Page 59 of It's a Love Story

“Sort of,” she says.

“I’m never more ready than that,” I say and she smiles.

I press play, and the song starts. I step off to the side, but Ruby doesn’t move. Like not one part of her body is in motion, not even a twitch. She’s actually frozen. Two hundred eyes are on us, and I can feel every single one. I know that a core memory is forming here, one way or another. She’s either going to see herself as the kid who got everyone’s attention and choked onstage, or she’s going to see herself as the kid who absolutely made her grandparents’ party. I don’t want her to look back and feel shame; shame has been holding me back forever. I don’t want her carrying anything but total appreciation for how brave she is. I stand off to the side and watch her, a statue, for the eternity of the first two rounds of the piano intro. Dan is watching in horror from the bar—it’s like we are reenacting his worst nightmare for an audience. Cormack and Reenie are fine and probably have reasonable expectations of a six-year-old. I do not. I cannot let this happen.

As Idina Menzel starts to sing about the snow going white on a mountain night, I step onto center stage next to Ruby and try to get her to start to dance. I move my feet in the step-together-step rhythm I’ve been watching each morning. I take her hand and raise our joined hands high as they can go and then raise my other arm high in the air in the exaggerated slow motion that made her body look like dune grasses in the wind. Ruby starts doing the step- together-step in the tiniest way, and it is a relief, an actual lifetime of relief, for me to see her take a step past her fear. I smile down at her as the chorus is coming because I know I’m going to have to drop her hand. You can’t do the swimming- forward motion holding hands. When I do, Ruby freezes up again. Her eyes go wide with fear, like I’m going to let her sink, and I need to show her that she won’t.

I step up to the microphone and start to sing“Let it go!”over and over again, because there is no other option and because the message seems so completely on point. I haven’t heard my voice in a microphone in decades, and it takes a few lines to warm up. I focus on the audience, but I can feel Ruby watching me. I want her to see that this is fun, that it’s okay sharing a big part of yourself even when you don’t know how it will be received. Even if some might say it’s completely ridiculous. I sing the chorus again and breaststroke my arms through the air. It feels good and comes from a place so deep inside of me that I can almost hear the voice of my younger self sing along with me.

That voice is actually Ruby’s.

I stop singing, and her voice grows louder.“Let it go, let it go.”She’s moved on to arm movements that are more complicated than I had understood from across the lawn. I step to the side of the stage and watch. She is completely lost to the song, waving her six-year-old arms to bring the heavens down to this crowded pub. I catch Reenie and Cormack wiping tears. When the song is over, she bows to thunderous applause, and I am sure that was the best thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

Ruby gives me a look that I will never forget.Yes,it says,I did that.She hugs me around my hips, and I feel the ripple of her curls in my hands.

Paula makes her way to the stage and Ruby jumps into her arms. I am the only one on the stage now, and I look for Dan in the crowd. I think I see him standing too close to Brooke, but it’s Brian.

“Wow.” Dan’s reaching up to help me off the stage.

“She was amazing,” I say and take his hand.

The guitar man is back onstage, warming up with a slower song.

“That was—” Dan starts. “I don’t know what that was. But it was my favorite thing. We’ll always remember that.”

Always.“Always” feels so good, as a word, as a concept. All ways. It feels like we are the only people in this room, and it’s too much, looking at him. I turn around toward the stage and watch the guitar guy play but take Dan’s hand in mine. I am not going to change the subject or mix up the message. I feel it now, the thing they write songs about.

“I like this one,” Dan says. He’s behind me and leans in as he speaks so that I can feel where his chest presses against my shoulders. I lean back into him in response, which probably speaks volumes but is the quietest conversation I’ve ever had.

“This is from the nineties,” I say.

“Feels like a prom song.”

“Prom song,” I say and lean back into him.

“We should dance,” he says and turns me around.

“You don’t dance,” I say. My face is at his neck level, and I raise my eyes to his, which are heavy on mine. He takes my other hand and then moves them up to his shoulders. He puts his hands around my waist, just barely pulling me toward him, and I move my hands inside the collar of his shirt. It’s a small move, from his shoulders to his neck, but I can feel his breathing falter. We are moving, I think, more toward each other than from side to side, but we are moving almost imperceptibly.

“Maybe I do,” he says into my ear.

“Yes,” I say.

“I think we might have danced,” he says into my hair. “On our second date, if we’d had one. Does that sound right?”

I like this game. I nod and lift my head so that I can feel his stubble on my cheek. “I would have accelerated my dress protocol for our second date. I think I would have worn a red one.”

“I saw you in that dress.” His breath is on my neck. “In the elevator.” Then he pulls away and tilts my head up to him. “Is it possible that was just a week ago?” His eyes are black in the dim light of the pub.

“Seems impossible, but here we are dancing, so anything’s possible,” I say. I lower my head so that I can close my eyes and feel his cheek against mine.

“Would you have let me kiss you?” he asks. “On the second date. In the red dress.”

“Kissing is for the third date,” I say to his neck. “But probably. Yes.”

He laughs and pulls me a bit closer. “Good.”

The song’s over, and we stay like this without any music at all. I love the feel of his hands on my back and his chest pressed against me, and if he’s not going to make any move to stop, I’m not either.

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