At that, he meets my gaze and grins, eyes crinkling at the corners. Up close, his long lashes might be deadly. If my limbs turn to goo, at least he’ll be here to hold me up. “That’s exactly what sports are about.”
It’s after the next song, while Russell and I take seats on the sidelines, marveling at the ballroom’s grand architecture, that an out-of-breath Torrance makes her way toward the water fountain and Seth removes his hat, tapping her shoulder with the brim. She whirls around, and I’m expecting her to admonish him, but instead she swipes the hat and playfully smacks his chest with it.
And when Seth extends a cupped hand, Torrance raises an eyebrow at him—before turning his hand over and leading him out onto the dance floor. In their bygone-era clothing, they match.
We’re not the only ones mesmerized by the sight of them. Torrance is a skilled lead, while also giving Seth a chance to shine. Beat by beat, they push and pull against each other, rarely breaking eye contact. It’s as though this place has transformed them both, and I’m a little out of breath just watching.
I know it may not last, that we might show up at work on Monday and nothing will have changed. But for now, it feels almost magical.
“I can’t believe it,” Russell says, his elbow bumping mine and scattering sparks across my skin. “Well done, weather girl.” After another half hour of dancing, Zara walks to the middle of the floor and takes the mic.
“Good evening, everyone,” she says. “If you’ve been here before, you know what time it is . . . it’s time for the birthday dance!”
Everyone who knows what this means erupts into cheers, including Torrance and Seth. I glance at Russell, but he just shrugs. The dancers have started to form a circle around Zara.
“Can I get anyone who had a birthday this week to raise their hands?” No hands go up, and everyone glances around the room to see if there really are no birthdays. “Really? No one?”
Slowly, Russell raises his hand.
“It was your birthday?” I whisper. “When?”
“Uh . . . today.” He looks so adorably sheepish as he tries to hide a smile.
I’d be mortified, but he walks right up to the middle of the circle when Zara beckons him.
“Since this is your first time, I’ll explain,” she says. “The birthday dance is a swing dance tradition. You and I will kick it off, and anyone can take my place at any time to dance with you. You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” he says.
They start dancing as the circle claps to the beat, and though he’s a beginner, Zara has this way of making him look much more experienced. Other dancers cut in, usually for a few bars at a time, and Russell does his best to lead them all, grinning the entire time like the good sport he is. Some of them have flashier moves than others, but none of them are beginners. Even Torrance takes a turn.
When someone switches her out, she sidles up next to me and nudges my shoulder. “Go,” she urges, and it’s all the encouragement I need.
There’s a bit of fumbling as he reaches for my hand, but eventually, he grasps it, and we rock step-triple step-triple step together.
“I can’t believe you didn’t tell anyone it was your birthday,” I say as he spins me.
“I’ve never been that into birthdays,” he says. “I didn’t want to make it a big deal.”
“Like, dancing with a dozen strangers kind of a big deal?”
“Exactly.”
The song is in its last chorus, and while I expect someone to interrupt us, no one does.
I shake my head, laughing. “Happy birthday,” I say into his ear as he pulls me into the cuddle.
It’s the best night I’ve had in a long, long time.
11
FORECAST:
Cold air moving in alongside an avalanche of awkward
THE ANNUAL KSEA retreat is more corporate team-building than vacation, but this year, I have an extra reason to look forward to it. Torrance, head of the planning committee, booked a lodge-slash-spa outside of Vancouver, BC, and Russell and I make plans to drive together to prolong our scheming time. “I’m not sure my car will make it to Canada,” he said, so the next Friday morning, I pull up in front of his house on a quaint Phinney Ridge street shaded by tall evergreens.
Nothing wrong with sharing a three-hour drive, plus border wait time, with an attractive coworker I now know how to swing dance with.
As soon as I stop my car, I notice a girl sitting on the front steps, a book in her lap.
A girl who looks about twelve years old.
When she spots my car, she leaps to her feet, long dark ponytail swinging behind her. “Dad!” she yells into the house. “Your ride’s here!”
I freeze with my car door open, unsure what to do. Fortunately, Russell appears in the doorway, asking his daughter something I can’t hear, and she shrugs in return. I give him an awkward wave as he beckons me forward.
“Hey,” he says, tugging on his collar in this way he tends to do when he’s nervous. Today’s jacket is more casual, a KSEA 6 zip-up. “This is Elodie. Elodie, this is Ari.”
Elodie surveys me, blue eyes behind thin oval glasses, and I’ve never before wondered if my fashion sense is preteen-approved. She’s wearing high-waisted jeans and an oversize striped sweater and looks two hundred percent cooler than I do in my suitable-for-a-long-drive leggings and UW atmospheric sciences department sweatshirt.
“Nice to meet you,” she says.
“You too.” I busy my hands fidgeting with the strap of my bag. “Your dad said you’re in the school play?”
“Musical,” she corrects, with all the confidence of a theater kid, but I can tell she’s pleased he mentioned her. She holds up the book she was reading, which I now see is a script. “It’s Alice in Wonderland. I’m the Queen of Hearts.”
“Ooh, the villains always get the best songs.”
Her eyes widen. “You know musicals?”
“I know zero about sports, but musicals, I’m all over,” I say. “My brother and I used to save up money to catch the Broadway tours when they came through Seattle. We saw Dear Evan Hansen last year and it was transformative.”
Elodie lets out a shriek. “I’ve been wanting that one to come back here forever! It was amazing, wasn’t it? Did you cry?”
“So much,” I tell her, and just like that, her hesitation turns to a combination of jealousy and awe.
Russell clears his throat. I hope I haven’t said too much to her, though I’m nothing to Russell but a coworker. A co-schemer. “Her mom was about to pick her up, but she just texted that she’s running late,” he says. “Do you mind if we stick around a few minutes?”
“Oh—sure. That’s completely fine.”
Except he looks deeply uncomfortable, focusing on plucking a stray thread from his jacket and not quite making eye contact. It’s clear this wasn’t planned, that Elodie’s mother was supposed to be here before I pulled up. I’m not sure how many people at work have met his kid, but I’m going to guess not many. Again, I wonder how old he is. After the birthday dance, I had to hold myself back from asking because I worried he’d be able to tell I was doing mental math. For all I know, she could be adopted, though there’s a clear physical resemblance in the blue of their eyes, the shape of their faces.