18. Scarlett
— ? —
Scarlett
The dance hall smells like beer and decades of two-stepping.
Christmas lights strung up year-round, concrete floor worn smooth by generations of boots, a jukebox in the corner that only takes quarters.
The bar serves six-dollar beers in plastic cups and the most expensive thing on the menu is an eight-dollar whiskey that comes with a look of mild disappointment from the bartender.
Beck is at the bar now, counting out ones. He’s gotten better at it, faster, anyway. But there’s still that moment of hesitation, that split second where his brain has to override decades of just put it on the card.
He comes back with two beers and slides into the chair across from me.
“I had exact change this time,” he says. “The bartender looked almost proud of me.”
“Baby steps.”
“Very expensive baby steps. Do you know how much cash I’ve gone through in the last month? I had to explain to my accountant why I keep withdrawing-” He stops. “Never mind. That’s not interesting.”
“It’s a little interesting. What did you tell him?”
“That I’m learning to be a normal person.” He takes a sip of his beer. “He asked if I was having a breakdown.”
I almost smile.
The band kicks into something slow, a two-step that my grandparents probably danced to. The floor is filling up with couples, mostly older folks who move together like they share the same heartbeat.
“I don’t know how to two-step,” Beck says, watching them.
“I know. You know how to waltz.”
“My father made me take lessons. Said a man who couldn’t dance was a man who couldn’t close a deal with real people.”
“That’s very your father.”
“He wasn’t wrong. Half the deals I’ve closed started on a dance floor.” He pauses. “Though I don’t think this is the kind of floor he had in mind.”
I stand up and hold out my hand. “Come on.”
“You want to dance? Here?”
“That’s generally why people come to a dance hall.” I grab his hand and pull him toward the floor. “Quick-quick-slow-slow. Just follow me.”
He’s stiff at first, overthinking every step, too worried about his feet to feel the music. I can practically hear him counting in his head. But somewhere around the second verse, something shifts. His shoulders drop. His grip on my hand loosens.
“You’re not terrible,” I say.
“High praise.”
“I’m serious. You’re picking it up fast.”
“I’m motivated.” He turns me under his arm, a little clumsy, but he commits to it. When I come back, his hand settles on my waist. His thumb finds the gap between my shirt and my jeans, that inch of bare skin above my hip.
He doesn’t move it.
I should step back. Put some distance between us. But his hand is warm and the music is slow and I’m so tired of being angry all the time.
“I want to show you something,” he says.
He pulls out his phone with his free hand, scrolls for a second, and holds it up.
It’s a video. Josie at a tea party in Lucy’s living room, stuffed animals arranged around a tiny plastic table. And there’s Beck, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a pink plastic tiara perched on his head, holding a tiny teacup with his pinky raised.
“Mr. Cooper,” Lucy’s voice says off-screen, “you have a call from some office.”
Beck in the video looks at the phone in his other hand and looks back at Josie. Raises the teacup to his lips.
“Tell them that Daddy is having tea with Miss Josie and Mr. Bear, and they can wait.”
Josie shrieks with laughter. “Dada silly!”
“Daddy is extremely silly,” video-Beck agrees. “Now drink your tea before it gets cold.”
The video ends. I’m actually laughing, the kind that sneaks up on you, and I don’t even know when it started.
“When was this?”
“Last Saturday. Lucy took it.” He puts the phone away, and his hand finds my waist again. “I wanted you to see that I’m there.”
“You turned down a work call.”
“Work can wait.” His voice drops. “I missed too much already.”
The song ends and another one starts. We keep dancing.
A woman in cowboy boots and a denim skirt taps my shoulder. “How long y’all been married? You move like you’ve been doing this forever.”
I open my mouth to say it. The we’re separated speech.
“Two years,” I hear myself say. “A little more.”
“Well, aren’t you sweet. Hold onto that one, honey.”
She’s gone before I can correct myself. Beck is looking at me with an expression I can’t read.
“Two years,” he says quietly.
“I didn’t want to explain.”
He pulls me closer as the song slows down. “Thank you.”
We dance until my feet hurt, until the band takes a break, until I’ve lost count of how many songs we’ve moved through. His thumb never leaves my skin. His hand never wanders anywhere it shouldn’t. He just holds me steady and close, like this is enough.
That’s what scares me.
“I should go,” I say when the band starts packing up. “Early morning.”
“I’ll walk you.”
The night air is cool after the warmth of the dance hall. We walk the three blocks to my building in silence, his shoulder almost brushing mine.
At the bottom of my stairs, I turn to face him.
“It’s not the barn,” I say.
He goes still. “What?”
“The drawings. My name on the plans. You letting Camille give you credit at that dinner.” I wrap my arms around myself. “I could have fought about the barn. Screamed at you. Made you explain.”
“But?”
“But the radio.” I make myself look at him. “Easy keeper. You said it like you were bragging.”
“Scarlett-”
“I never made you work for me.” The words come out harder than they did when I said them to Lucy, sharper, aimed at him instead of myself. “I was so afraid of losing you that I stopped asking for anything. And you liked it. You liked that I was easy. You told her about it like it was a good thing.”
Beck is quiet. The streetlight above us flickers.
“You’re right,” he says finally. “I was bragging. That my wife never pushed back. Never demanded anything.” His voice roughens. “I should have been terrified when you stopped asking. Instead I was relieved.”
The word lands between us.
“I’m not asking you to forgive that,” he says. “I’m just telling you I see it now. What I did. What I was.”
I don’t know what to say. So I don’t say anything. I just turn and climb the stairs, and I don’t look back until I’m at my door.
He’s still at the bottom, looking up at me.
“Goodnight, Beck.”
“Goodnight, Scarlett.”
I go inside and close the door.
Then I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. I can still feel his thumb on my waist. Still feel how we moved together, how easy it was.
I don’t touch myself. It would feel like giving him something he hasn’t earned.
But I think about him. And I lie awake until the light turns gray, thinking about what it would mean to stop being easy.