Chapter 14 Should We Stretch?
Should We Stretch?
Eric
The dance competition kicks off a half hour later than promised. Doesn’t anyone pay attention to the time around here? I’m three drinks in and sweating by the time the lights come on over the little stage.
Darcy looks pointedly at my empty glass. “Are you okay?”
“I’m just loosening up. Should we stretch?”
She laughs. “You can’t be serious?”
So I guess that’s a no.
“Um, Eric?” she says as I roll my neck. “We don’t even have to stay. We brought a blender, we wished the couple well, and we ate a lot of miniature foods. Our work here is done.”
“I’m a fighter, Darcy. Can’t back down now.”
“Ooooookay.”
Tessa is the emcee, of course. She grabs the microphone and greets the crowd. She spends way too long swanning around the little stage and thanking everyone, as if she’s kicking off the damn Oscars. Finally, she introduces the first couple. “Give it up for the guests of honor! Theo and Maribel!”
Maribel and Theo hop up onto the stage and join hands, striking a pose. They’re both smiling broadly, and when the jazzy music starts, Theo swings Maribel around the stage like a damn professional.
They look fantastic. But what really stands out for me is the look of joy on Maribel’s face—like she’s already won the only contest that really matters.
“Okay. Fine,” I grumble. “This whole thing is worth it to see her so happy.”
“That’s the spirit,” Darcy says, munching on a chocolate-covered strawberry, looking like she hasn’t got a care in the world.
They finish with a dip that makes Maribel laugh. And then another couple is summoned to the stage—a pair of octogenarians who do a competent foxtrot. After that, a small group of Theo’s college friends do the electric slide.
“See?” Darcy says after. “This is really cute. Nothing to worry about.”
I stare up at the stage, trying to decide which of the guys inspired her use of the word “cute.” I’m not sure why I care. But then another couple takes the stage—a hugely pregnant young woman and her wife. They perform a clumsy tango, and Darcy applauds loudly afterward.
“Next up,” Tessa says with a big grin, “we have hockey star ERIC TREMAINE and,” she lowers the mic so somehow nobody can even hear her say, “Darcy.”
My impromptu girlfriend doesn’t seem to care. “That’s us!” She grabs my hand and tugs me toward my doom. All of a sudden, I’m standing on a little stage with lights shining in my eyes. I hear applause and the silky sound of Darcy’s voice whispering: “Remember—one, two, cha-cha-cha.”
Nobody better post this shit on the internet. That’s all I’m saying.
Just as we’d practiced at a rest stop on Route 90, I take Darcy’s hand. Then our music starts, so I take a breath and start counting it out. One, two, cha-cha-cha.
“Breathe,” Darcy whispers. Her cool gaze lands on mine, and she looks two-thirds relaxed and one-third amused.
Our song is “Love Is Strange” by Mickey and Sylvia, otherwise known as that song in Dirty Dancing when the main characters lip-sync the funny lyrics to each other. That’s our plan, too. As our Mickey, the first line belongs to me. I turn to face the crowd and lip-sync along with him.
To my absolute surprise, they erupt into happy laughter and applause. Then it’s Darcy’s turn, to lip-sync, and they go wild again.
Okay, so Darcy is a damn genius.
We trade the rest of the lines while dancing.
That’s the whole gimmick. And it’s… easy?
We cha-cha some more, while I direct us around in a circle.
My feet do what they’re supposed to. Well, mostly.
But it doesn’t matter, because in 1956 two singers created this silly little pantomime, and we’re just riding on their coattails for a minute.
The lyrics wash over me as Mickey and Sylvia sing about love and taking it for a game. Which is so on the nose that I almost burst out laughing.
But our bit is over in a blink, and suddenly Darcy and I are bowing to loud applause.
“That wasn’t so hard, right?” Darcy says as I help her off the platform.
“No, ma’am.”
Maribel hug-tackles us. “That was darling! ‘Love Is Strange’—what a great pick!”
“That’s all Darcy,” I say. And somehow, I’m still holding her hand. Letting go just doesn’t make much sense.
“Ooh, Eric! Little cupcakes,” my date says with obvious delight. “And tiny cheesecakes!”
Darcy deserves those miniature desserts, so we follow Maribel over to the spread. I watch as Darcy pops a tiny key lime cheesecake into her mouth.
Then she moans, and I feel it in my cock.
“… Not here?” Maribel is saying.
Darcy licks her lip, and it takes a great effort to peel my gaze off her and back to Maribel. “Hmm? Sorry.”
Maribel’s eyes twinkle as she glances between us. “I was just asking after George and Patty. They couldn’t make it tonight?”
“Ah.” The mention of my parents is a perfect dick deflator. “They’re coming to the wedding,” I say carefully. “But my mother is having a rough week.”
“Oh,” Maribel says, swallowing hard. “June, right?”
“Yeah.” My brother’s birthday is coming up. It’s still six days away, but my mother always gets extra weepy. She hates July, too, because that’s when my brother died. And then there’s all the holidays…
Maribel looks distraught. “Maybe I should have chosen different dates for the wedding.”
“No,” I insist. “No way. People get married in the summer, Maribel. And I’m glad you ended up with these dates because it means that I can be here to see it.”
She gives me a grateful look. “I’m glad you can, too.”
I let go of Darcy’s hand and pull Maribel into a hug. “You have no reason to feel bad, Belly. Not a single one.”
“Thank you,” she whispers against my lapel. “Can I ask you a favor?”
“Anything.”
She pulls back, catching both my hands, and gazing earnestly up at me. “If your parents don’t make it to the ceremony, would you be the one who gives me away?”
“Of course,” I say immediately, in spite of the fact that my throat is closing up. “It would be an honor. Don’t worry about a thing.”
She smiles, but there’s a sheen of tears in her eyes. “Thank you, Eric. Thank you.”
Another couple finishes dancing, and Maribel turns toward the stage and applauds on cue.
I turn back to Darcy, wondering if she’d like another drink. I find her gazing back at me with gentle eyes. “The captain of all things,” she says softly.
The praise makes my neck heat. “Want another cocktail? I’m switching to ginger ale, but you don’t have to drive.”
Her gaze lingers so long I don’t think she’s going to answer. “Two ginger ales, then, for the likely winners of the dance-off.”