Chapter 8 Wedding Season #5
“I’m just having fun,” he calls back. “I wish I could kiss you, but I don’t know if we’ll be spotted by the Murano accounting paparazzi.”
“What could they prove? We’re just friends having a fun dance.”
“Sure.”
He pulls me in close and then releases me again.
“The last time I danced this much outside of class was probably a twenty-four-hour rave,” I say to him the next time he pulls me closer.
“Your teen years were way more fun than mine.”
“Who said anything about teen years? That was way into my twenties. You’re looking at someone who once gave the finger to a police helicopter topless.”
He blinks at me, momentarily rendered silent. I feel panicked.
“Did I just ruin your opinion of me?”
He pulls me close and says into my ear, “You are the most interesting accountant I’ve ever met.”
After another few mistakes, I am starting to get the hang of it. Social dancing is not so much about nailing amazing moves as listening to the music and paying attention. Once or twice, he looks impressed that I did a spin correctly. Once or twice, I might even be enjoying myself.
When a cheerful pop song comes to a close, he gives me a hug.
“Hey,” he says, looking down at me, his eyes warm.
“Hey.”
“You’re doing so well.”
“Don’t patronize me, MacCormack.”
He looks at my lips, and I remind myself not to move closer. Just in case someone from work sees us. Just in case we’re being watched. He leans over and says quietly, “I’m honestly really touched. No one has ever done something like learning to dance for me before.”
“Does it make you less impressed if I tell you I’m enjoying it?”
He looks at my lips again, and I wonder if we are going to risk it. Please risk it, I think. He glances around, then he freezes, spotting something behind us.
“What is it?”
“Nothing.” The warmth has left his expression.
“Is it someone from work?”
He shakes his head.
“Eliana?”
He shakes his head, his expression grim. “It’s my ex-wife. I haven’t seen her since the divorce.”
I think of that made-up story we told to Vivi about Ollie having a panic attack after seeing his ex-wife. Suddenly I wonder if maybe there was some truth to it. I glance around, looking at the crowd.
“Has she seen you yet?”
“I don’t think so. Maybe.”
“Come on,” I say, taking his arm and pulling him toward the side of the pier. “We’re not leaving. We’re just going to talk.”
When we are positioned looking out at the milky-pink surface of the river, our arms resting against each other on the handrail, I risk a closer look at him. His eyes are haunted as he stares at the horizon.
“Is your brother here, too?”
He shakes his head, taking a moment to find his voice.
“I don’t think so. It looked like she was with some people from Dancing Up a Storm, where she used to take classes.
I recognized a few of them.” He glances at me and then away.
“You deserve better than this. I’m sorry. I feel like I’m letting you down.”
“It’s fine. It’s not like you ran up to her and begged her to come back. Unless that’s the plan for later.”
He huffs out a laugh. “No. Definitely not. I’m just not sure what to say if she wants to talk. I haven’t had to deal with this before.”
I consider for a moment. “So okay. This woman—I’m not going to say skank…
” The corner of his mouth twitches. “She did something really hurtful. And instead of telling her to avoid you, you quit the field, right? You left New York. And when you came back, you stopped doing any social dancing. So can you explain that to me? Why are you the one who thinks you have to avoid her, when she’s the one who did something wrong? ”
He shakes his head. There’s an answer, but he doesn’t want to say it.
I glance back at the crowd to see if anyone is watching us, but I can’t spot anyone.
“If she sees you, I know what she’s going to be thinking.
She’s thinking, ‘What does he think of me? Does he still hate me?’ And if you want the upper hand, all you have to do is not give her that.
Just be polite, and tell her nothing, and let her fixate on it. That’s your revenge.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t want revenge.”
“Then what do you want?”
“I just keep thinking…” He hesitates again. “I guess I’m scared.”
“Of…?”
“I don’t want to hear her say that she picked the better guy.” The words burst out of him. “That she’s happier now because she’s with him.” His eyes are on his fists, his shoulders tense.
“She didn’t pick him at all!” I step closer to him until he looks at me. “They both screwed up and their whole marriage is an attempt to make it look like this was something they wanted the whole time.”
He is shaking his head. “Maybe they did want it the whole time.”
“No. Look at me.” Ollie glances up. “Right now, she is married to a man who is capable of sleeping with his brother’s wife.
Don’t you think she’s wondering whether she trusts him?
Don’t you think she is aware that you are the one decent person in the whole situation?
I mean, there is no one in New York City I would pick over you. ”
He looks at me for a moment, then leans over and kisses me until I feel a little limp. I can’t even speak for a moment.
“Sorry,” he says, his voice husky. “We’re not supposed to do that in public. I know that.”
“Well,” I glance around, “if there are any spies from work around, we’ll just have to assassinate them.”
He takes a slow breath. “Let’s go back and dance. I know what to say if she talks to us.”
“You’re ready?”
“I’m ready.”
He takes my hand. Sure enough, as we walk back to the dance floor, a petite woman with golden skin and dark, straight hair walks toward us.
She has the perky look of a 1960s flight attendant, and she’s dressed in a flowing sundress and ballet flats.
She looks much more put-together than I did when I had a young toddler at home.
“Ollie,” she says. “Hey.” Her expression is earnest, wide-eyed, faintly apologetic.
“Hi, Phoebe.” The weight of the unspoken hovers between them like a raincloud.
“Good to see you.” She glances at me nervously and then back again.
Ollie takes a breath. “Phoebe,” he says, “I’d really like to forgive you at some point, but I haven’t yet. I’m sorry. So if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go dance.”
Her face falls. “Okay. Sure. Of course.”
Ollie leads me onto the dance floor just as a Tracy Chapman song starts playing.
He takes my hand and leads me into the throng.
I can tell that his mind is elsewhere, but he is still wonderful to watch.
He has an indefinable quality that I love in dancers, the ability to let each movement flow outward, carrying it all the way, letting each gesture hang for a moment with an intuitive sense of suspense.
I wonder if his ex-wife is watching us. I wonder if she’s noticing that I’m not nearly as good as he is.
After a moment, his eyes refocus. He’s back with me. His face lights up in a little smile. I smile, too.
After another song, he leans over to me. “She left, I think.” He glances around. “I feel a little guilty. I should have been calm enough to introduce you, but I can’t quite yet.”
“Don’t you dare feel guilty,” I say. “You just told her how you felt.”
He looks like he wants to kiss me again, but then another song starts up, this one a little faster.
We dance to a Rihanna song, and I think about the bride-to-be from my intro class, learning to dance to a Sinatra tune approved by her mother.
We dance to a Lorde song and a song by Coldplay.
We dance to Billie Eilish and Salt n Pepa, to Hozier and Sam Cooke.
My first impression of Ollie’s dancing comes back in full force.
Ollie is sexy. I can’t help but notice every time he pulls me into his arms and then sends me away again.
I am making mistakes, but I can’t even worry about them.
All I keep thinking is that I want him alone.
Maybe he doesn’t love me, maybe he is obsessed with his ex, but I still want to go to bed with him.
I want him like I’m a teenager who’s never gotten my heart broken.
He catches my gaze. “What time do you need to get back?” he asks in my ear.
“I still have three hours.”
He nods. “Can I take you to my place?” He winces a little at the words. “I know how that sounds, but I want to be where I don’t need to worry about being seen with you.”
“Let’s go.”
“Now?”
“Now.” He looks amused as how fast I answered.
“Right now?” he asks, teasing now.
I roll my eyes, and he laughs, then squeezes and releases my hand.
We walk away together, carefully not touching, carefully not looking like we’re all over each other.
As soon as we’re inside a taxi, I meet his eyes and am caught again in his gaze.
I could kiss him right now. No one would see.
He smiles and leans a little closer. I lean a little closer, too.
He puts one hand to my chin and rubs a thumb along my jawline.
A careful delay, a hesitation. His eyes look vulnerable and then his gaze shifts out the window.
He is going to break my heart.
When we arrive on his street, I discover that his apartment is in a four-story brownstone in the West 80s near Riverside Drive. It is the first time I’ve really registered the fact that he must have a lot more money than I do. This neighborhood is all understated elegance and ten-foot ceilings.
“I’m on the third floor of a walk-up,” he says apologetically as he gives me a hand out of the cab.
“I can’t make it,” I say. “Too tired. You’re going to have to carry me.”
He looks me over, shrugs, and then picks me up to carry me up the front steps. I laugh as he slides me down to get his keys out. Once we’re inside the building, he slides me down against him, our bodies close.
“Need a lift again?” he asks gently.
I shake my head, my eyes on his lips, my heart pounding.