“Might I take up that offer, Miss Lucas?” he asks, barely stumbling over the request.
Lizzie adopts an exaggerated Tennessee drawl as she allows herself to be spun toward the floor.
“Oh, I do declare you may!”
I retain my position as warden of the punchbowl table, a dark and forgotten shadow on the edge of the room. Others mill here and there, occasionally skirting me to reach for a napkin or paper plate. Lacey pops by a few times but I don’t remember what for. Most of the time, I barely notice anyone, my eyes always fixed elsewhere.
Lizzie dances with nearly every man in the room. Whether married or single, old or young. She even takes a quick dance with the local Pastor. And no one seems to mind. The woman doesn’t seem interested in the slow songs, excusing herself for a drink whenever a soft melody replaces the active rhythm of faster numbers. She never dances too close to her partners. And with every returned husband, she stops to speak with their wife. Compliments over dresses, hats, and the lemon meringue they’d brought for the buffet smooth the path for Lizzie to become a darling of the town.
When on the dance floor, she keeps everyone smiling, either by taking the lead on behalf of a nervous partner or following the more confident in their own moves. Across the night, she seems as happy to foxtrot as she is to hand jive, interested only in the joy of movement.
She’s no professional dancer. Just a joyous spirit. And I know I’m not the only one unable to take my eyes off her.
More than once throughout the night, she returns to me, eyes expectant and sass in her step. A challenge to deny her again. Twice I’ve escaped with murmured excuses but, as the evening wears on, I know I’m running out of time to keep my promise of a dance and prove myself the honorable man she thinks me to be.
On her third time approaching me, there is victory in her stare, a determination that forces the truth out of me.
“We’re running out of songs here, Big Foot,” she warns. “It’s now or never to save me looking like a fool.”
Looking out at the dancing partners, skirts flying and heels kicking up, I swallow.
“Look, Lizzie, I’ll make you look way more the fool if I actually take you out there. I’m not kidding. I can’t dance.”
This idea seems oddly funny to Lizzie. There’s an indulgent, almost tender look in her eye.
“Of course, you can,” she says. “Everyone can dance.”
“No really, I—”
“Caleb, what is dancing?”
I blink at her and trace a nail over the ridges of my plastic cup.
“A skill to be mastered?”
“It’s a manner of fun.” Lizzie’s eyes widen, her hand reaches out. “The steps and music don’t matter. You just have to move your body in a way that feels good.”
I can think of a number of ways I’d like to move my body with Lizzie. But I keep those thoughts from showing on my face.
She waves her hand at me again. “Come on. Let’s go.”
Defeated, I take her hand and get pulled out onto the floor. I dodge the sharp and overtly manic moves of Dr. Grayson and his wife and avoid stepping on little Mrs. Jensen from the grocery store. Lizzie finds us a place, in the center of the barn, one of my hands still captive in hers. Heat zips up my arm and I try to ignore how much taller she is tonight. So much closer to being face to face, lips to lips.
“Okay,” she determines, placing us an arm’s length apart. “Now, this is a slow song so just—”
The moment the words leave her lips, the band break with their slow harmonies and kick up their version of Journey’s ‘Any Way You Want It’.
Lizzie cracks up, shrugs off her advice, and then starts to move. I try to follow.
“Stop looking at other people,” Lizzie says, tugging on my hand and moving me into step with her. “I’m your partner, focus on me.”
Given the last few weeks, the irony of that statement is not lost on me.
I swallow and try to match her steps. Front, back, to the side. Double step. Step out, step in.
“Stop looking at your feet,” Lizzie laughs.
“I need to look at my feet to make sure they don’t stand on your feet.” I tell her.