Page 39 of Untruly With You

“I just—I felt like you should know that. I want to be clear that I have no feelings left for Cassidywhatsoever.”

“Okay,” she repeats, more convinced this time. She nods to herself. Then, switching gears, she says, “Come on, cowboy. We’ve got samples to test.”

We spend almost two hours in Costco, going through each aisle and filling our carts with things from Mom’s list. Laine looks around the warehouse the way tourists look around in Times Square.

A few times, when I’m not pushing the cart, I find myself reaching out for Laine’s hand. It’s almost scary how natural it feels.

I do my best to focus on the tasks at hand and not on how beautiful Laine looks in that dress. The easiest way to do that is to be on the constant search for the sample tables. By the end of the shopping trip, we’ve tried every one. Even if a sample is mediocre, if it’s cold when it’s supposed to be warm (or warm when it’s supposed to be cold), we rave about it. The novelty doesn’t wear off, and the only reason we leave the store is because they’re closing.

“This has been the best fake date ever,” Laine says, holding her classic Costco food court hot dog with the same loving carefulness one would hold a new baby. “That place was like another planet.”

“I’m glad it lived up to your expectations.”

Laine’s eyes land on something on the bulletin board on the outside wall of Costco. She walks up to it, mouth agape, like she’s in a trance. “Oh. My. Goodness. We have to go.” I follow her gaze to a flyer for a bar where, according to the ad, there’s line dancing and live music every night. “Please, can we go?” Laine asks, rocking onto her tiptoes.

I smirk. “You want to go to a place calledThe Cowboy Cantinaon a Tuesday night?”

“Desperately.”

While I’m not as spontaneous as Laine, I’d do anything to make her happy. “Sure. Let’s try it. But I’ll warn you, there’s probably nothing ‘cantina’ about it.” I load the food into the coolers in the truck bed. “The nearest place to us to get authentic Mexican food is Albuquerque.”

The bar is on the outskirts of town. Its flickering neon sign, though probably once vibrant, now emits a feeble glow that barely manages to pierce through the darkness of the night. The building itself seems to sag under the weight of time, its wooden front weathered and worn. The dirt parking lot has no curbs, so cars and trucks are packed in haphazardly.

Even from outside, we hear the sound of boots on the dance floor and the twang of a country band. Once we go through the creaky front door, we’re greeted by a cloud of stale air and cigarette smoke. The scent mingles with the unmistakable odor of years' worth of spilled beer.

Despite all of that, and despite it being a Tuesday night, the atmosphere is electric, alive with the energy of the crowd. Couples and friends bounce around the dance floor in amateur synchronicity. Though the band playing on the makeshift stage won’t be winning a Grammy anytime soon, nobody seems to mind. Or maybe they’re just too drunk to notice.

“Wow,” Laine breathes, her eyes sparkling.

I grin at her reaction. “Quite the experience, right?”

“VeryFootloose.”

The song drifts to an end, and people line back up for the next one. Without a second thought, Laine pulls me into the center of the floor, radiating with excitement.

As the music starts, so do the dancers. Thankfully, the footwork is simple.

“It’s a good thing I wore my cowgirl boots!” Laine shoutsover the music. Focusing on the woman in front of her, she copies her steps. It only takes a minute for Laine to get the hang of it. And then every movement of hers is fluid.

“And it’s a good thing I was a dance major for a semester!” she shouts.

Laine is dressed nicer than anyone else here, but even in the classic Montanan uniform of blue jeans and a simple shirt, she would stand out—her smile, her arms, the way her head throws back with laughs of delight. The dress just adds to it, hugging her curves, accentuating her swinging hips.

At one point, I grab Laine’s arm and swing her into me, and she squeals. “Okay, Kevin Bacon!”

As the music continues to pulse through the dimly lit space, I find myself caught up in the energy. Laine's laughter is infectious, and I get swept away by her excitement. She moves with a surprising grace, her steps becoming more confident with each beat of the music. I’m not surprised, though. Laine approaches everything in life with an open-hearted enthusiasm. Her confidence and authenticity are like a magnetic force, drawing me in and making me feel alive in a way I haven’t in a long time.

The song reaches its peak, and the dance soon ends. Laine's laughter mixes with the cheers of the crowd. She turns toward me, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed from the exhilaration of the dance and the stuffy heat of the room. The next song starts, one much slower, and couples turn to face each other, still out of breath as they sway.

Laine and I gravitate together, and her hand slips into mine. I pull her close, resting my other hand on the small of her back. The warmth of her body feels like it might set my skin on fire. I look down into her eyes, and for a moment, the world around us seems to fade away. Maybe the other couples can catch a breath during the slow dance, but my pulse is racing faster than ever.

As the song continues, Laine rests her head against my shoulder, her breath warm against my neck. Our bodies move as one, and I can’t help but be aware of every point of contact between us—the press of her hand against my chest, the brush of her cheek against my shoulder. The curves and angles of our bodies blend together.

And I know with certainty: I’m done for.

I knew I had feelings for Laine—feelings I struggled to ignore—while I was her TA. Feelings I have since tried to forget, thanks to her “no dating” rule. But in this moment, with the world focused right here on this sticky dance floor, I know I can’t hide my feelings any longer.

I open my mouth, unsure of exactlyhowI should confess what I feel, but still knowing I need to. But I’m only able to murmur Laine’s name when a disruption breaks through the anxious pounding between my ears.

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