Time Stamps

by K. L. Kreig

  By the time he finally walks away, my head is swimming. As soon as he’s stepped out of sight, I’m already anticipating seeing him again.

  I’ve barely shut the front door when my phone dings and I just know it’s him. I race into the bedroom to grab it, anxious to see what song he sent me tonight.

  Only it’s not a song. It’s a question.

  Roth: if you could go anywhere in the world, where would it be?

  Random, but okay.

  Me: i don’t know…why?

  I watch the dots, waiting for his reply.

  Roth: answering a question with a question isn’t an answer…

  Me: okay smarty pants… I type back. give me a second

  Roth: patiently waiting…

  I am not what you would call “well-traveled.” I’ve only been to a handful of states and I’ve never been outside of the country, but I’ve also had no desire to because as illogical as it is, flying terrifies me. So, while I try to think on a grander scale, like the Alps or Milan or some fancy island in the Caribbean, I am a pretty simple person with pretty simple needs. And what I keep coming back to is the place that holds most of my fondest childhood memories.

  Me: branched oak lake

  Roth: sounds special

  Me: it is

  Roth: btw…“just a kiss” was the perfect way to end a perfect night. i had a great time, laurel. sweet dreams.

  I grin like an utter fool. Perfect song choice.

  I lie on the bed and click the YouTube link he sent before replying so did i. good night, roth. And then I end up falling asleep in my burgundy dress and my mauveish Mary Janes, knowing without a doubt that Roth Warren Keswick is my beloved.

  6

  Happy

  Laurel

  Ten Years Earlier

  June 7, 7:02 p.m.

  * * *

  “So…” I watch the city whiz by, anticipation building. We’re closing in on downtown, which I’m guessing is our final destination. “Are you going to tell me where we’re going yet?”

  I haven’t been this excited about a date in…well, since the last one I had with Roth. We’ve been officially seeing each other for three months now, and I don’t mind admitting—to myself anyway—that I have fallen madly in love with this man.

  I’ve never felt this way before. I finally have someone worth losing and it is terrifying.

  “Patience is not your strong suit, is it?” Roth reaches across the console and melds his fingers in between mine. We are two puzzle pieces snapping into place.

  “How long did that take you to figure out?”

  “Oh, I had you pegged the very first night, Laurel.”

  “Did you now?” I draw one leg underneath the other, tucking my dress between them to make sure my panties aren’t showing. Yes, the dress hater is wearing another dress, because tonight is the makeup date from what I’ve dubbed as the Just a Kiss night.

  Roth’s finger grazes the inside of my thigh as he tugs playfully on the fabric, dislodging it. “You don’t have to do that on my account, you know.”

  Oh. My. Word.

  My face cycles through five levels of heat. And I am now uncomfortably damp. While we have come close, Roth and I haven’t slept together yet, and it is not from lack of trying on my part, believe me. I even asked Carmen to take me to that posh lingerie store she mentioned. We drank champagne and spent hours trying on the scrappiest, sexiest outfits I’ve ever worn. It was the most indulgent day I’ve ever had, as my credit card can attest. Tonight, I am wearing one of many new risqué purchases, and I am bound and determined that he is going to remove it.

  But right now, I need to change the subject before I demand he pull into the closest hotel and get us a room for the night. Roth exits from 440 to West End Avenue. Guess we aren’t headed downtown after all.

  “Just tell me where we’re going, pleeease,” I beg.

  “You’re so cute when you beg.”

  “Cute?”

  “Sexy?” he counters, eying me for a reaction.

  “Sexy?” My voice inches up and his response is a deep and booming laugh.

  “Yes, definitely sexy.”

  Begging is definitely sexy? Well, then maybe I should change tactics in the bedroom. I tuck that little piece of information away for later.

  He turns right on Thirty-First Street, which leads us toward the Vanderbilt campus. I have no idea what to expect. We could be going anywhere, but in minutes, he’s slowing to pull into Centennial Park. Maneuvering his Wrangler between two other vehicles, he declares, “This is it,” as he shuts it off.

  “This is it?”

  The park is packed with people of all ages, young and old alike. There are a surprising number of college-age kids here, as well as several food trucks and what looks to be a beer tent.

  With a wink and a grin, he says, “Yup.”

  His body is vibrating with excitement. Mine is vibrating with bad feelings.

  We both exit the vehicle and the first thing that hits me is the music, which in and of itself is not unusual in Nashville. Music is everywhere. Street corners. Stores. Restaurants. Broadway. But what’s unusual is the type of music that’s playing.

  Nashville is known for country, but this sounds like something from my PooPa’s era.

  Roth swings open the back hatch and slides two bag chairs over his shoulder. He slips a large, folded blanket over his forearm, closes the hatch, and holds out his free hand for mine. He leads me around the throng of cars toward the covered pavilion where everyone is gathered, dancing away.

  Dancing.

  Uh. Oh.

  Finding an open spot on the grass, he hands me one of the chairs. I remove it from its holder as he spreads out the blanket.

  “Have you been here before?” he asks as he works on setting up the other chair.

  “No. I’ve done a lot of things in this city, but I never knew this existed.”

  Because it’s dancing.

  “It’s a free concert series Metro Parks puts on every summer. Each weekend they focus on a different style of dance, like the waltz or the rumba or the foxtrot. But it’s always big band themed.”

  Ah. That explains the Lawrence Welk vibe.

  “I didn’t peg you as a big band lover.” I gnaw an imaginary hangnail I feel coming on.

  He doesn’t look ashamed in the least, answering quite proudly, “My parents took me to hear big bands when I was younger. Most kids would have hated it, I suppose, but I thought it was cool. Kinda stuck.”

  “Did your mom teach you to dance then?”

  “She did, in fact. Do you dance, Laurel?”

  Roth told me on our first date that he could dance better than the average white man. I should have paid more attention to that, dug deeper, asked more questions because now, it appears, I am in quite the pickle.

  I stare at him. I knew this was coming, and sometimes the only way to answer a question is to paint a vivid, colorful, 3D portrait that pops right out at you.

  “I don’t suppose you ever watched Dirty Dancing, did you?” The way his eyes bulge, I’m quite sure he doesn’t know where this is going. “Then you remember Baby?”

  He smirks. “Nobody puts Baby in the corner.”

  I really want to ask him if he prefers Jennifer Grey before or after her nose job but debating that would get us off track. I’m in the before camp, by the way.

  “Well, I am not Baby.” I stab my finger into my chest. “There are no watermelons. No seductive pelvis rolls or elegant leaps into the strong arms of Patrick Swayze. I am the stiff older sister, Lisa. The one with zero rhythm and a singing voice that would scare a screech owl.”

  The edges of his mouth curl in amusement, only I am dead dog serious.

  “If Baby can be taught to dance, you can too.”

  “Wrong.” I chuckle nervously, trying reverse psychology instead. “Why? We didn’t come here to dance, did we?” Silently I beg him to say, “No, I just enjoy music of old and thought I’d expand your horizons,�
�� and I’d say, “Oh, ha ha, you scared me,” and he’d say, “I’m sorry, it wasn’t my intention to scare you, Laurel,” and we’d not dance, eat Mojo Cookie Dough ice cream, and have another great date.

  While I pray this pretend conversation comes to fruition, my gaze sticks to a couple closest to us on the dance floor. I wouldn’t put them at twenty, yet it’s obvious they are well practiced. Each spin is fluid, crisp, and precise. Each flick of their limbs as sharp as twin bullwhips.

  This isn’t like the box step we learned in gym class when I was in seventh grade. I shudder as I hear Mr. Romo’s sharp rumble: “One—Two—Three—One—Two—Three.” Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. “Laurel, no. You always start with the right foot. Walk, side, together. Walk, side, together in the shape of a box. It’s not that hard. Now let’s try again.”

  But it was that hard. I didn’t get it then. I don’t get it now. And according to Mr. Romo, the box step is the foundation for all other dances, so if I can’t master that, I certainly have no shot at whatever this is.

  “Well, tonight is swing dance night,” Roth declares. He’s all keyed up.

  Not the response I was hoping for.

  Think, Laurel. Think. Quick.

  “Swing dance night?” That doesn’t bode well for me. “I’m afraid I don’t know that one.” Or any of them. I don’t even know the box step for crying out loud!

  Roth grins, but this time it does not make me feel warm and tingly inside. I start to sweat.

  “They have lessons,” he offers. “In fact, they start here in a couple of minutes.”

  He’s been here so often he knows what time they give lessons? Who is this guy? Why has he never mentioned this before? Next, he’ll nonchalantly announce he’s a two-time swing dance champion.

  “Ready?”

  “Uh…” I take a step back and hold out my hands for him to stop. This is seventh-grade gym class all over again. No. No, no, no, no. No. I can’t. “I promise you—you don’t want me to dance.”

  “But I do.”

  “I am pathetically awful at dancing. Really. I don’t move better than your average white man. Or woman, for that matter. Lisa…remember?”

  He snickers. “Laurel. I don’t care how well you can dance. I just want you in my arms.”

  Well…crap.

  Really?

  What’s a girl to say to that? Thanks, but no thanks? I am truly flat up against a wall now.

  I hear PooPa whispering in my ear to suck it up; this is what relationships are all about. Give and take. And Roth has given plenty. It’s my turn. I try to ignore him, but his raspy voice grows louder and louder until I can’t anymore.

  Ugh.

  I can’t believe I’m about to say this.

  “All right.”

  He takes my hand, squeezing it until I look up at him. I pull the inside of my cheek between my teeth and bite down.

  “Laurel, I promise you it’s not that bad.”

  “It is that bad. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into, Roth.”

  “Just want to dance with my girl is all,” he says, wagging his thick brows, trying to lighten me up.

  “You may need another girl then,” I reply with what sounds like oodles of sarcasm but is one-hundred percent truth.

  He pulls me close until our bodies join chest to knee. Usually touching him makes me melt into goo, but I am so taut, it feels like rigor mortis has set in. “If you don’t want to try, then we can just watch.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.”

  My body sags in sweet relief, but it only lasts a moment, because while that may be what I want, Roth’s disappointment is palpable. And as much as he wants to make me happy, I want the same thing for him.

  Fortifying myself with a big breath, I blow the words out before I chew and swallow them up. “I’ll do it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “On one condition.”

  “Name it.”

  “Promise me you won’t make fun of me.”

  “I would never make fun of you, Laurel.” He throws his free hand over his heart. “You have my solemn vow.”

  “Let’s go then, before I chicken out.”

  “That’s my girl.”

  He leads me to the side of the floor where men and women are gathering for the instructors. They tell the leaders to go to the left side of the floor and the followers to go to the right. I don’t really know what that means but when Roth lets go of my hand and motions for me to go to the right, I panic.

  “What are you doing?” I grip his arm with one hand and ball his shirt up in the other.

  “You need to go to the followers’ side.” He tries prying his shirt from my kung fu grip. Only in death will that happen.

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re the follower and I’m the leader.”

  “For purposes of dance only, I can accept that statement, but today you’re a follower too.”

  His lips twitch, but he comes when I drag him to my side. It may be because my nails are now embedded in his shirt and it ripped a little when he tried to pull away, but whatever. Extreme circumstances, extreme measures.

  “Okay, okay, ladies and gentlemen!” A pretty, thin blonde taps on the tip of the microphone attached to a headset. I recognize her as the girl I was watching earlier. “If you’re new to swing dance, do not worry. We’ll break down some simple moves step by step, so even the most novice of you will be able to enjoy a twirl on the dance floor.” The crowd whoops and claps and sways with restlessness. I think I might vomit. “As a reminder, those who will lead the dance should be on the left side of the house with Greg here.” She points to the man she was dancing with. Greg, who wears a matching headset, waves gregariously to the group. “Followers are on the right with me. I’m McKayla. The steps will be a bit different, so be sure you’re on the correct side of the room.”

  The girl is staring straight at Roth when she says this. I glance around to note he is the only male on our side, and with his height it’s not as if he doesn’t stand out. I roll my eyes up to him and he’s watching me, amused.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” I demand, sliding two fingers through the closest belt loop.

  “Wouldn’t want to lose my shorts too.”

  “Ha. Ha.”

  He is getting a kick out of this. I’m glad one of us is. When I mutter, “Thank you,” he wraps an arm around my waist and kisses the top of my head, whispering encouragingly, “You’re gonna do great.”

  Not likely.

  Seeing that Roth is staying put, blondie asks, “Y’all ready?” with a great deal of enthusiasm that garners a wild round of “yeses” and my faint “no.”

  And before I know it, we’re off.

  The band stays quiet and both she and Greg turn around, so their backs are to us.

  “Okay,” McKayla starts. “There are many variations of swing, but tonight we’re going to focus on the East Coast variety. We’ll start by teaching the most basic swing step first. Put a bit of space between you and your neighbor so you don’t step on any toes.”

  I reluctantly let go of Roth and take a half step to the right. He says something about his toes, but I can’t process it because McKayla is already shouting more instructions.

  It’s all happening so fast.

  “Leaders you’ll start with your left foot, followers start with your right.” She slides her right foot out and points her toes to the floor. We all follow suit, holding steady until the next instruction.

  “Don’t look at me,” Roth whispers, when he sees me checking out his form. “Keep your eye on McKayla.” He says her name as if he’s familiar with her.

  I frown, muttering, “Okay.”

  “We’re going to start with a rock step back.” Moving her right foot back behind her left, McKayla shifts her weight back to that foot, then up to the left. “Then we’re going to move to a closed step, also called a triple step.” Her right foot slides back out to the right where she started and she mov
es her left foot over to meet her right, then moves her right foot one step to the right again. “Right, close, right,” she explains at the same time she’s demonstrating.

  I’m already in way over my head.

  They do a triple step back to the left and I bump into the lady next to me because I went the wrong way, of course. I make light of it. “We’re starting off on the wrong foot,” I joke, and she laughs hysterically as if it were original.

  I get back on track and follow McKayla, chanting under my breath, “Rock, step, trip—le step, trip—le step.” It’s remedial but it seems to help. They repeat the steps over and over, first to the right, then to the left, and by the last time, I actually get through it cleanly before she moves on. I even manage a tiny sway in my hips the way she does.

  “See? You’re catching on.”

  I don’t let Roth’s praise, or his animation, go straight to my head. A lifetime of swing dancing couldn’t get me to the caliber of McKayla.

  “Leaders, it’s time to grab your partners and practice with them. This time to music!”

  Music. Great. How exciting.

  As everyone scrambles excitedly to find their person, Roth turns to me and I tentatively step into his arms. He shows me exactly where to place my hands. My left on his shoulder and my right held in his left. I’m a little awed at how smooth he is.

  “You’re a natural,” he tells me.

  “And you are conveniently blind,” I reply on a chorth.

  “And you are so very beautiful, in case I didn’t tell you yet tonight.”

  He did, but a girl doesn’t get tired of hearing it even if she has a hard time always believing it. I don’t get a chance to respond, though, because Greg calls out, reminding us which foot we’re supposed to lead with first.

  My heart leaps into my throat when the band kicks up and we take our first steps. I watch our feet and begin chanting under my breath, “Rock, step, trip—le step, trip—le step.”