Page 32 of The Snuggle Is Real

Then the song ends.

And the fiddle player puts down his bow and picks up an acoustic guitar, and the singer leans into the mic. "Let's slow it down for the lovebirds." They start playing something soft and sensual. A waltz, almost. Something your grandparents would've danced to in a VFW hall with the lights low.

The playfulness drains out of the air.

What's left is quieter. Heavier.

Emily is holding tightly to me.

Drawing her in, I indulge myself and let one hand settle at her waist. She rests her palm on my shoulder. She stares at my tie while we sway.

Around us, couples pair off. My parents are gazing into each others’ eyes. Lauren has her cheek on Dylan's chest. Ian and Winnie are somehow off-rhythm but laughing about it.

Faith and MacKay look like they’re forgotten that anyone else is in the room.

"Do you remember the first time we met?" I ask Emily, because fuck, everyone is in love and happy and I’m feeling nostalgic.

"Statistics study group. You corrected my standard deviation."

I roll my eyes. "You were wrong. What was I supposed to do? Let you fail your test?"

"I was tired. It was two in the morning and there was no coffee."

"You told me I was the most insufferable person you'd ever met."

"And then I asked you to study with me again the next night."

"Why did you?" I ask. I know why I went. But I don’t think I’ve ever directly asked her why she invited me.

"Because you were the only person in that room who didn't pretend I was right just to be nice or to hit on me," I say. "You told me the truth when I needed the push."

“We pushed each other,” I correct. "You were the only one who ever told me I was being an asshole. Senior year. When I blew off my dad's birthday for the finance internship interview that easily could have been scheduled on another day."

“I remember. I showed up at your apartment and made you call your father from the parking lot because you were being an asshole.”

"I was." I’m quiet for a moment. "A lot of good memories, Em. You and me.”

“Two peas,” she agrees.

The guitar hums. The Edison bulbs flicker. The dance floor has gotten smaller somehow, or we've gotten closer, and I can feel the press of her body all down the front of mine.

"Do you remember how the pact started?" she asks.

As if I could forget.

"Jenna and Travis's wedding," I say. "The summer after graduation. That awful country club in Brentwood with the salmon-colored everything."

"The singles table."

"The singles table," I agree, and shudder. "Next to the kitchen doors. They hit my chair every time a server came through. Then there was that douchebag of a groomsman.”

"Oh God. Chad."

"His name was Brad." Trust me, I remember.

"It was spiritually Chad. He asked me to 'go look at the koi pond' four times."

"There was no koi pond. That’s weak flirting."