Syd and Leslie say they’ll stick with red wine—and Pete orders a Miller Lite, starting a tab despite Shawna’s insistence that he’s only getting the first round. Moments later, drinks in hand, we squeeze onto the packed but demographically diverse dance floor—from hot sorority girls to Virginia Slims–smoking divorcées to businessmen in crumpled suits. As the DJ spins hits from the fifties through the nineties, we dance in a sweaty cluster, occasionally merging with gyrating strangers or posing for provocative group selfies. At one point, my left breast even makes an accidental cameo.
A few rounds later, as Pete and I pair off and slow-dance to Poison’s “Every Rose Has Its Thorn,” I feel a surge of happiness. Although I recognize that it’s probably just an alcohol-and-eighties-music-induced euphoria, I wonder if it might be a little more than that. If maybe it might actually have something to do with Pete.
“I’m so happy we met,” I say, smiling up at him, my arms around his waist.
“Me, too,” he says, grinning back at me. “No matter what happens with us.”
“Meaning what?” I ask. “Are you backing out…?”
“Nope,” he says, expertly dipping me. “I just meant regardless of what happens tonight.”
I laugh and say, “Wait. Are you hitting on me?”
“Uh-huh. I think I am,” Pete says, putting his hand on my ass. “But at Johnny’s, it’s called making a pass….Can you dig it?”
“Oh, I can dig it,” I say, racking my brain for seventies slang. “You’re such a Casanova.”
He gives me his cheesiest wink, then does a groovy spinning dance move. “Don’t you know it, girl.”
I beam up at him, then say, “You know what?”
“What’s that?”
“I was just thinking that you’re hot. Really hot…but it’s probably just the booze talkin’.”
“A drunk mind speaks a sober heart, baby,” he says, pulling me closer.
“Actually,” I say. “I don’t think it’s the booze. I think it’s that your buzz cut is finally growing out.”
“Jerk,” he says, pretending to be offended.
“A drunk mind speaks a sober heart,” I remind him, staring at the cleft in his chin. “But seriously. You really do look good tonight.”
“Good enough to kiss me?” he asks as the DJ starts playing “Jessie’s Girl,” one of my all-time favorites.
“Maybe,” I say, giving him a coy smile.
“Well?” he says. “What’s it gonna be?”
As Springfield bursts into his refrain, I decide to go for it. I stand on my tiptoes, lean up, and kiss him for just long enough to know that I like it.
“Wow,” he says, as we separate, his eyes still closed. “That was pretty nice.”
“Pretty nice?” I say.
“Very nice,” he says, then leans down and kisses me again. Our lips part.
“Get a room!” I hear Shawna shouting behind us, bringing back college memories.
I pull away from Pete, quickly wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and say to Shawna, “You didn’t see that.”
“Did, too,” she says, then points at Leslie and Syd. “And so did they.”
“It was nothing,” I announce to the group. “Just a little birthday kiss. Right, Pete?”
Pete nods in earnest agreement. “Yep. That’s all it was.”
I stare at him, wondering if he’s bluffing or telling the truth. I decide it’s likely the latter, feeling a dash of disappointment. After all, it’s very difficult to let go of the lifelong dream of finding love—and at the very least it would be nice to feel wanted. But then I remind myself of the greater picture, a bigger dream. I tell myself not to let one stupid kiss muddy the waters. That one day, it will just be a cute story to share with my daughter—or son—about my thirty-eighth birthday. How one night, shortly before my insemination, I kissed her biological father on the dance floor of Johnny’s Hideaway.
—
ABOUT AN HOUR later, after we shut the place down (no easy feat), and Sydney drops me off in her Uber car, I walk in the house, ravenously hungry, heading straight for the kitchen. As I open the refrigerator, scouring for leftovers, I hear footsteps behind me and jump, dropping a Chinese take-out box that spills all over the floor.
“Hey,” I hear Gabe say.
“Jesus, you scared me,” I say, bending down to pick up the container and a big clump of white rice. “What are you doing creeping around like that?”
“Um. I live here?” Gabe says.
“Well, still,” I say, kicking off my heels, knowing that my feet aren’t going to recover for days. “What are you doing up?”
“I can’t sleep.”
“Are you hungry?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m fuckin’ starving,” I say, swearing more than usual, as I always do after a few drinks. “Do we have anything other than rice?”
“There should be some beef and broccoli in there, too,” he says.
I look again and spot another white container behind Gabe’s carton of whole milk. “There it is,” I say, grabbing it and putting it on the counter. Then I pull a fork out of the utensil drawer, deciding that it’s not worth the effort to get a plate or put anything in the microwave. Instead, I dive straight in.
“Nasty,” Gabe says under his breath, both because he never eats cold leftovers and because he thinks all food, even that which is consumed at three in the morning, should be put on a plate and eaten with a little civility. His words.
“Whatever,” I say. “You’re nasty.”