me.
I turn and find a handsome young man standing with his hand outstretched. Apparently, the next song is starting soon. Oh, good grief. This is ridiculous. One of my mom’s friends thought the card thing would be charming, but it’s getting out of hand.
Surely I don’t have to accept dances with all these men. It’s the 21st century, dammit, the age of consent and radical feminism. I wasn’t even here when my mom flitted around the room as if gathering signatures for a petition to end Lauren’s celibacy. I hardly think the dance card is legally binding.
He pushes his hand a little closer. His smile widens. I glance back at Beau. He’s watching the exchange with inscrutable emotion lurking in his heavy gaze. His eyes narrow.
“Thank you, but I’m going to sit this next dance out,” I say with an apologetic smile. “My feet are killing me.”
There’s no protest. He bows out kindly, leaving me with Beau, and now I regret not speaking up earlier. I could have saved myself a world of annoyance.
“Do your feet actually hurt?” Beau asks.
I huff and fan myself dramatically with my original dance card. “Why sir, it’s not very gentlemanly to accuse a lady of tellin’ a lie.”
He chuckles and reaches out to finger the thin ribbon that secures the card to my wrist.
“Do you want to dance with the rest of these guys?”
Do you want me to?
He continues as if he hears my thoughts, “I didn’t think so.”
I’m staring at him in awe as he brings his other hand up and gently breaks the ribbon. From there, he rips the card in two. There are audible gasps and at least one Good heavens!
from the partygoers around us. The world stops turning on its axis for half a second then speeds up to make up time. An old woman faints. A decency committee pens a hasty letter to Emily Post.
A giggle erupts out of me. It feels like he just slayed a dragon for me.
A hero like always.
I lean in and whisper, “I’m sure you’ve just broken some aristocratic French law from the 1700s.”
“Let them eat cake,” he jokes, taking my hand in his and tugging me toward the dance floor. “Now let’s dance before someone comes to hauls me out of here.”
It’s so smooth, I don’t even have time to protest before we’re out there together, joining the other couples. One of my hands drops to his arm and the other gets wrapped in his warm palm. I’m so used to dragging men around the dance floor tonight that it takes me a second to settle into dancing with Beau. This is what it’s supposed to be like. I feel feminine and soft, pliant. He leads so confidently. For the first time all night, I can relax and focus on the moment, on the feel of Beau’s body humming so close to mine. We’ve been here before, but back then in my parents’ kitchen, we kept a safe distance. Our hips never brushed like they do now. His hand didn’t wrap around my waist with a possessive grip. This is how I wanted to be touched all those years ago, and it’s making me lightheaded to feel it now. Maybe it’s better this way. At 27, I can barely handle this feeling. At 17, I’d have gone comatose.
We spin around the dance floor and my cheeks are starting to ache from smiling. Even in the moment I know to collect the little pieces of mental confetti, to assemble the mosaic I’ll want to remember later. His hand is so strong, warm and slightly calloused. It feels like a man’s hand, and I wonder what it would feel like if he touched me elsewhere—across the nape of my neck, down my back, beneath my dress.
After that thought, I can’t meet his eyes for the remainder of the dance. Instead, I pin my gaze on his bowtie, on the stiff, shiny material that sits perfectly centered on his broad chest…the chest that sometimes brushes mine as we move gracefully. We’re so close, closer than the dance calls for. Our feet should be catching. My skirt should be tangling between us, but we move fluidly across the floor. Beau spins me out and back in, drawing me to his chest. I fall in love instantly.
