In a New York Minute(62)

A slight panic was setting in. I couldn’t recall the last time I had slow-danced with someone. Middle school? Ninth grade, maybe? Sure, I danced at weddings, and at bars or parties when I’d had the occasional tequila shot or two. But danced danced, with my hand in someone else’s, their arm around my waist? There was no memory of this in my brain.

“I’m guessing your mom didn’t make you take ballroom dancing in the basement of a church in fifth grade?” Hayes said with a soft laugh.

“God, no.” I chuckled. “In fifth grade, I was only expected to mow the lawn.”

“Well, I could either teach you the box step,” he said, reaching for my hand, “or”—he rested his other hand firmly at the curve of my back—“we could just move, Ms. Doyle,” he said, and his words fizzed inside me, verbal champagne.

I’d never heard him say my last name before, and the sound of it on his lips heated me from the inside out, his voice rich and low. He bit his bottom lip as he looked at me—not smiling, just staring. My eyes moved from his mouth to his jaw, then back to his eyes, which were still on me. My body felt like a Slinky, coiled tight, on the edge of being let go.

“Hayes?”

“Yes?” There was that soft smile again, and he inched a step closer to me.

“Do you think there will be a time where people will stop recognizing us from our dumb moment on the train?”

He pulled back a bit and gave me a perplexed look. “I didn’t think it was dumb.”

I shook my head. “That’s because your clothes didn’t betray you in front of the entire world.”

“That’s fair,” he said with a chuckle. “And there’s definitely a solid over-sixty demo here, so clearly we’ve got some New York News fans lurking about. They probably don’t know what Instagram is, though.”

We were so close I could feel his words landing on the sensitive part of my neck, right below my ear. I was listening to him, but I was also imagining how it would feel if his lips moved just a hair closer, until they were pressed against my skin.

“If it’s any consolation,” he continued, “I’m glad it happened. I mean, for purely selfish reasons, of course. You’ve done such a kick-ass job on the office. You’re literally a lifesaver.”

“Thank you,” I said, beaming. I was genuinely proud of how it was turning out. “It’s been fun.”

“And Perrine wouldn’t have met Lola. I’ve never seen her happier.”

I nodded. “Lola too,” I said.

“Not that I take any pleasure in what you went through on the train,” he said. “But, hey, it also means I get to dance with you tonight, so.”

I had to look down at the floor. Because his words had swooped into me and stirred everything up, and I was afraid he could see it on my face. “Well, the truth is,” I joked, “I look better in this dress than in your suit jacket.”

He laughed and relaxed against my body, and I was so consumed by that feeling that I didn’t even notice that the song had changed. And then again, minutes later, the next one played. Slowly, with each change in music, our bodies got closer and closer together, until his breath was a light wind on the nape of neck, my cheek pressed softly against the warm curve of his shoulder.

I was acutely aware of how every cell along the front of my body lit up against his, and the feel of our bodies so close pulled me back in time, to just a few months ago, when I’d slammed my hands against his chest as the train jolted. How firm and solid he’d felt, a comforting wall to land against as the world around me flipped on its axis. And now I felt it again, things suddenly shifting and changing, and yet here he was—something steady to hold on to. And it scared me just how much I didn’t want to let go.

*



I woke up Sunday morning with my body on fire, the fuse lit the night before by the feeling of Hayes’s breath on my neck. I couldn’t get over the sensation of how muscular he was through his tux, and the idea of just how that firm, smooth skin would feel against my body with no clothes between us was making me squirm. I tucked myself under the covers of my bed, a cup of coffee close by, and reenacted every moment, trying to recall the glint in Hayes’s eyes, the occasional hint of his dimples, the warmth of his body. And then on top of all this, Cleo’s words played like a song on repeat: “He’s into you.”

His hand. That’s what I kept circling back to. His hand on my back, the first place I’d ever felt him touch me, in that instant on the subway. He had held it there, still and firm, for most of the time we were dancing. Even through the satin of my dress, I could feel him there, as if we were skin to skin. But there was one instance where he’d started tracing small circles on my back, and it had felt so wildly erotic, like his hand was between my legs and not palming the spot where I’d had a small butterfly tattooed in bright blue ten summers ago.

I clenched my eyes closed and opened them wide, willing myself out of my fantasy. There was a chain of texts from Lola and Cleo sitting unanswered on my phone. Cleo recapped last night—and filled us in on the handsome Columbia PhD student she’d met at an after-party. I sent through a string of thumbs-up and heart emojis, and then tossed my phone aside. There was something else I needed to do.

Leaning over the edge of the bed, I grabbed my computer from the floor and powered it on. It had been weeks now since that note from my half sister had landed in my inbox. I wasn’t sure what it was about last night that had infused me with courage, but I clicked on the Reply box below her message and finally, finally began typing.