Chapter 11 #2
A familiar song begins, and the steps to the accompanying line dance begin in perfect synchronicity.
“Boot Scootin’ Boogie” is one of those universally beloved songs, and there isn’t a person in the state of Texas who doesn’t know it, or the steps.
It draws people to the dance floor like moths to a flame, Grace included.
Because when “Boot Scootin’ Boogie” is playing, it’s basically sacrilegious to do anything but boot scoot.
June renews her hold on Grace’s wrist, dragging her out onto the dance floor amid the sea of party guests.
Grace looks around, spotting familiar faces with alcohol-flushed cheeks and wide grins as they all make their way into surprisingly uniform lines.
She starts to move her feet when she’s found her place in a line—the grapevines, the clicks and kicks, all of it comes as naturally as breathing, muscle memory at its finest. Standing in the line in front of them are Mikey, Caleb, and Pierce, who all stumble through the steps and almost knock over a group of elderly women.
Grace and June nearly double over with laughter as the three men attempt to regain their footing, the older women staring daggers into them, all the while not missing a single step.
The mass of people turns fluidly in a new direction, and then the Caldwells come into view.
While it isn’t surprising to see all five of them on the dance floor—as a unit, they seem to have the power to convince the surly eldest son to do anything they want—it is strange to witness just how…
good of a dancer Crew actually is. Grace imagines him being dragged to dance halls across the state with his parents as a child, learning line and square dances elbow to elbow with his mother.
His hat is tipped back slightly, revealing a sliver of his hairline.
His expression is uncharacteristically relaxed, like he doesn’t even have to think about what move to make next.
He knows it by heart—could probably do it in his sleep.
Toward the end of the song, Cooper tries to cut his older brother down to size by kicking behind his knee.
He laughs as Crew nearly face-plants, and then the two men are tussling in the middle of the dance floor.
Caia and Renata both yell for them to knock it off; Clint hollers something that sounds like Take it outside—a dad joke if there ever was one, considering they are outside.
The horseplay ceases as the song comes to an end—Crew’s hat has fallen to the floor, leaving his dark hair to sprout wildly in multiple directions.
He replaces the hat firmly on his head, then chuffs Cooper’s chin with a light fist. A boy’s version of getting the last word.
“Y’all look damn good out there,” Bryce says when the music has faded out. “What about the El Paso? Anybody know that one?”
The majority of the crowd cheers, but some begin to scatter, heading back to their tables, or the bar, or to the extremely fancy porta-potty trailer bathrooms, which are air-conditioned and smell like a garden in the springtime.
It happens quickly, before Grace even realizes what’s unfolding.
Caleb and Pierce grab hold of each other dramatically.
Mikey tries his luck with a guest, and his eyes light up when she agrees.
Cooper playfully slaps Crew in the stomach before turning around and starting slowly, nervously, toward June, and when they make eye contact across the dance floor, she gives him a Cheshire cat smile.
Grace, now by herself amid the buzzing crowd, searches for a familiar face to pair off with before the music gets going.
She sort of knows this dance—remembers it vaguely from the teen nights she went to at Midnight Rodeo in middle school.
Mostly, she remembers how important it was to quickly partner up with your crush before they got stolen away by another.
How scandalous it felt, holding both hands, wrapped around each other, sweaty and tentative and exhilarating.
Now, as an adult, the stakes are much lower.
In fact, Grace is content to walk off the dance floor when she sees most of the hands already paired with others.
An ice-cold drink sounds like heaven after working up a sweat during the previous dance—and with this hairstyle, there’s no respite from the dank heat, no breeze hitting the back of her neck.
It takes all the patience she has not to yank the now flattened, frizzy curls into a high ponytail.
Bryce begins to strum his guitar, landing on another cover, a familiar tune.
Over the music, a murmur catches Grace’s attention as she’s making to leave, and what she finds has warmth blooming in her cheeks for a reason other than the summer heat.
Clint’s and Renata’s hands are already clasped, both standing and ready to begin.
In front of them are Cooper and June, and next to them, Caia is standing at Crew’s shoulder looking adamant about something.
Crew’s hands are up, and he’s starting to back away from his sister, but she appears to care little for whatever excuse he’s making to leave.
Because Caia’s got Grace in her sights, and the twinkle in her eye tells Grace that her mind is made up. It looks so much like the one in Renata’s—but where Renata’s is sage and assuring, Caia’s is mischievous and confident.
She mouths the word go to her brother, then points firmly past him. At Grace.
Crew turns, and when he spots her, his shoulders give a little sag.
Whether from disappointment and irritation at his sister’s matchmaking, or from relief that it’s Grace on the other end of Caia’s command and not another politician’s wife he has to schmooze, she doesn’t know.
His expression is as unreadable as ever.
She doesn’t know exactly what she expected—maybe a shake of his head, a resigned shrug—something that would let Grace down easily when he inevitably exited the dance floor and did not succumb to sisterly pressure.
In the variety of scenarios, she hadn’t given weight to the possibility that he’d actually listen, and that he’d be walking toward her with purposeful steps, his face transforming from a nondescript mask into something soft. Something sweet.
He sidles up next to her about twenty seconds before the wheel of people will begin to turn. Leans down and says into her ear, “You want to?”
Grace looks up at him, heart fluttering slightly in her chest. “I’ve only done this one a couple of times,” she admits, because it’d be easier to make an excuse and run off than it would be to stand at his side for the next four minutes, holding his hands and moving with him.
Easier and significantly less dangerous. “I don’t know if I remember it.”
Crew is undeterred. He nods, then turns until he’s elbow to elbow with her. “That’s all right,” he says, giving her a little smirk.
Cocky and self-assured about dancing? She never would’ve guessed.
“I can keep us in line,” he states, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
Like it’s no skin off his nose to make sure she steps in the right direction.
He lifts his hands, starts to reach one over her shoulder.
With a slightly playful look in his eyes, he asks, “May I?”
Grace nods, then reaches up to grab both of his hands—the one near her chest, and the one that now lies over her right shoulder.
His grip is somehow firm and soft, and his hands engulf hers entirely.
Heat seeps from his palms into her skin, and Grace takes a deep, centering breath.
Then the circle of people starts to move.
The song somehow simultaneously lasts for an eon and mere minutes.
Crew’s grip on her never falters. It’s all well and good, really, nothing too crazy—but then they get to the bit where she is supposed to stand in front of him and…
well, by looking at the people on either side of her, it would appear that she’s meant to swivel her hips to the beat while he continues to hold her hands.
She glances at him over her shoulder the first time this happens, unsure of herself, and a moment passes before she’s able to follow along. They go back to marching hand in hand.
“Sorry,” Grace murmurs, flushing.
“Don’t be,” Crew says, squeezing the hand he holds at her shoulder.
When it happens again, Grace doesn’t miss it.
She turns, giving him her back, holding both of his hands over her shoulders.
There’s little space between them; she can feel his breath against her hair, the heat from his chest. She sees June a few feet away, laughing as she sways in front of Cooper, giving the move a flourish that’s all confidence and allure.
Grace sucks in a quick breath and decides she may as well try to do the same.
What occurs then isn’t an exact impression of June, but it’s not terrible, either.
Grace has always had some hint of rhythm, has always been able to keep up with beats and tempo.
Dancing is no different—she is nowhere near an expert, but she can move her body to music in a way that doesn’t look clumsy or stilted.
She sways, lets the song direct her, lets herself momentarily forget who stands behind her, holding her hands, watching.
Her body moves toward the floor, then back up again with a natural finesse she has never been more grateful for.
Crew’s thumbs brush across the backs of her hands, and Grace shivers.
Toward the end of the song, the uniformity of the crowd begins to dissipate—couples start doing their own thing during the standing-in-front-of-your-partner bit.
Elaborate twirls and dips; Mikey’s partner even jumps into his arms and lets him spin her around.
Grace is more confident than she was at the start, but not that confident, so when the last round of it begins, she does only what feels natural, bending the rules of the dance just a hair.
Without really thinking about it, she moves their joined hands from the tops of her shoulders to her hips, bringing his arms around her rather than above her.
Crew lets out a quick breath, surprised at the adjustment, but he doesn’t stop her, doesn’t miss a beat.
For a brief moment when his hands release hers, Grace panics, thinking she’s crossed a line, rung a bell that can never be unrung.
Ruined everything with her attempt at being bold and fun.
But then he grips her hips instead, his thumbs digging pleasantly into the bones there through the thin material of her dress.
Grace’s breath hitches in her throat. His hold is so— Nothing about Crew has ever struck her as timid, or meek, or anything but firm. His hold is no different. He holds her like a decision he’s made that won’t be contested, like a statement of fact rather than a show of desire.
Subtly, slowly, he drags her backward. With only seconds left of this part of the dance, they have little time to continue going off script, but he takes advantage anyway. Brings her flush against his chest, lets his chin dip until his nose brushes against the tip of her ear.
Though she wants to, though every fiber in her being is screaming at her to do so, she doesn’t lean back into him.
She can’t—with the flickering flames being stoked in her belly by his every touch, every caress, she can’t be held responsible for what would happen if she were to give in entirely. Not right now. Not here.
So she lets the music pull them apart, moves back to his side, and regrets it immediately when his hands leave her hips and return to their original places at her side and shoulder. They start to march, and she chances a peek up at him, finding him already looking at her.
They don’t say anything, but then, they’ve never had to say much to convey what it is they’re feeling.
The language they share through eye contact has evolved since they first met—in the beginning, it was a lot of Are you actually fucking kidding me?
kinds of glares. Then, when they started to warm to each other, the looks softened along with the messages.
They became more concerned, more curious, more reassuring.
It seems now they’ve progressed into new territory again, if Grace’s gut holds any truth. Because what she reads in Crew’s eyes is simple and direct, the same way he always is, but there’s something else, too. Something unexpected that leads to a little throb between her legs.
Something that looks—undeniably—like hunger.
· · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · · ·
When Grace falls into her bunk that night, it feels like she’s floating.
The makeup is scrubbed from her face, the curls in her hair are frizzy remnants of their original glory, but it doesn’t matter.
On this night, she danced. She’s still riding that high, wanting to prolong it as much as possible, so she reaches for her phone and earbuds, ready to hear that second song, the one she moved to like water.
The one Crew held her through, his grip warm and unfaltering on her hips.
But when she turns the phone on, a notification pops up that not only dampens her good mood—it drowns her in a sea of icy dread.
A text from an unknown number, but Grace knows exactly who it is. His utter lack of intelligence practically screams through each letter. And still, her stomach turns at the words, the boldness of them. The recklessness.
I no u sent tht bitch sniffing round here
Do u think I can’t get 2 u, Gracie? ?
Did U rlly think u were safe there??