He’s mesmerizing, magnetic, perfectly careless in the most breathtaking way, and before I know it I’ve forgotten about my family, about the crowd, about everyone else on the dance floor and it’s just the two of us, touching and swirling, pulling closer and pushing farther as the band works through a long medley of golden oldies.
We dance without speaking for three songs, or maybe five, or maybe ten. I have no idea, because there’s nothing but the moment, nothing but Seth’s hands around my waist, nothing but the swish of my long dress as I twirl and he pulls me back, nothing but his hands on my hips as I lean back against him, my head on his shoulder, his lungs filling against my spine in a brief, still moment before we’re moving again.
Everyone’s watching us. I can feel it, that strange, heady rush of being the center of attention, or at least in its reflected glow. I’d forgotten what it was like to be the girl with Seth, the girl who’s got the guy no one can ignore.
Of course he’s fucked his way through Sprucevale. How could I have ever imagined differently?
The singer belts out one last note and the trumpets flare and Seth is watching me, smiling, his jacket off and his sleeves rolled up, my hand in his. There’s sweat trickling down my spine and between my breasts. I’m breathing hard, I’m suspicious of my bra again, and I can only pray that my makeup is still in place.
But it doesn’t matter because my hand is in his as the song ends and he pulls me in hard, catching me, breathless and still a little unsteady on my feet.
“You’re a better dancer than I remember,” he says, fitting one hand around my waist and the other into my own, my arm over his, my forehead briefly against his heated shoulder.
“I’m afraid to ask what you remember,” I say, even as I try to ignore how easily we fit together like this. Being with Seth is instinct and muscle memory: arm here, hand here, head turns like this and hips move like this and then, and then, and then…
“Senior prom?” I guess.
“Was that really the last time?”
I take my head from his shoulder, right myself from where I fell into him, stand up straighter. Not too straight. Not so straight that we aren’t still touching.
“It must have been,” I say. “I didn’t join the kind of sorority that did formals, and I don’t recall your Econ department having a spring gala or anything.”
“Thank God for that,” he laughs. “Can you imagine those nerds trying to dance?”
“So says the Nerd King.”
Seth just laughs. His fingers tighten on my back. Just slightly. Just enough.
“Well, this is better than being eighteen,” he says. “For one thing, whiskey sure makes me a better dancer.”
“For two, I’m not wearing a poofy princess dress that looks like my bottom half is made of purple cotton candy,” I say.
“It did come in handy later,” Seth says.
“I was hoping you’d forgotten that.”
“Not a chance, Bird.”
The old nickname flutters onto me so lightly that it takes me a moment to realize what he said. I’d almost forgotten it.
“I’m afraid that covering myself with purple taffeta while explaining to Officer Capaldi that we were just looking for your contact lens is forever burned into my memory,” he goes on.
I start laughing. I can’t help it. This memory should probably be awkward, given that we were literally mid-coitus in the back seat of my car when there was a knock on the window, but somehow it’s just… funny.
“He didn’t believe you,” I point out.
“Yeah, no shit,” Seth says dryly. “I’m pretty sure the only reason we didn’t get arrested is because he knew my dad.”
“Did I ever tell you about the lecture I got when I got home that night?”
“From who, Vera?”
“Of course. Apparently I was somewhat disheveled when I showed up, and she was still awake so I got to hear all about how good girls don’t,” I say.
“Can’t say I ever got that one,” Seth says.
“Clara had her hands full,” I point out.
“Though I do have a very clear memory of the time that she stomped out onto the porch as I was getting into the car to go somewhere, shouted and don’t knock anyone up! then walked back inside like nothing had happened.”
I start laughing, and Seth grins at me. On my back, his fingers are wandering up and down, over the bump where my bra-corset-device clasps. I wonder if he knows he’s doing it or if that’s muscle memory, too.
“You never told me about that.”
“I never knew what to make of it.”
“Seems like a pretty simple instruction,” I point out.
“I followed it to the letter, did I not?”
“True.”
I almost say is it still true? but I don’t. If Seth knocked someone up the whole town would know.