“I mean, why wouldn’t you be?” Vivi says, to cover for my shock.
I glance back at Ollie, who is moving back through the crowds toward the line where people can get drinks, clearly having decided to return only when he was sure not to run into me again.
I shake my head. “I thought swing dancing was something you did to like, the Brian Setzer Orchestra.”
“Not that style,” the woman says. “West Coast is the slower version. They do it to pop songs a lot of the time. You should look up his videos online. He’s amazing.”
I think about walking up and asking him to dance, but now I’m too intimidated.
“Can we go home?”
Vivi nods once.
She and I share a taxi back to our neighborhood in Brooklyn. She lives only a few blocks from me in Cobble Hill, and we spend the whole ride on our phones, looking up West Coast Swing videos on YouTube. Apparently if you look up “Oliver MacCormack dancer,” you can find over twenty videos of him, most of them from six or seven years ago, dancing at competitions and doing what are known as ‘Jack & Jill’ dances, improvisational dances where two random dancers are partnered together, given a surprise song, and have to make up a dance on the spot.
Ollie is exceptional at the improvised dances, and his videos have hundreds of ‘likes.’ When he’s matched with a partner who knows what she’s doing, he is the most elegant man I’ve ever seen. Somehow his dancing matches with his nice suits and carefully styled hair: all charm, desire, and restraint.
Right as the taxi pulls up to my place, Vivi gives me a quick hug and says cheerfully, “Well, maybe he’ll still call you.” I can tell she doesn’t believe it any more than I do.
I take the elevator up to my apartment, my heart sinking with every floor. Though it’s only eight-thirty, Nick has already fallen asleep on the sofa with Hannah. I stand there watching them as they lean against each other in front of the muted television, an empty bowl for popcorn precariously balanced nearby. Hannah is in her pajamas, and Nick looks as handsome as ever, with his dark curly hair and perennial five o’clock-shadow. He’s in a grey t-shirt and dark jeans, and his old, scuffed cowboy boots lean against one side of the sofa.
Two years ago, if I’d found them like this, I would have let Nick crash here for the night. I would have hoped that it was the beginning of something different, a new phase in which he returned to our lives as a real father and husband.
Now I carefully slide Hannah into my arms and carry her back to her bedroom, slipping her under the covers as she stirs awake. She is almost too big to carry, but not quite yet. I can still manage it. When she is settled, I tiptoe away to close her bedroom door as quietly as I can.
“Is Daddy gone?” Hannah’s voice stops me just as I’m slipping out.
“He’s going back to his hotel now,” I say. “He’ll be back in the morning.”
“How long is he staying?” Her voice sounds small.
I hesitate, not wanting to get it wrong. With Nick, you always end up getting it wrong. “I’m not sure, sweetie, but I know he’s staying for as long as he can. We’ll talk to him about it more tomorrow.”
When I return to the living room, I lean over and shake Nick’s knee until he opens his eyes.
“Hey, I’m back,” I say. “You can go back to your hotel now.”
He sleepily blinks at me and then rises, glancing at my dress again. I watch as he slips on his boots and worn leather jacket and gives me a lopsided, tired smile.
“I’ll call in the morning,” he says in his sexy, gravelly voice. “I’ll come by and see you both tomorrow.”
“Sure.”
“Did you have fun?” he asks pointedly.
A moment of regret passes my eyes, because tonight was a disaster. I know he catches my disappointed expression because he grins.
“You look good, Laur.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
As he walks past me, I sense that he is stepping a little closer than is absolutely necessary, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body moving past. I put some distance between us as I hold open the door for him.
“Goodnight,” he says with his lopsided smile.
“Goodnight, Nick.”
Once I’ve closed the door and locked it, I walk to my bedroom and imagine a conversation with my mother. She passed away a couple of years ago, but I sometimes talk to her anyway. Not for help or advice... I just like to remind myself how much worse she would have handled things.
