Chapter Twelve
Miles
If you’d told seventeen-year-old Miles Dalton that he’d one day be prancing around in a mirrored room with a group of the most beautiful, unhinged performers in the Lower Forty-Eight, he’d have laughed himself sick.
Then again, he never thought he’d get a do-over with the man of his dreams, either, so maybe this is all just par for the course.
It’s Saturday afternoon, and somehow, against all odds, I have allowed myself to be lured into a dance studio with a half-dozen drag queens and a promise that no one will tell May what we’re really up to.
The dance studio itself is exactly what you’d expect in a town that lives for holiday charm all year long, with a creaky wood floor, one wall of mirrors, and a faint smell of lemon cleaner, sweat, and, inexplicably, sugar cookies.
Sunlight bounces through the high windows, catching on the glitter dust that seems to follow Dee like a cloud wherever she goes.
Scattered across the benches are sequined duffel bags, a box of donuts that Dee claims is “for morale,” at least three feather boas, and a portable speaker that looks like it could double as a small home-defense weapon.
Dixie’s at the front, straddling a folding chair in a neon tracksuit and blinding silver platform sneakers. She’s barking orders at me and Felix, who, despite being a full head shorter than me, is somehow managing to intimidate the hell out of both of us with one perfectly arched brow.
Anna and Dee are off to the side, arguing over whether the routine should incorporate jazz hands or “more dignified gestural work,” whatever that means.
Patti is, predictably, sprawled on the benches in cheetah-print leggings, with a flask and a pair of opera gloves, shouting suggestions that range from “more leg!” to “less of whatever that was, darling.”
Me? I’m in the middle of the floor, sweating through my T-shirt and joggers, wondering if I’ll ever regain feeling in my thighs. Jazz squares are, objectively, a hate crime.
“Okay, okay, bring it in,” Dixie yells, clapping her hands together with a smack that makes me wince. “We are not going to embarrass ourselves in front of the entire town again, you hear me? Last year’s fiasco is still trending in my group chat.”
“Wasn’t that the year Anna’s tuck failed mid-split?” Felix chimes in, deadpan.
“Yes, and it was a tragedy. Children were present,” Dee says, clutching her chest in mock horror.
“Y’all are just jealous,” Anna says, throwing a saucy wink at me, then turning to the others. “Focus. We have a mission.”
Right. The mission. Operation: Surprise May With a Dazzling Display of Miles Dalton in Tight Pants, title very much still up for debate, apparently.
It started on Wednesday at the bar after bingo.
The pitch was simple when they all cornered me as May was cleaning up.
The end-of-season tourist show is the biggest event of the year at Sleigh Queen, and they want me to help with a number.
Not just backstage, but onstage. In full view of the whole town.
In front of May. I probably should have run for the hills.
Instead, I agreed. Because apparently, I’d do anything to see May’s face light up with shock, and maybe just a little of that oh my god, that’s my man pride.
Which is why I’m here, sweating and red-faced while a gaggle of lovably bitchy queens judge my every move.
“Again, from the top!” Dixie calls out, cueing up the music. The speaker thumps to life, pumping out the opening bars of “Man! I Feel Like a Woman!” because, of course, it is.
I brace myself, feet planted, shoulders squared. On Dixie’s cue, we launch into the routine. Three steps, snap. Side step, pivot, and…jazz hands. I have never in my life felt more like a malfunctioning scarecrow.
Felix glances over. “You look like you’re attempting the white-man chicken dance,” he observes, not unkindly.
“That’s generous,” Anna tosses in. “I’d say he’s more ‘middle-aged dad at a bar mitzvah.’”
Patti nearly chokes on her coffee. “Baby, if you’re going to do a jazz square, at least pretend you like it.”
I groan. “I am trying. My hips don’t move like yours do. It’s a medical impossibility.”
Dee sidles up next to me and demonstrates the move again, slow and exaggerated. “It’s all in the ankles, sweetheart. Loosen up. Pretend you’re seducing the front row.”
“Or at least not threatening to tackle them,” Felix adds.
I inhale. Exhale. I picture May in the front row, those dark eyes locked on me, that wicked grin curving his mouth. I try again. Three steps, snap. Side step, pivot, jazz hands. Somehow, it feels a little less catastrophic.
“Better!” Dixie crows, clapping. “Now from the top, with feeling. And more butt, honey. We want the ladies at table two to sprain an ovary.”
I’m not entirely sure what that means, but I commit. I pop my hips, shaking it for all I’m worth. The queens cheer as Patti tosses a feather boa at me, and I somehow catch it.
“Give us your best walk, Dalton!” Anna demands, giddy, bouncing like an overcaffeinated chihuahua.
I strut across the room, channeling every bad music video I’ve ever seen. There is, mercifully, no video evidence. Or at least I hope not. If any of these menaces are filming me, I will be enlisting Mal to help me hide a body.
Dee and Anna collapse into each other, cackling. Felix gives me a slow, exaggerated golf clap. “Not bad. A little ‘Magic Mike at the PTA fundraiser,’ but not bad.”
I take a bow.
“Okay, okay,” Dixie says, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. “Now let’s get serious. We need to pick your number.”
My stomach flips. “My number? I thought that’s what we’ve been doing all morning!”
They all turn to me, faces suddenly deadly serious.
“Oh, Shnookums,” Dee says, her voice dripping with mock pity. “That was just the warm-up.”
“We need something that’ll absolutely destroy May,” Anna explains, eyes gleaming. “Something legendary.”
Patti leans in, chin propped on her fist. “I vote something with a reveal. Tear-away pants, maybe a sequin surprise underneath.”
Dixie grins. “Or a power ballad. Something that’ll turn everyone in the audience into a sobbing mess.”
Dee makes a face. “No, no. He needs a showstopper. Like ‘It’s Raining Men,’ but sluttier.”
Anna’s already scrolling on her phone. “What about a mashup? Something with costume changes. Or at least a dramatic cape.”
There’s a beat of silence as they all consider this.
Dixie looks at me, an eyebrow cocked. “You got any secret fantasies, Dalton? Musical-theater-wise, I mean.”
I sputter. “I…honestly have no idea what I’m doing. My only experience with choreography is line dancing at a wedding once, and I’m pretty sure I stepped on the bride.”
“That’s a tragedy,” Dee intones, “but also, you are now legally obligated to do a hoedown number at some point. Preferably shirtless.”
The rest of the queens immediately start throwing out suggestions.
“Sexy cowboy!”
“Cop uniform. But like the Village People, not an actual cop.”
“Construction worker with the reflective vest and nothing else.”
“Lumberjack. Flannel, glitter beard, the whole thing.”
I blink, trying to keep up. “You want me to…strip?”
Patti waves a dismissive hand. “Just a little. This is a family-friendly show. Well. A chosen-family-friendly show.”
Anna’s scrolling again. “I vote lumberjack. It’s on brand. And we can rhinestone the shit out of a tool belt.”
Felix snorts. “Is that a euphemism?”
This sends them all into another fit of giggles.
Through it all, I just stand there, letting it roll over me. It’s chaos, but it’s good chaos. Every time I think I’m in over my head, I picture May’s face in the crowd, and the nerves turn into something a lot like excitement.
Dixie claps again, reeling them back in. “All right, so we’re thinking of leaning into the bear energy. Maybe some light, tasteful objectification.”
“Don’t forget the glitter beard,” Felix adds, dead serious.
Patti grins. “And the tear-away pants. I have a pair in the back that should fit him.”
I am, for the record, both terrified and a little turned on. “You’re sure this will work?” I ask a little desperately.
Anna steps in, laying a hand on my shoulder. “Listen, honey. May loves you. You show up on that stage, and he’s going to lose his mind. It doesn’t matter if you trip over your own boots or forget all the moves. You’re doing something brave and ridiculous and beautiful, and he’ll eat it up.”
There’s a sting behind my eyes. I blink fast, trying to play it cool.
“Thanks. I, uh, really want to make this work. Make it perfect.” I mean more than just the show, but I hope I play that off well enough.
I’m not quite ready to bare my soul to this merry band of misfits.
But it’s true. I want to make this work.
All of it. The job, staying in Sleighbell Springs, my second chance with May.
It’s not just a want anymore. It’s a need.
The only future I see is one with us together.
I don’t care what we’re doing or where we are, as long as we’re together.
Getting to stay here with May, at Sleigh Queen, feels like everything.
Dee bumps her hip against mine. “You’re already perfect. Now let’s teach you how to twerk.”
We spend the next hour workshopping “bear energy.” Dixie runs the speaker, cueing up different songs, each more outrageous than the last. I try on a flannel shirt with the sleeves ripped off (Felix’s idea), a red velvet harness (Anna’s), and, for some reason, a set of jingle-bell nipple clamps (Dixie’s, obviously).
We take a break so Dee can demonstrate her signature “sissy bounce,” which looks like a cross between twerking and a triple axel.
When I try it, I nearly break the mirrors.
Honestly, none of their suggestions feel quite right yet. I think they know it, because every third suggestion or so, one of them throws out something actually plausible.
Felix comes up with another idea. It’s one of the more out-there ones, but it’s also the first thing I can actually picture working. He gives me an evil smirk. “You want to win, you commit,” he says, handing me a leather harness.
“You’re all insane,” I say, eyeing the contraption skeptically. It’s been the better part of a quarter century since I went through my leather-daddy phase, and I’m not sure I’m ready for this blast from the past.
“Put it on,” Patti urges. “Let’s see the runway walk.”
I duck behind a changing screen and wriggle into the harness.
Just to give them the show they’re after, I sink my gray sweatpants obscenely low on my hips, showing off the ghost of what used to be a defined V-cut ten years ago, but is still pretty damn good for a man in his forties, thank you very much.
The queens hoot and holler when I step out, and for the first time, I actually believe I might not embarrass myself entirely.
Dixie whistles, long and low. “If you don’t get a standing ovation for that, I’ll eat my own wig.”
I spin, then add a little hip pop just to hear them scream.
It’s addictive, the way they cheer each other on.
Somewhere in the madness, I forget to be nervous.
We run the routine again, this time with the reveal worked in.
At the appointed moment, I rip away the flannel I’m using to mimic a coat and strut across the floor in the harness and low-slung sweats, flexing and hamming it up as much as I can. The queens lose their minds.
Anna doubles over. “You’re going to kill him. Actually kill him. Then we’ll be stuck with a haunted bar.”
I laugh, breathless and sweating, but for the first time in a long while, I feel good. Confident, even. We take a break, collapsing onto the benches as Dee passes around donuts. Felix produces a six-pack of soda from somewhere, and we toast.
“So,” Patti says, settling in on my other side. “Let’s talk about the real reason we’re here.”
I brace myself.
“You’re in love with May,” Patti states, like she’s reading a weather report.
I sputter. “What? I mean, I—”
“Oh, please,” Dixie cuts in, dropping into a full split on the mat. “Everyone in town knows. Half the fun is watching you figure it out.”
Anna grins. “The other half is making sure you don’t screw it up.”
My face burns. “Is it that obvious?”
Felix walks over, arms crossed, looking down at me with a small smile. “It’s adorable. And honestly, if you’re willing to humiliate yourself for him, you might just be worth our time.”
They all nod, and there’s something almost solemn about it. The air shifts. I get it suddenly. This is more than a prank. More than a publicity stunt. This is family.
A lump forms in my throat. “I just…I don’t want to embarrass him. Or you.”
Dee drapes the boa around my shoulders again, this time gently. “Honey, drag isn’t about being perfect. It’s about being brave.”
It lands right in my ribcage, and I sit up a little straighter. “Okay. Can we try the hip roll again?”