I wave my hand like it’s nothing. “If you were five-three, you’d saystucktoo.”
He frowns at me for another long second. “I don’t think so.”
“Forget I said anything. You said stop thinking. How am I supposed to do that?”
His frown clears. “Right.” He takes out his phone and restarts the music again. “Listen to the song,” he says as the music plays.
I listen. It’s the same song I’ve heard half a dozen times now, opening with the cheerful wheeze of an accordion.
At the second measure, Beau grabs me, and we begin to dance at the same time he asks, “What do you hear?”
I grip his hand and waist, holding on as he leads. “W-what do you mean?”
“What do you hear?” he repeats.
Right-together-right-together.
Left-together-left-together.
“Music,” I answer dumbly.
“What’s it made of?”
I move, trip once, but Beau steadies me. “Instruments?” I look up at him like he’s crazy.
He grins down at me. “What kind?”
“Accordion.”
“What else?”
Right-together-right-together.
Left-together-left-together.
I listen to the music. “A violin.”
“Cajun fiddle,” he corrects, his smile soft but still reaching his eyes. I feel it in my stomach.
“Oh,” I breathe.
“What else?”
I make myself focus as we move. “Something metal? Like a tambourine?” I ask, homing in on thechank-chanksound.
He gives a gentle shrug. “Maybe spoons and a washboard.”
I blink. “Seriously?”
He nods. “Cajun music has humble roots.”
Beau shifts us, so instead of moving side to side, we’re angling back just a little.
“W-what are you doing?” I ask, looking down at our feet.
“Look up at me.”
I do and stumble.
