The sun dips just below the trees, causing a drop in the evening air temperature. Lights flicker above from their perch in the branches as the band introduces themselves.
Dane and I move across the patio and find a spot under a tree near the cornhole boards.
“They’re starting the night with a Nitty Gritty Dirt Band song,” Dane says with a laugh. “This should be interesting.”
“I’m just disappointed it’s not ‘Fishin’ in the Dark.’”
He sips his drink and watches me over the brim. “You know that song?”
“Please. It’s a classic.”
He looks at me curiously yet amused. “I didn’t have you pegged for an old country fan.”
“That’s why you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. I mean, I know I scream something super sexy …” I wiggle my eyebrows but can’t be serious, so I end up laughing. “But I grew up listening to Waylon Jennings and Willie Nelson.”
“Favorite Waylon song?”
“‘Amanda.’ Hands down.” I take a long sip of my drink. “What kind of music do you like?”
He leans against the tree, looking delicious in the subtle soft glow of the lights overhead. I take a moment to appreciate how his shoulders fill out his shirt.
“I listen to a little bit of everything,” he says. “It depends on what I’m doing.”
“Okay. Working out? Since you apparently do a lot of that.”
“I listen to a lot of eighties music when I work out.”
“Oh,” I say, surprised. “I didn’t expect that.”
He fights a grin. “I’d ask you what you listen to when you work out, but …”
I swat at his chest, but he catches my wrist just before it makes contact with his chest. The motion—the feel of his hand wrapped around mine, makes my breath hiccup in my chest. I think he’s surprised too because his eyes go wide … just before a slow smile spreads across his lips.
My insides turn to jelly. My knees go weak. The skin he’s holding feels like it might be melting from the intense heat of his fingers.
“I was going to say but you don’t need to work out,” he says, lowering his voice a couple of notches.
My face burns with the heaviness of his gaze. It stirs something deep inside me—a fire that I feared was extinguished for good.
He slowly releases my wrist from his grasp. Only when it’s free can I breathe again.
“Well, I think we both know that I need to work out,” I say, gulping in a mouthful of air.
“You don’t give yourself enough credit, Kaylee.”
I take a drink and look anywhere but at him.
“You need to do whatever makes you feel good, whatever makes you feel happy,” he says softly. “You need to move your body to stay healthy. Everyone does. But I’m afraid that you’ve tangled up the idea of exercise with … something else.”
“Well …”
I don’t know how to answer that. He’s right, I think. I know. I have a negative association with the word exercise; I’ve almost demonized it. And I’ve done it because somewhere along the lines, I’ve defined exercise to mean a chore to remind me of all the things I am no longer.
No longer young. No longer thin. No longer flexible, or interesting, or desirable.
I’m nearly forty. Divorced. Out of shape, stretch-marked, and wrinkled.
When I consider getting on a treadmill or picking up a weight, I’m reminded of all of those things.
“You told me when we met that you wanted you back,” he says. “Do you remember that?”
I finish my drink before looking at him. The sincerity in his eyes makes me incapable of finding words. So, I nod.
“I’ve spent the entire day with the you that you are now,” he says. “And I’m being honest when I tell you that I am more interested, intrigued, and attracted to this version of you than I ever have been by any other woman.”
My lips part, and a rebuttal is on my tongue. I’m ready to tell him that I know he’s kidding or to laugh at him at the very least. But there’s no smile on his lips, no hint of humor. That keeps me from saying anything.
Is this real? Is he real?
The band wraps the song. The next one begins. It’s slower and even more familiar.
As Garth Brooks’s “Unanswered Prayers” begins to play from the cover band, my eyes find Dane’s.
“Would you like to dance?” he asks.
I’m not sure I can dance with the wobbliness in my knees. My brain is still processing the fact that he just admitted he finds me interesting, intriguing, and attractive. But before I can agree or disagree, he’s taking my glass and setting it alongside his on a picnic table.
My mouth goes dry as he takes my hand and leads me to an area in front of the musicians. A handful of other couples sway to the music. We join them.