“I would like to thank Peyton in person someday. Do we think that might be possible, Nash? And do we have a timeline for that possibility?”
I smirked. “You and Max, both trying to get me to spill the beans on my plans. Not going to work, brother. I know what I’m doing. When it’s time for you to know, you will.”
“But we helped you come up with this plan!” Reggie protested. “Max suggested the song link idea, and I have spent hours sending you lists of possible songs from the 1980s. We should know the next step—you might need our help again.”
“Nope, this one is all me.” I glanced at my watch. “Which reminds me that I need to get moving. I have to run home and get changed before—” I stopped talking and winked at Reggie. “Oops, almost said too much.” I gave my brother-in-law a merry wave over my shoulder as I went out the door, whistling.
“You are evil, Nash Sampson!” I heard him call behind me. “Evil and secretive!”
Chuckling, I made my way to the car and climbed in to make the short drive to my house. All week, I had been putting together everything I needed for tonight, so I only needed to change my clothes and pick up my bag. Before I started the car to leave the driveway, I took out my phone and checked the screen.
The last text I had sent to Peyton was the one referencing our first dance. I had hoped like hell she’d remember that night, the magical moments when I’d held her close for the first time, breathing in her intriguing scent and touching her warm body as Billy Joel sang words that felt all too fitting. I had known that those few moments were stolen; she was still dating Ryan. She wasn’t mine. But for as long as the song played, I could pretend that she belonged to me.
So when I had sent the song link the other day, it had been a risk. I’d added the note about our first dance, and a little while later, Peyton had sent a heart reaction. If she’d responded with a question mark, I would have been devastated.
Now, as I prepared for the last phase of Operation Second Chance, I sent her one last song link.
Nash:Link: Dancing in the Dark by Bruce Springsteen
I wanted her to remember the night I’d sung that song to her at karaoke, the same night we’d kissed for the first time. I wanted Peyton to remember that I’d stepped out of my comfort zone only for her.
But mostly, I wanted her to realize that all of us who trusted love and commitment and absurd concepts like love at first sight and happy endings were really just dancing in the dark. None of us knew what tomorrow would bring, or whether love would last, or what curves lay on the road ahead. But as long as I was dancing with Peyton, I didn’t care if we were in the dark of midnight or the bright light of noon.
As long as it was Peyton and me. The way it always should have been.
It was a Friday night, but most of the traffic was going in the opposite direction from me, with folks leaving Savannah and heading to smaller towns in the surrounding countryside. I played our playlist as I drove, singing along, feeling lighter and happier than I had in weeks.
The closer I got to my destination, though, a small seed of worry began to grow.What if she thought this was ridiculous? What if she’d just been playing along with my texted songs . . . what if she thought it was just me being friendly? Did she understand the messages I was sending her in the lyrics? Was I about to make an utter fool of myself?
It struck me that these were the same type of concerns that Peyton had struggled with when we were together in Burton. That day, I’d asked her to be brave and take a leap with me. Now, tonight, I had to summon up the same brand of courage and prove to the girl I’d loved forever that I could be the man she loved—the man she trusted. The man who would ride to hell and back for her.
Or, the man who would risk humiliation just to demonstrate his love.
It was twilight when I pulled my car to the curb across the street from Peyton’s house. It was a lovely, cozy home—from the outside, at least—in the middle of a quiet and sedate neighborhood. It was entirely possible that Peyton would kill me for making her the laughingstock of the street. But it was too late to turn back now.
Hoping no one in the neighborhood watch was peering out their window at me, I reached into the backseat to retrieve my long beige trench coat—a real find at the local thrift store—and the old-style boombox that I’d had to special order and pay extra to have it arrive quickly. I checked the cassette tape—something else that wasn’t exactly easy to locate nowadays, and then, with one last deep breath, I climbed out of the car and trudged to the small side yard between Peyton’s house and her next-door neighbor.
There was no other noise but evening birdsong when I pressed the PLAY button on the boombox, pumped up the volume, and lifted it high over my head.
It had occurred to me more than once how many ways this could end badly. It was possible that Peyton wasn’t at home, that she was still at the store or that she had an evening engagement. Or she might be at her daughter’s house, or with Peg. Even if she was home, she might have all the windows shut and the air conditioning running. Or one of her neighbors might call the cops and report a lunatic fifty-three-year old man dressed in a trench coat, blasting out an old song from the eighties.
But as I stood there, staring up at her house, begging the universe to have my back, I noticed lace curtains moving in the open upstairs windows. That was one problem I could cross off my list. And if her windows were open, there was a good chance that she was at home.
I didn’t see anyone racing to tackle me to the ground yet; so far, so good.
Peter Gabriel’s haunting voice rose on the gentle wind blowing around me. He was a full minute into the song, I figured, and my arms were starting to ache a little from holding up the heavy music player.
John Cusack had been a hell of a lot younger than me when he pulled this stunt back in 1989.
And then, I saw movement in the same window where the curtains were fluttering. At first, I thought I might be hallucinating, but no—it was definitely a woman with long, dark hair leaning out to look at me.
She stayed there for a long moment, and then abruptly, she vanished.
My heart began to pound, and my arms started to shake. Peter was moving toward the end of the song, and since this was 1989 tech I was holding, I’d have to stop and rewind the tape if I wanted to play it again. That felt like it would be awkward.
I heard the sound of a screen door slamming, and seconds later, Peyton came running out her back door. She sprinted toward me, stopping just a few feet away.
“Nash.” Her voice reached my ears despite the fact that the song was still playing at full volume. “What are you doing?”
