digs into my side.
“Agreed.” I’m not entirely sure what that particular dance number is called, although I’m clearly in the minority there. Everyone else on the dance floor is moving more or less together, heels tapping, hands clapping in bizarre synchronicity.
“I only know how to wedding waltz.”
“We’ll figure it out. Let’s go.”
Hazel has multiple sisters, all of whom I’ve watched get married. Honestly, I’m sort of a surrogate big brother for them. Not for Hazel, obviously—that would be gross—but I’ve pinch-hit as an usher, scooped up drunken bridesmaids and given my opinion on cakes, dresses and flowers. And, yes, waltzing was involved.
“Jack.” She whips out her phone and starts googling. “That’s not a waltz. So I. Don’t. Know. How. To. Do. It.”
Hazel’s fingers fly across the screen and I tilt my head so I can see her search results. “We’re going to learn to dance by watching YouTube? Before they shut this party down?”
“Yes! Maybe.”
Hazel angry-glares at the screen, where a cowboy and cowgirl are dancing up a storm. She slows down the video. Rewinds. I don’t think there’s enough time to execute this particular plan.
I pluck the phone out of her hand and shove it in my back pocket. “We’ll improvise. Or copy the people next to us. Come on.”
“I’m going to suck, Jack,” she growls. “You’ll rock this. It’s practically a sport. I, however, am going to look like an uncoordinated idiot and I don’t want to. You always have a plan—make one up now. A good one,” she adds.
I watch the dancers for a second. It doesn’t look like rocket science. “Come on. Wing it with me.”
“Jack. No.”
“Trust me.”
I grab her hand and tow her out onto the dance floor. Based on where we start and what seem to be the rules of this particular dance, we should intersect with Evan and Molly shortly.
I come to several conclusions in the next five minutes. First, Hazel is a bad two-stepper. Second, I’m even worse. Third, cowboys are really good sports. We bumble our way through the steps, careening around our line. We’re still laughing when I twirl Hazel around and come face-to-face with Molly. Okay. Face-to-top-of-her-head. She’s laughing, too, pulling Evan closer, and then she looks up and spies me.
Yeah. The laughter vanishes from her face.
“Can we talk?”
She leans up and says something to Evan that I don’t catch. He nods, then he’s holding his hand out to Hazel. Somehow I always thought partner swapping would be sexier. I lead Molly off the dance floor because I’m not having this conversation in front of an audience. The bar seems by far the better choice.
“Why are you here, Jack?”
“I love Vegas.”
“You hate Vegas,” she counters.
Not true, although it’s not my favorite place.
“People change.” I shrug. “You did, so why can’t I?”
Of all the ways I’ve planned this meeting, line dancing wasn’t one of the steps. I’d expected our reunion to be awkward, but surprisingly it isn’t. It’s more like running into someone from college that you used to spend time with. They’re part of your past and you can’t help but pick over the memories, reliving the fun ones, the parts that you enjoyed. But we’ve both moved on. And if I’m being honest, we’d both moved on long before we got around to filing for divorce. We’re not the same people we were when we got married, and I’m not sure that’s a bad thing.
I study Molly while I flag down a bartender and order drinks. She looks different. Gorgeous. Stunningly beautiful in a quiet Madonna way. But that’s not new. It’s something about the way she holds herself or maybe in how she watched the rest of us. As corny as it is, she knows who she is and what she wants. Which is a cowboy, my brain reminds me. Your replacement.
Out on the dance floor, Evan is valiantly trying to teach Hazel the two-step. She’s game and laughing, but her results are subpar. It must be driving her crazy.
“So.” I hand Molly her drink. “A cowboy?”
“So,” she counters. “You and Hazel?”
“We’re just friends.”
She shrugs. “If you say so.”
That’s not what she means.
“I never cheated on you. And certainly not with Hazel.”
“I know that.” Molly takes a sip of her wine. “You were always fair.”
Divorce has not granted me the super mind-reading powers that I lacked during our marriage. I still have no idea what Molly is thinking. It’s beyond frustrating. I scrub my hand over my head, looking for the words I know I won’t find.
“Why