Chapter 23
I’m on a double date that’s no longer a double date that wasn’t a date in the first place.
We’re still sitting in the car, collectively shaking our heads at Bertie’s master plan.
I look at the bar. There’s a lit-up neon Buster’s sign out by the road, and the name is hand-painted on the actual building—and
not by an artist.
I smile. “She did seem concerned that you’ll never get out there and live your life.”
He rolls his eyes. “Oh yeah. I’ve heard the whole speech. Multiple times.”
“You know what this means?” I pump my eyebrows despite his skeptical look, and then, because I don’t want to feel vulnerable
anymore, I sing: “She thinks I’m good for you.”
Without missing a beat, he says, “She’s a terrible judge of character.”
I smack him across his arm, aware that this has become my go-to when I don’t have a good comeback.
“We’ll go in, share some wings, and then go home,” he says.
“Uh, you skipped right over the line dancing,” I say, eyeing him.
“Yeah, I’m not dancing.”
“That is not the deal.” I turn in my seat. “If I have to be out of the house, then you have to make it worth my while.”
“Okay.” His eyes lock onto mine. “What did you have in mind?”
There’s something slightly suggestive in his tone, and I freeze because the question makes me think about things that I shouldn’t be thinking—not if Booker is really just a friend.
And for a flicker of a moment, I wonder what it might be like to let myself give in to the more that Booker offers.
Exciting attraction that needs to be tamed, instead of careful, measured interactions that offer no surprise.
“Rosie?” Booker is watching me, unaware that I’ve taken his perfectly benign question and turned it into something else entirely.
“Sorry,” I say. “I was... I just kind of, you know, zoned out for a second.”
He smirks. “You do that a lot.” He gets out, walks around to my side of the car, and pulls the door open, holding his hand
out to me. I take it, and when I get out, he doesn’t let go right away.
Instead, he lifts my hand up, and I follow his lead and automatically spin underneath.
“Okay, maybe one dance,” he says. “But it’s gotta be the right song.”
“Ah, so Taylor Swift, right?” I tease because I have to make light of everything or I’m going to linger on what it would be
like to have his arms wrapped around me on the dance floor.
When we reach the bar, Booker pulls the door open, and we’re met by a loud wave of music and voices. The overhead lights are
dim but reveal a big open dance floor full of people, and tables all around the perimeter of the bar.
It’s got an interesting mix of smells—grilled food, alcohol, leather, and hardwood.
We shift inside, and I take it all in. It’s like a scene straight out of Footloose , with lines of people all moving together, stomping their boots on the wood-planked floor, turning in unison, the occasional
cheer ringing out over the din.
“Do you want something to drink?” Booker asks, his mouth so close to my ear I can feel his lips on it. It sends a shiver down my spine.
I turn toward him, and our faces are so close, it would take the slightest shift for our lips to meet. “Just lemonade?”
He gives a thumbs-up and reaches for my hand. When I glance down, he smirks. “So we don’t get separated.” He gives me a little
tug, and I follow him through the crowded space and over to the bar.
As he orders our drinks, I turn and look around, and that’s when I see Daisy, right in the heart of the rows of dancers, looking
like she was the one who choreographed this dance. I watch her for a moment, in awe of how free she is. Her smile is infectious,
her personality seemingly transmittable.
It’s been a long, long time since I’ve let loose and danced.
I’m not sure when things changed—when I changed. I’m guessing it was a gradual thing, like the frog in the pot of boiling water.
These days, something always holds me back. That fear of being judged, maybe? Which is stupid because the career I’ve picked
is literally based on being judged.
Booker hands me a tall glass of lemonade with ice, and I remember that here, in this bar, at Sunset Hills, in Wisconsin, it
really doesn’t matter what anyone thinks about me. After all, once the summer ends, I’ll never see these people again.
So I can be the girl who drove her golf cart into the mud. Or the girl who jumped on top of her counter because a chipmunk
got into her house. Or... the girl who let herself stop thinking and has fun just for one night.
Nobody will even remember come fall.
“You’re doing that thing again,” he says.
I sip my drink and look at him. “What?”
“Thinking.” His eyes are so sparkly. A girl could get lost in them.
“Sorry,” I say. “I’m not usually like this.” I’m really not. I’m the one who doesn’t dwell on feelings. But the state of my life has me all out of sorts.
I smile. A real one. “I’m here and ready for fun.” I throw a fist in the air. “Woo-hoo!”
We’re about to go find a table when Louie emerges from the crowd. He spots Booker, wraps an arm around his shoulder, and lets
out a cheer. “Yoooo... Booker! You’re here? You didn’t tell me you were going out tonight!”
“Uh, yeah, didn’t know myself,” Booker says.
Louie looks at me. “No way! You’re here too?” He drapes his other arm around my shoulders, and now we’re all three standing
in an awkward line. Then, as if realizing something, Louie backs away. “Wait. Are you two here...?” His eyes go wide.
He points at me, then at Booker, then at me again.
Booker’s shrug seems to challenge me to be the one to respond, which makes me curious what his answer would be.
“No,” I say. “I was totally abducted by his grandmother, and she’s not even here.”
“That Bertie,” Louie says knowingly. “She’s a schemer.”
The crowd erupts with a cheer and Louie joins in for a brief second, like he can’t help but be a part of the fun. Then, turning
back to us, he says, “Bummer. You two would be awesome together.” Then, without missing a beat, he goes up on his tiptoes and whistles. “Daisy! Daisy!” He waves his arms, then points
at Booker and me. “Look! Look who’s here!”
Daisy is still making waves on the dance floor, but when she sees us, she shoots her arms in the air with a loud cheer, then
leaves her spot in the line and rushes over—as much as she can through this crazy crowd of people.
She throws her sweaty arms around me, and I wonder if maybe my housemate is a little tipsy. “Rosie! You didn’t tell me you
were coming out tonight.”
I start to respond, but she loops her arm through mine and pulls.
“Let’s dance!” she says a little louder than she needs to.
Booker reaches over and grabs my glass as Daisy tugs me back through the crowd and onto the dance floor. The song changes,
and as the upbeat bass starts, the crowd whoops so loudly it actually startles me.
Daisy takes her spot right at the center of the group, which means I’m also at the center of the group—and I have no idea
what this dance is.
I watch for a few seconds as the crowd begins to move, all in unison. Heat rushes to my cheeks, but then I start to get it,
reminding myself I only have one goal tonight.
“Just have fun, Rosie,” I say under my breath.
I watch Daisy’s feet while she calls out the steps for me, and by the time the first verse ends, I’ve got it down.
I look over at Booker and Louie, leaning on the bar, watching. Louie, the kind of person you’d want cheering for you if you
ever ran a marathon, is pointing and whistling loud enough to be heard over the music.
I want to let loose. I want to let go. I want to feel the freedom I felt before the world beat me down.
A country singer’s deep voice sings “Country Girl (Shake It for Me),” and I laugh at the absolute ridiculousness of that lyric,
and somehow that laugh loosens something inside me. More laughing. More moving. More shaking.
And before long, it hits me. I feel... free.
Uninhibited. Like the version of myself that got lost along the way.
I dance with the crowd, who, I notice, gets more and more into the moves as the song goes on, giving me permission to do the
same.
Daisy gives me an approving nod. “You’re so good at this!” She takes off her cowboy hat and sticks it on my head.
I press it down farther and tip up the brim. I give her a big wink, grab my belt loops like there’s a big ol’ buckle in ’em, and own it.
It’s just life!
The song continues, and as I make the turn toward the bar, my gaze catches Booker’s, who is sitting on a stool, listening
to Louie prattle on, but watching me.
I tip my hat as if to say, “Look at me, having fun!” and he lifts his bottle as if to toast me, and I note that all reason and logic where he is concerned seem to have left my
brain.
This is not a date , Rosie.
And I know this. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want it to be.
The song ends, and Daisy lets out a loud holler. “That was amazing ! I had no idea you were so much fun, Rosie! I’m starving, let’s go get some food.”
At that, she pulls me off the dance floor as a slow song comes on over the speakers.
We make our way through the crowd as a booth opens up, and Daisy slides right into it. “Score! I’ll text Louie to tell him
to grab Booker and come over here.” She pulls her phone out of her back pocket, and I sit down across from her. I’m actually
a little warm after the dancing, so I pull off my plaid button-down and tie it around my waist.
Daisy finishes her text and looks up at me. “You look hot in that tank top. Are you guys on a date?”
I shake my head. “His grandma sort of tricked us.”
She laughs but doesn’t seem surprised. “Bertie’s a character.”
“Are you and Louie on a date?”
Her eyes go wide. “What? No! Why would you even—?”
“Just picking up on a vibe,” I say.
She makes a face, seemingly brushing off such a ridiculous idea.
But I’ve seen the way they look at each other. I didn’t imagine it, right?
I glance at Louie, who is a little chubby with a baby face and a golden retriever personality. And I get it. I have no doubt Louie would treat Daisy like royalty. And she deserves to be treated like royalty. He and Booker make their way through the crowd, and my pulse spikes in awareness.
“What kind of vibe?” she asks.
I shrug. “I saw sparks.”
Her face brightens. “I feel sparks! I mean, he’s... Louie... you know? Not my normal type. But”—she scans the crowd, and when she spots him, her eyes widen—“He’s just so sweet to me,
Rosie.”
“I get it,” I say.
“You do?”
“Louie is good and safe and kind,” I say. “And guys like that are hard to find.”
He’s also hilarious. He’s strutting, duckwalking, and finger-gunning everyone he passes on his way to where we’re sitting.
It’s easy to see why Daisy would fall for him.
“He is so nice.” She glances back in the direction of the two men, who are still working their way over to us, then back to me. “I’m
going to tell him I like him. Tonight.” She looks like she might burst.
“Shut up!” My eyes go wide. “Just like that?”
She’s definitely tipsy—she’s using her hands to talk like she’s landing a plane. “Life is too short to keep all my feelings
to myself. If I like someone, I should tell them, right?”
“What if you try it and it doesn’t work? Or...” I search my mind for the long list of things that could go wrong and wonder
where to start. “What if you get all swept up and it makes you do crazy things?”
Her face lights up and she points at me. “Oooh, that last one. Yes! That’s the one I want!”
“You want to do crazy things?”
“Don’t you?” She grabs both my hands. “That’s where the good stuff is, Rosie. That’s how we know we’re alive!”
I try to protest but say nothing else because Booker and Louie have made it to the table. I slide over to make room, but Daisy
does the opposite. She stands up, faces Louie and says, “Louie? I like you.”
“You... do?” He looks slightly bewildered.
She nods and puts her arms around his neck. “A lot.”
“Really?” His mouth curves into a shocked smile, and honestly, it’s like watching the end of a rom-com where two very unlikely
people realize they might actually be perfect for each other.
Another nod.
“Shut up!” he says. “I like you too!”
“Wanna dance?” she asks.
“Heck yeah!”
He picks her up, and she throws one hand over her head, shouting, “Woo-hoo!” as he moves through the crowd, leaving Booker
and me sitting at the table. Alone.