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In truth, I imagined I probably looked like a goddamned idiot. I only knew how to stand around like a pretty statue and do that fake passing back and forth of rote, petty phrases and conversation that passed for a “party.” Often also a fundraiser or work party to network, meant to squeeze or strengthen existing power relationships. Where every conversation was a chess game between the smart players and those on the other side of the power dynamic—prey who devoured.
Mouse. Jeff had certainly loved having me around as his personal prey, to spend his anger at whenever he wasn’t getting enough respect everywhere else he felt he deserved it. And when he went too far like he did about every other month or so, the other couples in our social circle had been eager to believe his rumors that my occasional disappearances from public life were because of my “mental health condition.” That we were “managing” it the best we could, but that sometimes my anxiety crippled me and I went back to old compulsions like my eating disorder.
I’d never had an eating disorder—which was shocking actually, considering my mother. But he convinced them I’d had one since I was a teenager. He’d even convinced my own mother. Sometimes before a party he would limit my food intake, ensuring I was starving before we went. He was a sick, twisted fuck, and it was before I knew what the rumors were.
So of course I stuffed my face once I got there. I mean, I tried to be as surreptitious as I could—only because I knew Jeff would be watching. I’d eat a cucumber sandwich here, a muffin there, a mini-quiche, and then another mini-quiche, and then another. I had no idea he’d use my behavior at the party, which yes, was a bit odd, of course it was!—to then say I had disordered eating. He’d set me up. But that’s how it always was with him. He’d back you into a corner so it felt like there was no way to win.
So it wasn’t like I could call any of those women up to hang out because I just wanted to be with them. Certainly not because we liked each other and could dance and move our bodies and make damn fools of ourselves, and nobody would care because they were doing the same thing.
A country song came on, I had no idea who the singer was, but a cheer rose up in the crowd because they obviously did.
A man came up to Olivia and pulled her into his arms. She laughed and seemed willing enough as he swept her deeper into the center of the dance floor.
“Come on,” Ruth said, “two-step with me!”
“I don’t know how.”
Her mouth dropped open. “You’re in Texas now, honey. You gotta know how to two-step.”
She proceeded to attempt to teach me how to two-step. I caught on near the end of the song, and either way, we were laughing and giggling enough to have enjoyed the hell out of the dance.
Who said you had to be good at dancing to enjoy it? What a liberating thought.
The next song came on was a throwback, the one from the 90’s that had, “Jump, jump!” in the chorus. And everyone on the dance floor actually jumped.
It went on like that, a mix of new, old, country, and contemporary dance pop. At one point Ruth disappeared to pull Jeremiah and Buck onto the floor from where they’d been sitting by the bar.
To all of our delight, they had moves. Well, moves inasmuch as tall white dudes could have moves.
Buck was better than Jeremiah, who seemed more reserved. But he was still trying, and he was far less stiff than I would have expected.
I wasn’t the only one who noticed. Several local girls were suddenly dancing much closer in our vicinity.
The next time a two-step came around, Jeremiah was swept away by one of the circling locals and Olivia grabbed Buck’s hand before anyone else could.
When a friendly-looking guy asked me if we could dance, I figured why the hell not.
It felt a little bizarre to have a stranger’s hand on my waist, but it wasn’t invasive. He was friendly as I continued bumbling along with the steps and we both clapped when the song was over. He asked if I wanted to dance the next one and I brushed him off with a smile and thanked him for the dance. He didn’t make a big deal of it.
When I went back to find the girls, I saw Olivia’s hand being taken by another man as a slow song got going, but I didn’t see Ruth anywhere. She’d probably moved to another part of the floor during the last dance. It was packed and hard to see much of anything beyond a few feet.
