Chapter 18 The Dance Hall
The Dance Hall
Maren
* * *
The text comes through while I'm portioning chicken thighs for tomorrow's Henderson dinner, my hands covered in herb butter and my phone propped against the flour canister.
Boot & Spur tonight. They're doing live music. Dance with me?
I stare at the screen with my greasy fingers hovering, and something warm unfolds in my chest that has nothing to do with the oven preheating behind me. The Boot & Spur. The place we went after our wedding reception, still high on champagne and vows, dancing until my feet ached and I didn't care.
What time? I type back with my knuckle, the only clean part of my hand.
Eight. I'll pick you up.
I'll meet you there.
Stubborn.
Independent.
Same thing. See you at eight.
I finish the chicken and wash my hands three times to get the garlic smell out, then stand in front of my closet for longer than I want to admit.
The Boot & Spur isn't fancy: sawdust floors, neon signs, the kind of place where your boots stick to the ground near the bar.
But I want to look good. I want him to see me and feel the same flutter I felt reading his text.
I settle on dark jeans that fit well and a red top that dips low enough to be interesting without trying too hard. Boots with a low heel, comfortable enough to actually dance in. Hair down because he mentioned once, years ago, that he liked watching it move when I spun.
The drive takes fifteen minutes, and I spend most of it arguing with myself about why I'm nervous. We've been married five years. We've slept together recently, even. There's no reason my palms should be sweating against the steering wheel like I'm seventeen and meeting a boy at the county fair.
But when I pull into the parking lot and see him leaning against his truck, hat tipped back and a slow smile spreading across his face as he watches me park, I understand. I want this night to go well. I want it badly enough to be nervous.
"You wore the red shirt," he says when I reach him, his voice carrying a note of satisfaction that makes me want to hit him and kiss him in equal measure.
"It's a top, not a shirt, and I wore it because it's comfortable." The lie tastes obvious on my tongue, and from the way his smile widens, he knows it too.
"Sure." He offers his arm like we're going to a ball instead of a honky-tonk, and I take it because refusing would be petty and because I want to feel the warmth of him through his sleeve. "I reserved us a corner table near the band, in case you wanted to sit sometimes."
"Reserved?" I raise an eyebrow as we walk toward the entrance, the thump of bass already audible through the walls. "Since when does the Boot & Spur take reservations?"
"Since I called ahead and asked nicely." He holds the door open, and the sound hits us full force: fiddle, guitar, drums, the kind of country that makes your feet move whether you want them to or not. "Also since I may have mentioned I was trying to impress my wife."
I stop just inside the doorway, amused by how quickly the arrangement starts to sound expensive. "You bribed them."
"I tipped generously in advance." He guides me through the crowd with a hand on my lower back. "Margie named the price before I finished explaining."
The table is perfect, tucked into a corner with a clear view of the stage, far enough from the speakers that we can actually hear each other talk. A small RESERVED sign sits in the center, handwritten on what looks like the back of a drink menu.
"Very classy," I say, sliding into the booth. "Did you write that yourself?"
"Margie behind the bar did, actually." He settles across from me, close enough that our knees brush under the table. "She says hi, by the way. And that if I mess this up, she's banning me for life."
I turn the little reserved sign toward the room so nobody takes our table while we dance. "I like Margie."
"Everyone likes Margie." He signals a server, then turns back to me with that focused attention I've been learning to recognize again. "What are you drinking?"
I leave the choice to him and look toward the taps behind the bar. "Whatever's cold and local."
He orders two beers and a basket of fries to share, and I watch him interact with the server, polite, easy, asking after her kids by name.
This is the Jackson I fell in love with.
The one who remembers people, who tips well without making a show of it, who treats everyone like they matter because he genuinely believes they do.
Jackson catches me smiling at him after the server leaves. "What did I do right?"
I leave the napkin alone instead of folding it into an anxious little square. "You can let me enjoy the view without making me explain it."
He settles back, giving me an exaggerated chance to inspect him. "Take your time."
He laughs, and the sound settles into my bones like warmth.
The band kicks into something faster, and couples flood the dance floor, boots stomping and skirts swirling.
I watch them move with the particular coordination that comes from years of practice, bodies knowing each other's rhythms without thinking.
"You want to wait for a slow one?" Jackson asks, following my gaze. "I should warn you, I've been practicing, but I'm still probably going to step on your feet."
I picture him alone in the living room, practicing the turn he used to avoid. "You practiced?"
"YouTube tutorials." He ducks his head, almost sheepish. "Turns out there's a whole channel dedicated to teaching rhythm-deficient ranchers how to two-step."
I picture him moving the coffee table so he can practice without hitting his shins. He did that for a night with me. Damn it, that works on me.
"Come on." I slide out of the booth and hold out my hand. "Let's see what YouTube taught you."
The dance floor is crowded and hot and perfect. Jackson takes my hand and my waist with the careful concentration of someone following memorized steps, and for the first eight counts, we're actually doing pretty well. Then the tempo picks up, and his foot finds mine with pinpoint accuracy.
"Sorry..." he starts, but I'm already laughing, adjusting my grip to lead him through the turn he clearly doesn't remember.
"Left foot, then right, then spin." I demonstrate in miniature, our bodies close enough that I can feel the rumble of his voice when he repeats the instructions back. "No, your other left...okay, now we're just going in circles."
Jackson keeps us moving while he defends the route. "Circles are a valid dance move."
I steer us away from another couple before his circles become their problem. "Circles are what happens when you give up."
"I prefer to think of it as improvising." He spins me out unexpectedly, and I go with it, letting the momentum carry me before snapping back into his arms with more force than either of us intended. We end up pressed together, both breathing harder, his hands splayed across my back.
"That was actually pretty good," I admit, tilting my head back to look at him.
"YouTube," he says solemnly, but his eyes are bright with something that looks like joy. "Very educational platform."
The song ends and bleeds into something slower, and Jackson's hold shifts from dancing position to something closer, more deliberate.
His hand slides from my waist to the small of my back, and I let my head rest against his shoulder because I want to, because it feels right, because I'm tired of pretending I don't still love being held by this man.
"I remember this song," he says softly, his voice close to my ear. "They played it the night of our wedding."
I lift my head from his shoulder, surprised he remembers the music as clearly as I do. "You remember that?"
"I remember everything about that night." His hand traces a slow pattern on my back, and I feel the words as much as hear them. "You had blisters on both feet by midnight, but you wouldn't let me carry you to the truck. You said you wanted to keep dancing until they kicked us out."
"They did kick us out." The memory surfaces with surprising clarity: the two of us laughing in the parking lot at two in the morning, my shoes in my hand and his jacket around my shoulders. "Margie said we were scaring the other customers with our enthusiasm."
His smile changes as he remembers the parking lot, and I have to smile back. "We were enthusiastic."
"We were drunk and in love." I pull back enough to see his face, to trace the lines that weren't there five years ago. "We thought nothing could touch us."
"Something did," he says quietly, and there's no accusation in it, just acknowledgment of what's true.
"Something did." I reach up and touch the corner of his jaw, feeling the muscle there tense and relax under my fingers. "But we're still here. That has to count for something."
Jackson shifts his hand against my back, keeping me close without pulling. "I want another dance. That's what I'm hoping for right now."
He kisses me then, soft and slow, right there on the dance floor with the music swelling around us and other couples pretending not to notice. I kiss him back with everything I'm not ready to say out loud: that I missed this, that I want this, that I'm terrified of how much I still need him.
When we break apart, his forehead rests against mine.
"Can I tell you something embarrassing?" he asks, his breath warm on my lips.
I wait with my arms around him. I would happily hear something embarrassing about him all night. "Always."
"I've watched our wedding video four times since June." He pulls back to see my reaction, his expression somewhere between vulnerable and defiant. "Just the dancing part. The part where you're laughing and your hair is everywhere and you keep trying to teach me that spin I could never get right."
"That is embarrassing." But I'm smiling, and he knows it, and when he laughs, I feel it vibrate through both of us.
The song ends, and neither of us moves. Another one starts, faster again, and Jackson winces preemptively.