The Names They Gave Us(51)

I thought maybe Keely was going to order on my behalf. “Um. Burger. Regular. However you serve it.”

“Now there’s an order I like. No fussiness like these three.”

“He loves us,” Anna informs me.

I get up to use the bathroom, and the others get up to dance. Henry waves to us, his other hand deftly pressing trumpet buttons. And I think I actually blush from this meager interaction, because my brain gets very, very squiggly around him.

Summer crushes happen all the time, right? Because you feel far away from the real world, everything seems more . . . possible. Every person seems more vital. That’s the main reason for these little pangs I feel, probably. Well, I mean—that and Henry Jones’s inherent handsomeness. I’m not saying that as a silly, crush-stricken girl. I am saying that as a human with decent vision. He is objectively handsome.

Sad: realizing Lukas will be coming up to Holyoke with our church kids soon. I’ll have to deal with that somehow. Unless my mom told his mom, he might not have realized I really did go to Daybreak. Do I even have to see him?

When I return, Anna and Mohan are on the dance floor. Keely’s sitting at the bar, where she is being chatted up by a guy whose first name is probably a surname—Bennett or Vaughn. He’s tall and lean, with floppy, rich-boy hair. She’s entertained by the idea of him—I can tell by her coy smile. And he seems entranced. How could he not be? Keely is beautiful and self-possessed, and you won’t impress her. It makes you want to try.

I settle onto a bar stool where I have a good view of the band. Sitting alone at the booth is just a pinch too pathetic, even for me.

A few minutes in, Tom slides another Coke to me. It gives me something to do, which I appreciate.

“Wanna dance?” I glance up to find Henry, arms crossed and expectant.

“Me? Shouldn’t you be up there?” This reeks of pity—a dashing gent being chivalrous to a wallflower. “I’m okay, really! I was just working up the nerve to hit on Leather Vest McBiker over there.”

Henry throws a glance at the middle-aged guy I’m referring to. He has a handlebar mustache, and he totally, one hundred percent sees us staring.

“Hey, Steve,” Jones says as the biker raises his hand in greeting. Whispering only to me, Jones adds, “He’s happily married. Guess I’m your only option.”

“I don’t really dance.” It’s not true, strictly speaking. Sometimes I do dance around with the swim team girls, amped up in the locker room after a winning meet. Lukas doesn’t dance, and so I usually don’t either.

Henry leans in, divulging a secret. “Well, that’s not a problem. Look, I try to stay humble, but I’m a great dance partner.”

I don’t need convincing now. How long have I been fitting my life into Lukas’s without even realizing it?

I appraise Henry, top to bottom. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

He holds out his hand, and I take it, tucking myself under in a spin. There’s always the fear that the other person will hesitate, unsure of your movement, but Henry gets it. In fact, he pushes me out, keeping hold of my one hand to pull me back in.

“How’d you learn to dance?” I ask, laughing. “Did you just pick it up?”

“Well. My granny took care of me over the summer, and she took lessons once a week. It was either sit there in the dance studio and be bored or . . .” He drops me into a quick dip.

We clasp hands between us, stepping to the side with rapid ball-changes. The name for this move is long gone from my brain, but it’s surprising what you instinctively remember from middle school.

“I went to private school until freshman year,” I tell him, a bit breathlessly. “Dance was part of our phys ed.”

“That’s . . . old-fashioned.”

“And mortifying.” Nothing like having sweaty-palmed waltzing be your only contact with boys. I remember panicking that Mitchell Goldwin could feel my training bra.

I tug Henry’s arms over our heads, a swing dance move that is cheesy and delightful.

“Stop showing off,” Mohan calls.

Henry pretends he hasn’t heard. “Grand finale, I pick you up?”

“What? We can’t! That’s something you have to practice.”

“Just run at me, and I’ll lift you straight up. It’ll still be impressive.”

When we part, he flips his hat around so it’s backward. And I run right at him, as fast as I can while still feeling safe, and I leap. It’s not a fancy lift or anything, just him picking me up as I try to spread my arms gracefully. He turns in a circle, so I see the whole bar from above. People are laughing and clapping, wolf whistles from the band. It’s so over the top, such a ridiculous display in a casual environment. I should be blushing, but my cheeks could burst from smiling. I’m so used to solo efforts: only my legs kicking faster in the water, only my fingers pressing the piano keys.

It’s fun to have a partner, even for something so silly.

I slide to my feet as the music fades.

“Attaboy, Henry!” someone yells.

“Oh, screw you both.” This is from Mohan, obviously.

“Thanks,” I say, looking up at Henry. “That was totally fun.”

“Anytime. I should get back up there.”

I return to a bar stool, which Keely’s Nantucket boyfriend has disappeared from. She holds a lime-wedged Sprite, watching the dance floor with a content expression.