Chapter 20
OLIVER
Before I can think too much about how I called a night staring at a lunar eclipse with Ryan a date, the opening notes of “Twistin’ the Night Away” hit, and Gerard loses his mind.
“THIS IS MY SONG!” he bellows, launching himself out of the booth with the grace of a caffeinated giraffe. His leather pants stretch ominously as he grabs Elliot’s arm and hauls him toward the dance floor. “Everybody up now! This is not a drill!”
“Gerard, my food—” Nathan protests, but it’s too late. Gerard has already circled back to physically drag him from his seat, abandoning the half-eaten protein mountain without remorse.
“Burgers can wait! Sam Cooke cannot!”
The band is nailing it—the lead singer has that smooth, soulful quality that makes you believe he was born in the wrong decade. His voice slides through the opening verse, painting pictures of people dancing and having fun.
Drew and Jackson are already on their feet, Jackson’s hand finding the small of Drew’s back as they navigate toward the checkered floor.
Kyle stands, knowing resistance is futile, and extends a hand to Alex.
Which leaves Ryan and me alone in the booth, surrounded by abandoned plates and half-empty glasses.
The music swells. On the dance floor, Gerard is attempting moves that should be impossible to master in those pants. Drew spins Jackson under his arm. Alex bobs awkwardly but enthusiastically near the edge of the crowd, with Kyle offering a simple two-step.
Ryan’s eyes are fixed on the scene, wistfulness flickering across his features.
“Hey.” I slide out of the booth and offer him my hand. “Dance with me?”
He looks at my outstretched palm like it might bite him. “Oliver, I don’t—I’m not really a dancer.”
“Neither is Nathan, and look at him go.”
We both glance at Nathan, who has somehow gotten his arms tangled with a stranger’s and is apologizing profusely while still attempting to move to the beat.
“That’s not the selling point you think it is,” Ryan says, but his lips twitch.
“Come on.” I wiggle my fingers. “It’s Sam Cooke. It’s a fifties diner. When are you ever going to get another chance like this?”
Ryan hesitates. I can see the war happening behind his eyes. The part of him that wants to retreat is battling against the part that showed up tonight, that got in the pool, that’s been slowly, carefully opening up.
“I’ll probably step on your feet,” he warns.
“I’ve taken slap shots to the shins. I think I can handle it.”
The singer croons about leaning up and leaning back, and the crowd on the dance floor follows his instructions with varying degrees of success.
Ryan’s hand slides into mine. His palm is warm, slightly sweaty with nerves, and the contact sends a jolt through my entire arm. I pull him gently from the booth, guiding him toward the dance floor with what I hope is reassuring confidence.
“Just follow my lead,” I tell him as we find a spot near the others. “And remember—this is supposed to be fun. No grades, no judgment, no performance anxiety.”
“Easy for you to say. You probably dance like you do everything else.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Annoyingly well.”
I grin, positioning us so we’re facing each other. The song is in full swing now, the beat infectious, and I start moving. Nothing fancy, just the basic twist that the song demands. Hips swiveling, shoulders loose, feet planted but mobile.
Ryan watches me for a moment, then attempts to mirror my movements. His twist is stiff at first. But then the singer instructs everyone to lean up again, and Ryan follows, and something in his posture shifts.
“Lean back!” the singer calls, and we both do, and Ryan’s laugh catches me completely off guard.
It’s not the quiet, restrained sound I’ve heard from him before. This is fuller, brighter, surprised out of him by his own enjoyment. His body loosens incrementally, the twist becoming less calculated and more natural.
“See?” I have to raise my voice over the music. “Not so bad!”
“I feel ridiculous!”
“You look great!”
And he does. The flush spreading across his cheeks, the way his button-down has come slightly untucked from his khakis, the smile that’s creeping across his face despite his best efforts to suppress it. He’s alive in a way I haven’t seen in a very long time.
The singer calls for the Watusi, and Gerard interprets this as permission to do something that comes off as a cross between a seizure and a mating ritual. Elliot catches my eye across the dance floor and slowly shakes his head, the universal gesture for “I cannot believe this is my life.”
Ryan attempts his own version of the Watusi, which is considerably more restrained than Gerard’s but still makes me want to gather him up and never let go. His movements are getting smoother now, his body finding the rhythm, and that smile…God, that smile is going to be the death of me.
“Now twist!” the singer commands, and we twist, and Ryan is laughing again. I’m laughing too, and somewhere in the frenzy of music and movement, I realize I’m happier than I’ve been in months.
“Okay,” Ryan says, slightly breathless, still twisting. “How are you this good?”
“At what?”
“Dancing!” He gestures at my general person while trying to maintain his own rhythm. “You’re moving like you’ve been doing this your whole life. Meanwhile, I look like a marionette with tangled strings.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Oliver.”
“Fine, maybe a little marionette-ish. But a charming marionette.”
He rolls his eyes, but the smile doesn’t fade. If anything, it grows. “Seriously, though. Where did you learn to move like that?”
I shift into a more complex pattern—feet crossing, hips rolling, arms finding the beat—and Ryan’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline.
“Hockey,” I tell him.
“Hockey.”
“Yeah. Think about it.” I demonstrate as I explain, my body moving through the motions.
“Skating is all about balance, right? Core stability, weight distribution, being able to shift direction on a dime. You spend years training your body to move in precise ways, to respond to rhythm. Because hockey has a rhythm, even if people don’t think about it that way. ”
Ryan’s twist falters slightly as he processes this.
“Most people see hockey as aggressive and full of speed. But there’s finesse too.
The way you angle your body for a shot, the timing of a pass, reading the flow of the play and positioning yourself to intercept.
” I spin once, simply to show off a little, and catch his eye on the rotation.
“All of that translates. Different context, same principles.”
“So you’re telling me that every hockey player can dance?”
I glance over at Nathan, who has somehow gotten worse despite the song being halfway through. He’s now moving like he’s shaking a bug off each foot alternately.
“Okay, not every hockey player. But the good ones? The ones who really understand how their bodies work?” I shrug, falling back into the basic twist. “Yeah. We’ve got an advantage.”
The singer launches into another verse, and Ryan’s movements have found a groove. He’s not going to win any competitions, but he’s present, engaged, and enjoying himself.
“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he says, “but I’m actually having fun.”
“Was that so hard to admit?”
“Excruciating. I may need to lie down after.”
I bark out a laugh, delighted by this unexpected playfulness. This is a side of Ryan I’ve only glimpsed before—quick-witted, dry, capable of holding his own in the verbal sparring that defines our friend group. He’s been hiding it behind walls of reserve, but tonight, those walls are crumbling.
Gerard careens past us, having somehow acquired a second partner in the form of a middle-aged woman in a poodle skirt who seems thrilled by his enthusiasm. Elliot trails behind them, having completely given up on reining in his boyfriend.
“Your bestie is making friends,” I observe.
Ryan watches Gerard attempt to dip the woman and nearly drop her. “My bestie is going to start an international incident.”
“Nah. That’s just Gerard being Gerard. The world adjusts.”
The song builds toward its final chorus, the energy in the room cresting.
Everyone is moving now—couples, groups, even the staff behind the soda fountain are bobbing along.
The band is locked in, the singer giving everything he has, and for one perfect moment, the entire Grotto exists outside of time.
I catch Ryan’s eye, and something shifts inside me—a tectonic movement beneath my ribs that steals my breath and refuses to be categorized.
He’s beautiful like this. Not in the conventional way or even the sculpted perfection of magazine covers or the polished charm of leading men.
But beautiful in the way that matters. The smile on his face has become a permanent fixture, transforming his features, making him glow.
I want to photograph it, frame it, keep it somewhere safe so I can look at it on days when the world is too gray.
“What?” Ryan asks, catching me staring.
“Nothing.” Everything. “Just glad you came tonight.”
The final notes ring out, and the crowd erupts in applause.
Gerard whoops loud enough to be heard three blocks away.
Drew dips Jackson dramatically, nearly overbalancing and taking them both to the floor.
Kyle is actually smiling—a small, reluctant thing, but definitely a smile—while Alex claps beside him.
And Ryan, still slightly breathless, still beaming, turns to me with something new in his eyes. “I’m glad I came too.”