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The song fades out pretty quickly, and “Faithfully” by Journey fades in. I expect Holley to pull away, but when she doesn’t, I tuck her into my arms and sway us around the floor. Her head rests on my shoulder, and for a brief second, I almost can’t even form a thought.
Damn, she feels good in my arms.
I glance over to Chloe, who looks on from our booth with a smile on her face. It’s such a foreign feeling. In fact, I haven’t felt like this in so long, I’m not sure I even recognize what this is.
Holley’s hair smells like lavender as we spin and step to the beat, and a weird memory of Chloe as a toddler flashes in my mind. It was always part of her bedtime routine to put on lavender-scented lotion to soothe her into sleep. As a result, it was always a calming smell to me too. Probably because it signified that I’d survived another day as a dad—that I’d managed to keep my kid happy and healthy and alive.
As a result, smelling it now, in Holley’s hair…it feels overwhelming. Calming. Like having her here in my arms at the end of the long day is the peaceful transition I didn’t even know I needed.
The thoughts are insane—a seriously big jump to make without any kind of evidence—so I shut them down before they can run away too far.
I don’t know what it is about opening myself up that feels so scary, but I can’t imagine it will go well if I take anything quicker than one step at a time.
Starting next week, I’m going to be dating several women after years of not dating any at all. I’m going to have enough on my plate.
The song comes to an end, and I spin Holley out and away from my body to bring our time in each other’s arms to a close.
Her laughter is soft and smooth, but her smile is loud and bold. She doesn’t look lost in the complicated thoughts that I am. She looks like that dance was the escape she needed for a few minutes before her meal.
I gesture for her to lead the way to the table, and she does. Chloe is smiling so big it almost makes my cheeks hurt when we take our seats with her again.
“What?” I ask, bumping my shoulder gently into my daughter’s.
“Nothing,” she says with a giggle. “Just having a good time.”
It seems suspicious that she’s having the time of her life tonight while she just sits there—not staring at her phone—but I don’t question it.
“Did the waitress come for our order?” I ask instead.
Chloe shakes her head. “Not yet.”
I look over at Holley, who’s started bopping her head to the new song, wistfulness making the dimples in her cheeks appear.
Chloe follows my line of sight to the beautiful woman sitting across from us, adding, “Don’t worry, though. I know what you want. I can order for you and Holley if you want to go dance again.”
I can hear the smile in her voice—and I know her well enough to know I should investigate it—but I can’t seem to take my eyes off Holley as she mouths the words to a song I can’t quite place. I know it’s an eighties classic, but I’m not sure of the title.
“Do you know what you want to eat, Holley?” Chloe asks, trying even harder to facilitate our exit from the table.
“Oh,” Holley says, snapping out of the music briefly to smile at my daughter. “I’ll have the grilled chicken sandwich with fries.”
Chloe nods, nudging me with her shoulder. “Go on, Dad. I’ll order.”
Normally, I wouldn’t take orders from my daughter—especially when she seems to be up to something I’ve yet to nail down—but Holley’s face as she listens to a song I can tell she loves pushes me forward.
“Come on, Holley,” I say, holding out a hand. “One more dance?”
I don’t wait for her answer before grabbing her hand and pulling her back out onto the floor with me. We find our positions easier this time, having done it before, and I loop an arm around her back and pull her in close.
The music is a soft, sweet kind of beat, and we fall into a slow rhythm to match.
“What song is this?” I ask her quietly, and she glances up to meet my eyes.
“I Want to Know What Love Is,” she answers. “By Foreigner.”
“I knew it was an eighties classic,” I comment. “But I couldn’t place it.”
“You like eighties music, Jake?” she asks, quirking a brow.
“What can I say? I guess I’m a little bit old-school.”
“Me too,” she whispers conspiratorially, as if it’s a sin to be a fan.
I simply smile down at her, and once again, the scent of her hair is overwhelming as she tucks her head back into my shoulder and sways. Her body is engaged with the lyrics, so in tune that it feels like a current is running from her skin to mine.
