Page 75 of Rootbound
Producer Jake is wheeling Emmaline dramatically in loops across the dance floor toPurple Rain,still wearing his cowboy hat with a three-piece suit.
I’m delighted to find out that the journalist for the entertainment article whom I’ll be working with for the next few days is Jessa, a woman I’ve worked with before and adore.
James flirts shamelessly with Jessa, convincing her to dance when she starts bobbing her head to “Shut Up and Dance,” shocking us all when he whips and swings her around with expertise. There are dips, there are swaying hips, swift spins in and out of his arms… Her face stays locked in permanent delight while Ava and I wear twin expressions of astonishment. “The Logans allloveto dance. And are quite skilled,” Emmaline says at my side, pride and laughter thick in her voice.
“Hey—are you supposed to be out of the chair?” I ask her, and she waves me off.
“I won’t walk myself to death in ten yards, my girl.” Then, to my stern expression, she adds, “I promise I won’t go out on that floor unless I’m wheeled out there, though. Happy birthday, sweetheart.” She kisses my and Ava’s cheeks, exchanging compliments and exclamations when we spot Grady and Caleb dancing in the throng.
I see it in the distance when Duane intercepts Ava at the hors d’oeuvres, but she smiles brightly at him and they start talking, so I don’t rush over to rescue her.
I spot Duke making an attempt at talking to Lucy again before she darts away. LeighAnnand Grace are breaking it down to Snoop Dogg’s “Drop It Like It’s Hot,” each holding a wine glass high above their heads as they swing their hair back and forth.
Charlie and Jake are laughing at the bar, doing that man thing where they have an arm extended to the others’ shoulder at the same time, beers gripped in their free hands.
There’s chaos, bad dancing, the odd friendly argument, excellent dancing, delicious food, and copious amounts of booze. My senses are buzzing with the happiness around me, my heart feeling more hollow and somehow lonelier than ever.
“It’s your party, and you’ll cry if you want to, huh?” comes Henry’s deep voice from behind me.
I shut my eyes at the flood of happiness, at the throat thickening excitement.
“Hi,” I manage to say, which is an impressive feat when I turn around and take him in fully. Henry dressed up is… a lot to take. Black button down that’s pulled taut across his broad shoulders and chest, black tie, black slacks that mold to his powerful thighs.
“Hi,” he says, not without warmth, and crooks a smile. “You look beautiful, again. Always.” He sighs. And, when I don’t come up with a response, only managing to stare some more, he continues, “So, what do you think of a Logan party?”
“I think that the music choices rival the randomness of my playlists, and they seem very off-brand for the place so far.” Macklemore thumps out “Downtown,” and synchronized dancing begins in a circle as Caleb lip synchs every word from the center.
“There’s a broad demographic here. But don’t you worry, they absolutely will be playing “Cotton Eye Joe” at one point or another, and they’ll go apeshit for it.”
“Thank you for coming.”
“Of course.”
The muscle in his jaw twitches again, and he slides the back of his hand down my arm before he asks, “Can we just enjoy the hell out of tonight? And worry about the rest tomorrow?” And when he says this, the feeling that fills me is equal parts love, gratitude, and mourning. Because Henry has always given me exactly what I’ve wanted, plus what I’ve needed. From that first night when he dropped the conversation and played card games, to each time he’s said what I’ve needed to hear without expectation, to the space he’s allowed for us to become friends—even after I drunkenly dry humped him in a pond. Here he is, even now, giving me this night, despite our earlier conversation, despite the fact that I can’t tell him anything with certainty. I can’t give up being me, again, just to hitch up my baggage to another person. And yet, here he remains, steady and strong, and insurmountably more mentally stable than I, offering me both a distraction and acceptance.
I feel the smile to my ears. “Hell, yes.”
Ladies and Gentlemen, Henry Marcus Marcum is a fun-dancing machine.
No one makes any surprised remarks or throws us any glances when, after barely a drink, he drags me onto the dance floor and tosses me around to Hot Chocolate’s “You Sexy Thing.” He finds ways to grind on me subtly,brushing his hands up my arms to wrap around the back of his neck when he presses quickly to my behind, before whipping me out of his embrace and letting me strut my way back in. We do a real-life country two-step and swing to “Boot Scootin’ Boogie,” his palm never leaving mine (even though he obviously knows real, proper,actualsteps and I have no idea what my feet are doing to keep up with him). He yells into my ear to stay on my toes before he spins me around like a top to “Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!” (TheMamma Mia!version)—countless twirls before he tips me into a death-defying dip and plants a sweaty kiss on my face. We all laugh until we cry when he and Grady break down a pointedly on rhythm, overtly feminine, and dramatic rendition of BLACKPINK and Selena Gomez’s’ “Ice Cream.” His tie takes turns being around his forehead or draped around my neck, and when “Cotton Eye Joe” inevitably comes on, everyone does indeed go completely, 100 percent apeshit. Even Duane clogs his way through the song, spilling his drink and smiling maniacally—like a deranged, country leprechaun.
Henry disappears for a moment when we fall over to the bar for our millionth cup of water. I think we both must want to remain as lucid as possible this night, drunk enough on fun.
When he returns, his face is flushed, but serious—forehead tie nowhere to be found. He holds his palm out to me ceremoniously as the slow song starts to play, the gesture askingWill you dance with me?
I catch Ava’s eye from behind him, her sad smile that I return when she mouths “Twitterpated.”
I look at this beautiful man and tell him yes, and then I’m in his arms, one hand around the back of his neck and one dwarfed in his palm, his other on the base of myspine. I’m afraid to look away, to blink and to have the night be over.
We don’t say anything, but the more he stares into me, the more the panic in my chest climbs. I notice every twitch of his eyebrows, every time he swallows and I think he wants to speak. But neither of us does. The song’s words cut into our bubble… the lyrics beg for someone to tell him what their heart wants, declaring it as if it’s some simple thing.
When the song tapers to an end, he bends to whisper in my ear, “Come home with me?” And I know that I shouldn’t. I know that tonight will just make tomorrow harder, but I say yes. We fit as many mini cakes in our fists as we can on our way out, giggling like idiots the whole way home.
We tumble through his door, smearing frosting on each other’s faces and licking it off. I catch his thumb in my teeth and his eyes flash with heat, and he picks me up and tackles me to the couch.
A memory flashes before me of the first night I laid here, when he fed me grilled cheese with apples and a whiskey ginger ale. He cages me in with a laugh, shoving an impossibly huge bite of a raspberry white chocolate cake in my mouth, and as I attempt to close my mouth around it, his eyes grow huge and his laugh disappears.
“I love you, Tait,” he says, the words bursting from him like he couldn’t stop them.