I carry the drinks back to our table, whiskey on the rocks for me and a margarita, a water, and a Gatorade for Abby.
“What’s this?” she asks, taking the small bottle of red Gatorade.
“I thought the electrolytes might help keep you hydrated. I know it used to help after a migraine; I don’t know if it helps before.”
She’s fighting a smile, pinching the corners of her lips together. “That was…thoughtful. Thank you,” she says.
“So, um, how long are you here for?” I ask.
“Question for a question?” she asks as the wind blows a few strands of hair across her face. She peels them off, gathering her hair to one side and holding it so the wind doesn’t take control anymore. My god, she has no idea how adorable she is.
“Question for a question,” I confirm.
“I have a week left. It’s a ten-day trip,” she says.
Seven days left to spend with her. Yeah, I’m keeping her here tonight as long as I possibly can.
“Your turn,” I prompt, tilting my glass toward her.
She twists her lips to the side in thought. As she brings her attention back to me, moving her lips like she’s about to ask the question, there’s a loud clash of a drum. A few gasps around the beach follow the sound, and then there’s another drumbeat equally as loud. And then another, and another, volume intensifying as the sound travels toward us. A line of drummers, each with a single drum tied to a rope around their neck, approaches the dance floor. The resort attendees who were on the dance floor are gone now, replaced with men in black slacks and black vests. Our table is close enough to the stage that we can see their eyes are lined in black, with dark eye makeup to match.
All the lights around have dimmed to a dull yellow, the tiki torches providing a glow effect on the drummers. The drummers’ song is faster now, a powerful rhythm climbing toward a climax, and just as they hit it, a burst of flames from behind them has those in the crowd catching their breath in surprise and joy.
Two women appear behind the drummers with a staff each, lit at both ends with fire. They walk forward, the drummers parting down the middle and taking positions off to the side. They start a new song, and the two women, clad in black sequined bodysuits with thigh-high glittery boots, start their dance.
They twirl the fire staffs, eliciting sounds of wonder from everyone watching—and everyone is watching. The entirety of the beach party’s attention is on these women waving fire around to the music of the drums.
I steal a glance at Abby, the fire reflected in her eyes as she follows every movement. Her lips are parted in awe, and she gasps in time with the rest of the crowd. The show is a sight to behold, but I could spend all evening watching Abby.
As if she can feel me watching her, she turns to catch my eye, a child-like smile on her face.
“Isn’t this cool?” she mouths, and I nod. Her joy is infectious. It’s the kind of thing I would give anything to have access to on a bad day.
The fire dancers are mesmerizing, and I manage to focus on them instead of Abby for at least half of their show. By the time they’re doing their finale, Abby and I have both finished our drinks. I’m about to ask if she wants another one, but the drumming transitions into party music again and a familiar voice booms over a microphone.
“What’s up, White Sands Resort, this is DJ CJ and we’re about to take this party to the next level—let me hear you!”
Carlos’s voice elicits a loud cheer from the people scattered along the beach. The fire dancers and drummers disperse and the lights flash purple, red, blue, green, lighting the dance floor up and encouraging people to fill the space.
And they do. In fact, the dance floor is a crowded mess of bodies in minutes, Carlos officially having started his set, themood at the beach shifting. We’re no longer being entertained; the party is for us to enjoy now. When I look over at Abby, she’s moving with the music.
“You wanna dance?” I lean across the table and raise my voice so she can hear me.
“Yeah!” she yells, her mouth open in a wide smile. I suspect she’s a little tipsy.
I let her lead us to the dance floor. The closer we get to the crowd, the more she starts to sway her body in time with the music. She’s released her hair, wild strands moving with her or glued to her neck by sweat. She pushes through the crowd, but I don’t want to lose her, so I hook my fingers around her bicep. Her skin is soft, if sticky from the humidity. She doesn’t pull away, doesn’t seem to mind that I’ve attached myself to her.
She finds a place in the middle of the crowd, and I release her arm. This wouldn’t be my first choice—I prefer the edges of a crowd—but I don’t care as long as Abby is close by. The crush of bodies pushes her chest right against mine, although her hands are up in the air and she’s whipping her head from side to side in time with the beat of the music. I move with her, with the crowd. I really have no choice. Standing still in a group like this would be impossible. No one seems to care that I have no sense of rhythm, least of all Abby, who looks so much like the version of her that I knew in college—tipsy and dancing in a sweaty frat basement, drinking lemonade and vodka out of a red Solo cup.
The song changes, and it’s vaguely familiar to me, scratching something in the back of my brain. Abby definitely knows it, though, lip-syncing or singing every lyric of the song. She’s making eye contact with the people around us who are also singing the lyrics, and then her attention is on me and she’s singing to me.
“If all love is tragedy, why are you my remedy? If all love’s insanity, why are you my clarity?”
She’s clutching her chest, pointing at me, scream-singing, pumping her fists in time to the music, and absolutely gushing with joy. My chest aches with nostalgia, and I’ve never wanted to go back in time so badly to a version of us where I could take her face in my hands and kiss her, adding to her joy.
Her hands brush my shoulders, my chest, but she’s tossing her head from side to side, and I don’t think she’s noticed. But I noticed. Her little touches are electric, infusing life into me one current at a time.
The chorus comes back around and she does the same thing, locking her eyes on mine, pointing dramatically and dancing, and this time I do the same. I feed her the same energy she’s been feeding me. I lip-sync the words, doing my best to remember them and failing, which only makes her laugh. Knowing I was the cause of her eyes crinkling and her mouth cracking open into a wide smile makes me want to punch the air in victory.
