Chapter 8 #2
He’s behind the bar where he has been all evening, but he has stopped what he’s doing, and he is just looking at me with an expression that makes something flutter in my stomach. I miss a step, stumble slightly, and have to grab Betty’s arm.
“Eyes on the floor, not the bartender,” Betty says, smiling knowingly. “Plenty of time for that later.”
* * *
The line dancing portion of the evening winds down around nine o’clock and transitions into what Presley calls “couples time.”
The music slows down, the lights dim slightly, and people pair off to two-step across the floor.
I’ve retreated to my stool, of course, nursing a fresh glass of wine and trying to catch my breath.
My feet ache, my blouse is definitely ruined, and I’m pretty sure I look like I’ve been through some kind of natural disaster. But I’ve also never felt more alive.
“You did good out there.”
Wyatt appears beside me, leaning against the bar with an easy confidence. That seems to be his default state. He’s wearing a blue flannel tonight that makes his eyes look even more striking, and he’s looking at me with something that might be admiration. Or pity. I can’t tell.
“I was terrible.”
“Well, you were trying. That’s more than most people do their first time.”
He tilts his head toward the dance floor, where couples are swaying to a slow country song.
“You know how to two-step?”
“I know how to waltz, and I’m guessing that’s not the same thing.”
“Not exactly.” He sticks out his hand. “Wanna learn?”
I look at his hand, calloused, strong, steady. Then I look at the dance floor, at the couples moving together in easy synchronization. I look back at him.
“I’ll probably just step on your feet.”
“I’ll survive.”
I take his hand.
Wyatt leads me onto the floor, finding a spot near the edge where we won’t be in anyone’s way.
His left hand settles on my waist, warm and sure, while his right hand holds mine at shoulder height.
We’re close, closer than I’ve been to anyone in months, and I can smell his cologne, something woodsy and clean.
“The two-step is simple,” he says, his voice low enough that I have to lean in to hear him over the music. “Quick, quick, slow, slow. Quick, quick, slow, slow. Just follow my lead.”
He starts to move, and I follow, or I try to at least. My ballroom training kicks in, making me want to take larger steps, to move in these sweeping patterns I learned in dance class. But Wyatt keeps me close, his hand on my waist, guiding me into smaller, more intimate movements.
“Relax,” he mumbles. “You’re too stiff.” I can feel his breath against my cheek, and I try really hard to ignore it.
“I’m always too stiff.”
“Yeah, I’ve noticed.” He’s smiling as he says it. “Stop thinking about the steps. Just feel where I’m going and go with me.”
I try. I fail. I try again.
And then, somehow, it clicks.
We’re moving together, his body guiding mine in a way that feels natural and effortless. The music wraps around us, and I stop counting my steps. I stop analyzing my posture. I stop thinking about anything except the warmth of his hand on my waist and the steadiness of his gaze.
“There you go,” he says softly. “You’re getting it.”
“It’s different from what I learned.”
“Most things are around here.”
We dance in silence for a moment, the music carrying us in slow circles around the floor. And I’m acutely aware of every point where our bodies connect. His hand in mine. His palm on my waist. The occasional brush of his chest against mine.
“Can I ask you something?” I say.
“Shoot.”
“Why do you stay here?”
He looks at me, surprised.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re obviously good at this stuff. You know, running the bar, managing people, handling difficult situations. But you could probably get a job anywhere. A bigger city, maybe a bigger establishment. Why stay in Copper Creek?”
He’s quiet for a long moment, guiding me through another turn, before answering.
“I grew up here. Left when I was eighteen. Joined the army. Saw the world. Did things I’m not always proud of. When I came back, I was so broken. When Mavis gave me a chance to start again, I couldn’t leave her.”
“But that was five years ago. You could leave now.”
“I could.” He pulls me slightly closer as another couple passes.
“But why would I want to? Everything I care about is here. My grandmother. The bar. The people who have become family.” His eyes meet mine.
“Why would I trade that for a bigger city and a fancier job? Some things are more important to me.”
I think about my life in Atlanta, the studio I inherited from my mother, the apartment I can barely afford, the social circles I moved in where success was measured in square footage and net worth.
“I don’t understand that,” I admit. “Staying somewhere for love instead of advancement. It’s, I guess, foreign to me.”
“Yeah, I know,” his voice is gentle, but not judgmental. “Maybe that’s part of why Mavis left you this place. Maybe she thought you needed to learn there’s more to life than climbing ladders.”
The song ends and transitions into something faster. Around us, all the couples separate, some heading to the bar, others staying for another dance.
But Wyatt doesn’t let go of my hand.
“One more?” he asks.
I should say no. I should. I should retreat to my stool, maintain professional distance, and remember that he works for me. Any romantic entanglement would be complicated at best.
“One more,” I hear myself say.
* * *
We dance three more songs before the band finally takes a break.
By the end, I’ve learned that Wyatt’s grandmother taught him how to dance when he was twelve years old.
She said every gentleman should know how to lead a lady around a dance floor.
I now know that his favorite song is something by George Strait that I’ve never heard of because I’ve never listened to George Strait.
I also know that he has a small scar on his left hand from a bar fight he broke up a couple of years ago. The guy had a broken bottle.
“I have quick reflexes,” he told me, “but not that quick.”
I’ve also learned that dancing with Wyatt Rivers makes me feel things I haven’t felt in a very long time, maybe ever.
When the music stops, we stand on the edge of the dance floor, still holding hands. Neither of us is quite ready to take a break from the connection.
“I guess I should get back to work,” he says.
He doesn’t move.
“And I should sit down, rest my feet,” I say, pointing downward. “Betty gave me a workout earlier.”
“Betty is a force of nature,” he laughs, a warm, unguarded, real laugh, and finally releases my hands. “She taught gym for many years. She’s broken stronger people than you.”
“Well, that’s not comforting.”
“Wasn’t meant to be.”
He turns toward the bar and then pauses.
“Eleanor?”
“Yes?”
“You looked good out there on the dance floor.” He grins. “I mean, not the steps, because those were pretty rough. But the laughing, the letting go, that looked good on you.”
He’s gone before I can respond, disappearing behind the bar to help Presley with a rush of customers looking for drinks during the break.
I make my way back to my stool on legs that feel slightly unsteady, though I’m not sure if that’s from all the dancing or something else entirely.
* * *
Later, the bar has closed, and the staff has gone home, and I sit in Mavis’s apartment and think about motivations.
My whole life, I’ve been driven by these external measures of success.
Good grades because I wanted to please my teachers.
Perfect posture because I wanted to please my mother.
The right clothes, the right address, the right fiancé to please who?
Society? It just feels like there have been imaginary judges that I’ve always felt were watching me and evaluating my every move, and I never even questioned it.
Didn’t even ask myself what I actually wanted, separate from what I was supposed to want.
Wyatt stays in Copper Creek because he loves it here.
Because the people matter to him more than the opportunities he could find somewhere else.
Because he’s built a life based on connections rather than achievement.
Because he’s content not chasing the next thing or worrying about what other people think of his choices.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt content in my life.
I came straight out of my mother’s womb with a book on my head, trying not to knock it off while I walked across the delivery room.
And Mavis, well, she left Atlanta. Walked away from everything she was supposed to want and found something real. Something that filled a wall with photographs and a community with love. Something that is still alive after she’s gone, so much so that people still talk about her like she’s here.
I think Mavis is still living more than I am.
What would it be like to make choices based on love instead of advancement? What would it be like to stay somewhere just because it made you happy and not because it looked good on paper?
I pull out the list I started after the potluck disaster and add to it.
Number six: Wyatt stays for love, not money. I don’t know how to do that.
Number seven: Dancing badly and laughing is better than sitting on a stool and being miserable.
Number eight: The way Wyatt’s hand felt on my waist is not something I should be thinking about.
I cross out number eight, then I write it again. Then I leave it, because maybe part of being a real person is admitting what you feel, even when it’s inconvenient.
I look at Mavis’s photo wall. At the picture of me as a gap-toothed child. At all the images of a life lived fully and authentically.
“I’m starting to understand,” I tell the empty room, “what you were trying to show me. Why you left me this place.”
Of course, the room doesn’t answer, but I swear I feel something. An approval. A sense that I’m heading in the right direction.
I go to bed with aching feet, sore cheeks from laughing, and a full heart.
For the first time since I arrived in Copper Creek, I start to dream about staying. And not because I have to. Not because of the will. But because maybe this is where I’m supposed to be.
* * *
The next morning, I wake up early and do something I’ve never done before. I go outside for a walk with no destination in mind. I have no idea where I’m going. Hopefully, I don’t get lost in the mountains because that would be very bad.
The mountain air is crisp and clean, and the sun is just starting to warm the valley.
I walk past the bar, past the church, past the town square with its beautiful white gazebo.
I walk until I reach a spot where the road curves, and suddenly and unexpectedly, I can see the whole valley spread out below me.
Copper Creek in miniature, surrounded by mountains, the gleaming gold and green in the morning light.
It’s beautiful. Genuinely, achingly beautiful.
I used to think that the view of downtown Atlanta from a high-rise was quite lovely, but it doesn’t even come close to this. Standing there and looking at the town I never even knew existed a month ago, I feel something shifting around inside of me.
I’ve spent my whole life trying to live up to what I thought other people wanted. Trying to meet standards that I didn’t even set. Achieve goals that I didn’t choose for myself. Become a person I’m not even sure I ever wanted to be.
But here, in this tiny town with its potlucks and pickup trucks and line dancing nights, I’m starting to see something very different.
A life where success isn’t measured in client lists or social standing.
A life where showing up matters more than being impressive.
A life where love for the community, for a place, for people who become like your family, and maybe even more than your family, is reason enough to stay.
I don’t know if I can become that person. I don’t even know if I can unlearn thirty-four years of conditioning and shed this armor that I’ve built up around myself.
But once I start watching the sunrise over the Blue Ridge Mountains, I know one thing for sure.
I think I want to try.