Page 27 of Friend Me

10

As Tylerand I rotated in the center of the dance floor, perspiration dampened my forehead and my feet ached, but I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt more like the star of a Rodgers and Hammerstein musical. If I could’ve carried a tune, I’d have burst into song.

Dad never had money or time to send me to dance classes, but he’d rolled up the living-room rug and taught me the basics to Anne Murray’s “Could I Have this Dance.” As much as I fantasized about being a princess at a ball, I’d have required Mia Thermopolis–level lessons from Julie Andrews to get me there. But that night, Tyler was my own Fred Astaire, twirling me around like I was Ginger Rogers.

The band lurched into Elvis Presley’s “Can’t Help Falling in Love,” and Tyler spun me out and back against him. My gauzy yellow skirt flared around my ankles and twisted up in his pants legs.

“Are you some kind of wedding gigolo?” I asked him.

“What?” He shot me a puzzled smile as he deftly dodged a whirling pair of flower girls.

“Do they hire you to dance with the bridesmaids and spinster aunts?”

Tyler hummed and led me into the spotlight in the center of the floor.

“You’re a fabulous dancer. I’m a terrible dancer, and you’ve made me look good all night.”

“You already looked good.” He spun us into a fast turn. “I just made you look graceful.”

I snorted. Gracefully.

“My mom,” he said.

“What?”

“My mother taught all of us boys to dance. She said she didn’t want us to embarrass her at the school mother-son dance.”

I imagined Tyler and four lookalike brothers dressed in suits and lined up like a buffet. Tasty. But still—“Your poor mother.”

“We were better at blocking and tackling than the foxtrot, but we did okay.”

When the song ended and the singer announced a fifteen-minute break, my dance high evaporated, making my feet throb in my spindly sandals.

“Gotta sit down,” I groaned.

“Oh. Right. Sorry.” Tyler held out an arm for me to lean on and led me to a table.

“No reason to be sorry.” I sank into a chair. “I can’t remember ever having such a good time at a wedding.”

He grinned. “Water or champagne?”

“Water, please.”

“Be right back.”

I watched him walk to the bar. His dress shirt clung to his skin, wrinkled where my sweaty palm had gripped his shoulder. His face was flushed, but he smiled, his posture relaxed and easy. Until Cooper walked up behind him and said something. Tyler spun around.

My phone vibrated in my dress pocket, and I pulled it out and thumbed open my text app.

Dad: Going to bed. Hope you’re having a good time at the party.

Me: I am. Good night. I’ll call you tomorrow morning.

Even the throbbing in my feet lessened. Dad had done great this weekend. All those little slip-ups he’d had over the past few weeks were perfectly normal parts of the aging process. And here I was, at my friends’ wedding, dancing like any other twenty-five-year-old, not sitting at home like some friendless shut-in.

“Fantastic party.” Jamila Jallow eased into the chair across from me, pulling my attention from my phone. Her form-fitting magenta gown showed no wrinkles, and only the gleam of her skin hinted that she’d danced almost as much as I had.

“It’s like a fairy-tale ball.” With my feet, I scrabbled under my chair for my sandals. I found them and poked my toes in. I couldn’t talk to elegant Jamila while barefoot.

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