A good old-fashioned screw can reset me to human again.
But I don’t want a scorching one-night stand to be someone else’s idea. I want it to come from that hunk of a man. I want it to be his idea to Calgon take me away! from this hellacious day.
So, I say to the gorgeous beauty at the costume counter, “I’ll take that under advisement.”
As soon as we leave, I point to a bar at the end of the street. Pink neon flashes on a marquee—It’s 80s night, oh what a night—luring patrons with a retro playlist of Wham!, Madonna, Cyndi Lauper and a-ha.
That’s where I need to be. Dancing my dumped ass off. I nearly bounce in my boots. “That’s got to be even better than axe-throwing.”
“Was axe-throwing an option?”
“Oh, that’s where my girlfriends and my dad took me earlier tonight.”
“That makes perfect sense. And now you’re thinking you want to shake it out?”
I’m giddy with the prospect of shimmying to classics from many decades ago. “I do. I really, really do.”
Harlan flicks his suspenders against his hard, firm bare skin, then arches a cocky brow. “I’m always up for a dance,” he says, and I’m up for staring at his pecs.
His carved, yummy pecs.
I wonder what they taste like . . . “And you look like you’re ready for a striptease.”
“If memory serves, I offered you a lap dance once upon a time. The offer still stands,” he says, leaving that enticing possibility hanging in the night air.
And yes, I do believe I’m getting closer to my goal. For him to suggest taking me home.
C’mon, Harlan. Reel me in. I’m an easy catch tonight.
“Maybe I’ll take you up on it,” I say playfully.
He gestures to the club. “Let’s go have some tequila, some Go-Gos, and me.”
Oh yes. That sure sounds like he’s game. Harlan can be the official antidote to my horrible day.
He feels that way already.
Somehow, running into him feels like the universe’s way of saying I’m so sorry for that shit sandwich I served you earlier. Here’s an ice cream sundae to finish off your night.
We go inside and after he drops his bag at the check-in, we head to the dance floor. Belinda Carlisle croons about having the beat.
Under the smoky purple lights, I shimmy, shake, and move my body to the old-school beat. Harlan swivels his hips, and we find a groove.
“You make a fine fireman,” I say above the music.
“Have you got a fire for me to put out?”
I move closer, tugging my hat down so it doesn’t fall off. “Maybe I do.”
“I bet I can take care of it,” he says, looping an arm around my waist and yanking me close to him.
Hello, reversal of fortune. It is nice to see you. And to feel this football god’s body.
With him, I’ve nearly forgotten what sent me out tonight. The need to get away. But now isn’t the time to remember this afternoon. I want the events of this day to fade far, far away into the past.
As we dance, swaying closer, I imagine the betrayal slinking out the door and vanishing into thin air.
It has no room in my night.
I’m too busy dancing to Whitesnake’s “Here I Go Again,” Van Halen’s “Jump,” and “Bizarre Love Triangle” by New Order.
In my wedding dress and his fireman costume, we dance it out. With every swish of my hips, I imagine leaving behind this afternoon’s hallway encounter at the Legion of Honor. I picture saying see you never again to the two people who upended my plans.
And I see moving on in my near future.
It’s as if I shed more of the pain with every single song. Did I even love Silvio? Were we too different all along? Did it happen too fast? Is this a blessing in disguise?
Maybe I was hoping he was the one when we truly didn’t even have that much in common.
He didn’t like bowling, or foosball, or Halloween.
Or fun.
Perhaps he was wrong for me.
I’ll move on, I’ll move forward, and I’ll move away.
When Madonna’s “Crazy for You” comes on, the ultimate 80s tune, Harlan’s eyes darken. “This is a damn good song,” he says. “And you’re going to need to slide even closer to me for this one.”
I don’t want to say no. Not at all. I want to sing all the yeses. Daisy was right. So damn right. “Let’s do it, handsome,” I say, and Harlan brings me up against him, looping his hands around my waist.
“Wrap your hands around my neck, darling,” he says, that little hint of Southern drawl coming back.
My lips curve into a grin. “I hear your accent.”
He leans in close, nuzzles my neck, whispers in my ear, “Maybe I save it for dancing too.”
“I wonder if you save it for other things,” I whisper, enjoying the feel of his chest against mine, his body pressed tight.