Page 97 of Dreams of Falling
“Hey, Larkin,” Mabry called. “Did your coworker ever check your mail for those pictures your mama might have mailed to you?”
“She did,” I said, remembering my half-hour conversation with Josephine. She’d told me in excruciating detail about a date she’d been on, and the dream she had the same night in which her date—sameguy but with a different face—doused her with water. “She didn’t see anything that wasn’t a bill or junk mail.”
“What were you looking for?” It was the first thing Bennett had said to me since we’d left the house.
“The day she disappeared, Mama wrote me an e-mail,” I said briefly. “She never sent it, but Daddy found it on her computer. It mentioned some old photos she wanted me to have.”
“And you haven’t found them?”
I shook my head. “No. That’s why I was thinking she might have mailed them before she... before the accident. But apparently not.”
Eager to change the subject, I asked, “What band is playing tonight?”
“It’s the Band of Oz. They’re real good,” Mabry said. “I think they know every song ever written in four-four time. Maybe even more songs than you do.”
“Ha,” I said, accepting the challenge. As we approached the tent, we could hear the music playing inside, the sound carrying enough that more than a few people standing in line at the various food and drink vendors were tapping their toes.
I turned to see all three faces looking at me expectantly. “‘What Kind of Fool (Do You Think I Am).’”
They continued to stare at me.
“Originally sung by the Tams.” I looked through the open sides of the tent, to where the band members, dressed in matching cream-colored tunics and black pants, were playing. Large paper lanterns were strung along the top of the tent like miniature moons against a canvas night sky.
Bennett reached into his wallet for the tickets and handed them to a white-haired woman wearing capris, large red-framed glasses, and a wide smile. “Y’all have fun now.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bennett said, sounding determined enough to mean it.
“You want to get something to eat and drink, or dance first?” Mabry asked.
“Give me my dancing shoes,” I said, eager to step out onto the red-tiled floor in front of the stage.
We changed quickly, and I began heading for the dance floor, but a hand on my arm pulled me back.
“Where are you going?” Bennett’s expression was stuck somewhere between amused and annoyed.
“I want to dance.” I followed his glance over my shoulder to the packed dance floor filled with dancing couples.
“I think it would be more fun if you had a partner,” he said, extending his hand.
I stared at it, remembering the spark I’d felt when we’d touched at Ceecee’s house. Then, not entirely reluctantly, I accepted it, anticipating the jolt of electricity that seemed to flow between us.You look as if you’re wearing moonlight.
Trying to find familiar ground, I said, “Sorry—old habits die hard.”
Mabry stashed our shoe bag under a folding chair along the periphery; then Bennett and I followed her and Jonathan out onto the dance floor just as the opening notes to “Sixty Second Man” began.
We faced each other on the dance floor, my right hand in his, our opposite hands loose by our sides.Stay relaxed. Let the lower body do all the work. Don’t sway with the upper body. I knew all of that, of course, but I needed something to distract me from the feel of my hand in Bennett’s. We’d danced together too many times to count, but somehow, tonight was different. As if the stars that remained hidden behind the clouds had aligned in a new pattern, shining their light in unexpected places.
He stepped forward, and I moved with him in the familiar pattern, our bodies perfectly in sync. “One and two, three and four, five-six,” I said aloud as we moved into the first song.
“It’s like riding a bicycle, remember?” Bennett said. “You don’t need to do that.”
“Do what?” I said, feeling the music in my feet and the warmth of Bennett’s hand.
“Count out loud,” he said, a smile behind his eyes. “Although I’m sure I could think of a fun way to make you stop.”
His gaze settled on my lips, and I stumbled. He didn’t miss a beat but kept dancing, dragging me through a couple of steps until I caught up. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Let’s go back to pretending we’re at a school dance. Just do me the favor of not looking over my shoulder for Jackson like you used to.”
I startled at the mention of Jackson. I’d forgotten all about him. And after what Bennett had said, I refused to look around, not only because I didn’t want to justify his conviction that I couldn’t resist, but also because I didn’t think that Jackson would actually show up. I’d spent most of my adolescent years with the bitter taste of disappointment in my mouth. It was one of the reasons why I’d found it so easy to settle into a life of low expectations. Writing ad copy was a lot less risky than attempting a novel. And loneliness was a lot easier than handling the vagaries and eventual disappointments of friendship.
