Following the meal, there’s an endless presentation about the museum’s “groundbreaking” upcoming exhibition on New York’s deadliest maritime disasters and, finally, a brief musical performance. This is supposed to be the impressive part but it’s the third fundraiser he’s attended in five years with John Legend as the featured entertainer.
He watches a smattering of couples give each other “should we?” looks and decide to get up out of their seats after John Legend invites everyone to the dance floor during a slow cover of “Open Your Eyes.” In a move that Ari surely could not miss, Abby shifts forward to give Josh a hard stare. He doesn’t turn his head, just works his jaw, willfully ignoring her. If his mother could somehow manage to kick him under the table with Ari sitting between them, she would.
Before Abby can utter any embarrassing verbal prompts, the insufferable curator materializes behind them. Josh braces himself for some additional anecdote about funding for the exhibition.
“Shall we?” the man asks, extending his hand to Ari.
Josh blinks, immobilized. Twin flames of outrage and jealousy spark in his chest, witnessing the guy’s sudden chutzpah.
“I’m way too sober to dance,” she replies.
“It’s three minutes of your life, tops.”
“You’re definitely not the first man to tell me that.”
The guy cackles. Cackles.
With what Josh interprets as extreme reluctance, she places her palm in the curator’s hand.
“I knew there’d be dancing,” Ari whispers in Josh’s ear as she rises from her seat.
Josh watches her follow him to the dance floor. She’s asking him why they couldn’t have spent the John Legend money on historic preservation.
“Why didn’t you ask her?” his mother scolds when they’re barely out of earshot. “This is his last song. It’s almost midnight.”
“I don’t want to dance,” he says. His mouth tenses into a flat, tight line. Possibly a scowl.
“You’re a terrible liar,” Abby notes, examining her buzzing phone. “And stubborn. Just like your father.” She can push his buttons at the worst moments. “You have to put your pride aside occasionally. If either one of you had…”
Josh tunes out his mother’s unsolicited diagnosis. He watches the curator spin Ari around. She’s not exactly graceful, but she’s good at finding enjoyment in stupid shit like this in a way that Josh just can’t. He works his jaw again, wondering how many dresses Ari tried on before choosing that one. Wondering if this is one of those situations where she’d want to be rescued.
After another vigorous spin, they slow down. Ari catches his eye and silently mouths “help.” Or, at least, Josh convinces himself that she does.
“Why are you still sitting here, Joshua?”
He isn’t sure if Abby says it or his champagne-soaked subconscious imagines her saying it.
Either way, Josh finds himself pushing back from the table.
It doesn’t occur to him until he gets within a few feet of Ari and her partner: He has no fucking clue how to cut in on someone in real life without looking like an awkward, lumbering creep.
Luckily, looking like an awkward, lumbering creep forces insufferable curators to step back and drop the hands of other people’s New Year’s Eve pity dates. Who knew?
He remains still as everyone else on the dance floor moves around him, like he’s a minor nuisance. A giant orange cone in the middle of a sidewalk. Ari’s a foot away. Facing him. Alone. In that dress.
It takes a beat for Josh to remember why he’s standing there.
“I was just getting a lecture about the pneumatic-tube waste system on Roosevelt Island.” Ari takes a tiny step closer. “Good timing.”
“That would be a first for us.”
And then they get confused about where to put their hands.
Somehow Ari’s left arm ends up around Josh’s waist, while his right hand is on her left shoulder, as if they’re junior high school students forced to partner up in gym class.
“I’m used to dancing with a woman,” she points out. “What’s your excuse?”
John Legend croons about sitting alone. Regretting an old love. Finding the right one.
Back at the table, Abby positions her phone to take a candid photo.
He’d mind more if he wasn’t enjoying the fringe benefit of dancing, which is that the correct position of his right hand is against Ari’s lower back.
Neither of them says anything as they shuffle back and forth. He can’t quite find the beat but he can feel her breathing. She’s looking over his shoulder, watching couples—who are more comfortable holding each other—do a box step.