Page 42 of Parentmoon

Eventually, we reach town central which includes a few narrow roads lined with parked golf carts like a golf cart showroom. Small stores and narrow restaurants alternate along the business district, but Dallas parks before an open-air bar. Vibrant music spills out into the street, and he takes my hand to lead me beneath the canopy. We seat ourselves at a table and Dallas orders us a pitcher of rum punch and a plate of fish tacos. We keep our conversation light, discussing my sister and his brother, and avoiding any other family members.

“You’ve always lived in Chicago?”

“Born and raised,” I proudly state.

“Ever consider moving somewhere else?”

“Actually, I have. I love my city but sometimes I think I’d like to live in a small town. Something with a slower pace and more space, and a little bit of quiet. With a lake.”

Dallas chuckles. “Sounds pretty specific.”

“I had a friend, Edie Williams, now Edie Carrigan, who upped and moved a few years back. She was a breast cancer survivor. Her husband divorced her right before her diagnosis was given and we met at the hospital where I work. Anyway, she met a man on vacation with her adult kids and decided to follow her heart which was with him in California.”

I don’t know why I tell this story but immediately recognize some similarities. I’ve met a man on a vacation, although I’ve already known Dallas. However, I won’t be following my heart to Texas where he lives. This is a fling. A wonderfully, sexually satisfying, fling.

“My point is . . .” I clear my throat, washing away the twinge of disappointment that Dallas and I will end. “She was forty something and had this life-reaffirming moment. Nothing was going to hold her back from living on her terms once she had the all-clear that she was in remission. I try to keep her story in mind when I question where I’m at in life. It’s up to me to make a change if I’m unhappy, right?”

Dallas watches me. “Are you unhappy?”

“I love my job. Or I did. But the past few years really took a toll on hospitals and healthcare has been an unbelievably rough business for more than a decade. My heart breaks when I hear cases of people lacking insurance and I hate all the politics around medicine. We need to do better in this country.” I lift my glass of rum punch and dismissively wave my other hand. “Don’t get me started. It’s another stressful topic and we’re here to de-stress.”

“Saw right through me, did you?” Dallas laughs, leaning his forearms on the table.

“Just realized things got a little . . . intense. I don’t want you to feel pressured to share with me something you don’t want to talk about, but know that you can, if you want. But no more talk of not being enough.”

Dallas gives me that sultry smirk, cocking up the corner of his lip and flashing that dimple. “Same, darlin’. I find it easy to talk to you. Things just pour out of me around you.” His blue eyes sparkle as if there’s more than surface meaning to his declaration. He lifts his own rum punch, taps his glass to mine, and drinks.

From there, we return to tales of Chicago and him living near Houston. Eventually, we shift to favorite movies and music, and I’m wiggling in my seat as the overhead music shifts to a new beat.

“Wanna dance?” Dallas tips his glass toward the make-shift dance floor where couples and groups of friends are moving to a sultry rhythm.

“I don’t think I know this one.” In fact, I know I don’t. “I can’t salsa.”

“I’m more a two-step, honky-tonk boogey kind of man, but I can give it a whirl, if you will.” Dallas slips from his chair and while I’m typically self-conscious about trying something new, his confidence and carefree spirit rubs off a bit. Holding my hand, he leads me to the dance floor where he promptly spins me toward him and places his other hand on my hip. He watches someone over my head.

“When Michael was in eighth grade, the school gave the kids formal dance lessons before the end-of-the year dance. I volunteered to chaperone, and due to a lack of girls in his class, had to dance with some of the boys. They taught them to salsa, but the only thing I learned is Can-a-da. Mex-e-co. Two steps forward.” I press at his bicep to push him backward. “And two steps backward.” I tug at his arm to bring him forward.

Dallas chuckles. “Okay, darlin’. Let me lead.” Within minutes, Dallas has the beat and he’s moving my hips, guiding me to follow him. I should have known. A man who has rhythm in sex, has rhythm to dance, or is that concept the other way around? Either way, Dallas has moves, and while I stumble and giggle, he keeps me dancing.

Michael and Keli took a dance class in preparation for their wedding. They had something special planned. I was pretty certain it was a rendition of the final song in Dirty Dancing, but I’ll never know now.

As quickly as the thought filters into my head, it skips away because I need to concentrate on two steps here and two steps there with the man holding my hips, making me feel like I’m a dirty dancer.

And loving every movement.

+ + +

Admittedly, we had too much to drink. Dallas recognizes a resort worker and asks him for a ride back to the property. As we sit in the backseat, facing backward, he tries to kiss me, but the ride is too bumpy, and those bumps cause our teeth to gnash and noses to collide. We laugh like fools. When we reach the resort, we stumble back to the house, giggling between pausing to kiss. Dallas can’t keep his hands off me. I’m the same about him.

By the time we enter the house, we’re full on making out and collapse on the couch.

“Don’t want to drunk fuck you, darlin’.” Dallas mumbles against my lips.

“You don’t?” I pull back staring up at him.

“You told me your ex was an alcoholic and I don’t want you to ever think I’m not one-thousand percent into this. Into you.”

My mouth is on his, swallowing his sweetness. Cupping his jaw, I pull away again and press my forehead to his. “Thank you.”