The Rom-Commers(58)

But I missed.

Charlie refused to take my meaning. His response just off-gassed disdain. “And you want me to come to life by line dancing?”

Why was contempt so hard to counter?

All I knew was that had been my best, most heartfelt argument.

If Charlie couldn’t hear that, then there was nothing left to say.

“Fine,” I said. And looked down. And sighed.

Charlie watched me.

“You don’t have to go,” I said. “You can stay here and … do whatever it is you do in this big mansion all alone. But I’m going.” And then, on the off chance that it might make him even the tiniest bit unhappy, I added, “I’m going. And maybe I’ll find a six-foot cowboy—with a horseshoe belt buckle and one of those perfect square man-chins with a little dimple in it—and let him buy me beers all night. And maybe he’ll even have a big, crazy Sam Elliott mustache and a whole tragic past full of heartache, and maybe the two of us will just comfort each other all night long till the sun comes up.”

Weirdly, it worked.

Charlie’s eyes went dark. “Don’t you dare.”

“Try and stop me,” I said, striding toward the front door. Then, over my shoulder, grabbing a set of keys off the key hook: “And I’m taking a random car out of your garage. And I’ll see you tomorrow. Maybe.”

But I hadn’t even made it to the entryway when I heard Charlie’s footsteps clomping after me, fast and hard. Then he blew right past me, grabbing the keys out of my hand as he went, spinning back to glare in triumph as he raised them high above his head.

I jumped for them but couldn’t reach.

“You’re an asshole,” I said, shifting tactics to open-palm smacking at his shoulder. “Give me the keys!”

I smacked him a few more times, and then when he didn’t budge—and when hitting him also didn’t make me feel any better—I gave it up.

I pulled out my phone in defeat. “Fine, I’ll get an Uber.”

But that’s when Charlie let his arm down, and I looked up to see him holding the keys out—also in defeat.

“I’ll go,” he said then, in a quieter voice that sounded like surrender.

But the change was so sudden, I had to ask for confirmation. “Go where?”

He closed his eyes like he was sealing both our fates and said, “Line dancing.”

And then, before I could decide if I should thank him or hit him again, he opened his eyes, leaned in close, pointed at me, and said, “No six-foot cowboys for you.”





Twenty

THE INSTRUCTOR TURNED out to be a six-foot cowboy.

When Charlie saw him on the tiny stage at the back of the bar—in Wranglers and boots with an actual straw Stetson hat—I heard him say, out loud, “Oh, god. He’s a hillbilly.”

“I don’t think he’s a hillbilly,” I said. “I got propositioned by a hillbilly at a wedding once, and he had a very different vibe.”

Charlie eyed me. “Did you?”

“A groomsman,” I confirmed, with a nod. “Want to know what he said?”

Charlie squinted. “Do I?”

“He invited me to his hotel room and said, ‘Red in the head—fire in the bed.’”

“Please tell me that didn’t work.”

I gave Charlie a look like Come on. “I politely said, ‘No, thank you.’ And then he shrugged like it was my loss and said, ‘You’re missin’ out on the ride of your life.’”

“I bet you really were,” Charlie said.

“Not in a good way.”

“You’ve got to admire his optimism, though,” Charlie said.

“He also passed out in the women’s restroom that night,” I added. “And got into a fistfight at a bowling alley. And propositioned the bride’s mother.”

“You do have experience with hillbillies,” Charlie said.

After we signed in at the bar, got informed of the two-drink minimum, and knocked back two shots called Silver Bullets, we made our way to the crowded dance floor.

The instructor was getting ready to start, messing with the sound system and wearing his Wranglers like they were shrink-wrapped.

If this guy was a hillbilly—I looked around the room—at least we could all agree he was a hot hillbilly. Possibly an out-of-work-actor hillbilly just waiting for his big line-dancing break. Which I suddenly realized might actually be me and Charlie.

I elbowed Charlie. “We should cast this guy in the line-dancing scenes.”

Charlie, whose face was busy personifying misery, said, “Writers don’t cast actors in movies. That’s what casting agents are for.”

“I bet you could, though,” I said, “if you wanted to.”

“This guy’s not an actor,” Charlie said. “He’s somebody’s inbred cousin.”

“Chalk one up for inbreeding, then,” I said, letting my eyes float back in the instructor’s direction.

“Are you ogling him?” Charlie asked.

Yes. Yes, I was.

“Unbelievable,” Charlie said. “Didn’t we just agree no cowboys?”

“Look,” I said. “I didn’t request a…” I glanced back to the instructor for reference and then got stuck. “A six-foot-three backwoodsman with a butt like a quarterback wearing a longhorn belt buckle and ostrich boots. But it happened. What am I supposed to do?”