Page 40 of Caught Up In You

“Back atcha,” he replies.

Dan silently rocks on his heels.

“The three of you need to loosen the fuck up,” Felix says as the slams the lid of his toolbox. “Now let’s go dance.”

I’ve barely seen Wyatt in the two weeks since I ran into her at the grocery store. That night had all the makings of a disaster. I remember the panic coursing through my body, coiling tight in my muscles. My temples felt like they were being squeezed in a vise, and all I wanted was a dark, quiet room.

Not that sleep would have come for me. I knew I was well on the road to lying in my bed, staring at my dark ceiling, and willing my brain to slow down, to cut me some slack, to get a fucking grip. Those kinds of nights used to plague me often back in medical school, and I’d lie awake combing through all my mistakes, noting my near-misses, and cataloguing my catastrophes.

Now that I’m out of the pressure cooker of med school and residency and life in the emergency room, sleepless nights come less frequently, but they still come. Usually after a day when everything’s gone to shit, but sometimes for no reason at all.

When they come, I try my best to do the calming breathing techniques the therapist gave me back in residency. But usually I wind up just waiting it out. By the time the sun rises, I can take the fresh start and move on. Well, after some ibuprofen and coffee to deal with the insomnia-related migraines.

Anxiety hangovers, if you will.

But that night in the grocery store, everything went a different way. Wyatt showed up out of nowhere, interrupting my thought spirals, catching the herd of squirrels racing around my brain and soothing them to sleep.

If I hadn’t had to put seven stitches in Erica Montour’s forehead, I would have taken Wyatt home and used all that energy to show her my appreciation. Because after months of reticence, whatever hang-ups have kept her from me seem to have dissipated. She wanted me that night. She’s ready to let go, and I am too.

And tonight, I’m finally going to be alone with her.

Well, her, my entire family, and damn near everyone else in this town.

Still, I don’t plan on lettinganythinginterrupt us tonight. Even if I have to get creative.

As soon as I step through the doors with my brothers, I begin scanning the crowd for her. Last I saw her, the streaks in her dark curls were a gentle lavender, and that’s what I look for in the sea of dancers in brightly colored costumes clustered around the half court line of the Cardinal Springs High School gym. The smell of bleach layered over old basketballs and body odor brings me right back to my teenage years. In fact, with the balloon arch, the refreshment table, and the DJ set up underneath the scoreboard, it looks almost identical to our senior prom.

I spot three different Cyndi Laupers bopping around the floor and a number of hair metal wigs, but I don’t see her.

Beside me, Archer busts out laughing so hard he nearly falls over on me.

“What the hell?” I mutter, rubbing my arm, but then I see the little girl weaving through the crowd wearing a denim shirt and bell-bottoms, a paint palette and brush in her hand and a brown permed wig on her head.

And then I’m laughing too.

“Betsy, that costume is incredible,” Felix says, giving her a high five, and even Dan is grinning.

“What did I tell you about this kid?” Archer says as he pulls her in for a noogie on her Bob Ross wig. “Creative as hell.”

“Don’t light a match near her—I filled that wig with enough hairspray to burn a hole in the ozone layer,” Madeline says, pushing through the crowd behind her daughter. She’s dressed in a white lace corset and skirt, and she’s got a drawn-on beauty mark and a bandana in her hair, looking just like a brunette Madonna.

Archer’s laughter dies in his throat, his mouth hanging agape as he takes in his neighbor in costume.

“Be cool,” I mutter beneath a cough.

Archer’s mouth snaps shut, but it takes him a couple of slow blinks to finds words again. “You look great, Madeline,” he says, his voice cracking only a little bit on her name. Felix stifles a laugh beside me.

“Thanks,” Madeline replies, and I can’t tell if it’s the lights, her makeup, or the way Archer can’t stop staring at her that’s causing the pink in her cheeks.

“Can wedance?” Betsy pleads. She starts dragging Archer toward the dance floor with one hand, the other reaching for her mother’s hand.

“Yeah, of course, kid,” Archer says, and the three of them disappear into the crowd as the DJ cranks up a Whitney Houston tune.

As much as I want to stand around watching Archer try to dance to “I Wanna Dance With Somebody” while attempting not to drool all over Madeline, I have to find Wyatt.

I leave Felix and Dan and take a lap around the dance floor, but I don’t spot her. I do spot Mrs. Tingle, dressed as Prince in a purple suit, shimmying with her cane.

“Looking good, Mrs. T. You in it for the long haul tonight?”

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