Page 31 of Every Beautiful Mile

I resist, but only just slightly, because the truth is, I want to. Maybe it’s the old-fashioned sound of the music, the beer, or the way the big Texas sky glows as the sun sets, but it’s as if dancing is the only possible option. Like time won’t continue if we don’t give in to the urge to move to the music.

I grab Finn’s reluctant hand, dragging him as Marin drags me. He shakes his head adamantly, but once the three of us are standing in the middle of a sea of denim-clad dancing bodies on the dance floor, there’s no fighting it. No stopping it. The music conquers every shred of embarrassment with each chord that plays.

We dance. Playfully and like we don’t have a care in the world. We dance like we aren’t running into the desert from sadness or looking for something we might never find. We twirl each other around the dusty corner of the world called Marfa in a way that reminds me that we might not be as fragile as we think.

Our hair is matted with sweat on our foreheads, but we wrap our sticky arms around each other anyway. We sing. In a bluesy rendition of Don’t Stop Believin’, every lyric reaches deep into my chest. So deep I don’t know if my heart will ever beat the same way again. Loud and off-key, our voices tangle with the singing laughter of strangers to become an anthem I didn’t know we needed.

When the final notes play, the music fades into a love-laced ballad, and we wander off the dance floor to make room for the lovers and strangers that take our places.

Couples cling together like magnets, and I imagine many of them feel like they are the only ones in the entirety of West Texas. A slurry of longing and sadness stirs within me as I watch, thinking how that would have been Travis and I had life not written our story so poorly.

“Isn’t it romantic?” Marin sighs as she looks dreamily at the dance floor. “Love in Marfa.”

“Not sure that’s the kind of love story the world is ready for,” I tease as I pay for drinks.

We find an open picnic table by the dance floor as one slow song turns into two. I can’t pull my eyes away from all the dancing couples as much as I can’t ignore the reality I might never dance with another man again.

My stomach twists. The thought of having some man wrap his arms around me makes me feel nauseous, while the alternative makes me feel devastatingly lonely.

I zip my wedding band back and forth on the gold chain around my neck until Marin’s fingers wrap around my forearm and stop the motion.

Her eyes drop to the ring in my hand but don’t linger. “One more dance?”

She shimmies her hips as the singer starts purring out the lyrics to an upbeat song.

I smile.

“Only if Finn’s joining,” I say, cutting my eyes to his.

He shakes his head, as if he’s annoyed, but I don’t miss the way he doesn’t fight us as we drag him out onto the dance floor for one more song.

When I crawl into bed that night—so happy I could burst—there’s an email waiting from Ethan.

Penelope,

I recall you reaching out to me after looking me up and doing your own research. If we are pointing fingers at creepy red flags, I’d say I’m the one who should be more concerned. I’m also shocked you opted to create a family-friendly environment over just giving your kids free rein of the liquor stash. Mine seemed to sleep really well at night after they spent their days running loose in my restaurant…

I’ll have to argue with you on being just a bartender. I’ve gone to culinary school and am a decent chef, but the few nights I’ve had to get behind the bar have been by far the worst of my life. I never remember what gets shaken or stirred. It’s like the Wild West back there. What’s your favorite drink to make?

And yes, on the frozen ingredients, I use them for soup. It’s all about language at that point. You’d say local in the description, not seasonal.

What else? I kind of like helping restaurant royalty.

Ethan

I don’t have the energy to respond, but I read it—twice. He’s funny, I’ll give him that.

“Mom?” Marin calls from the other side of my curtain. “Are you laughing?”

“Sorry, yeah,” I say, realizing I am laughing. “Just an email. Spam.”

When she doesn’t respond, I read it one more time before turning my phone off and going to sleep.

Thirteen

Sweat covers me like a second layer of skin, the first sign my body knows we are in a bad situation.

It doesn’t occur to me until this very moment we have only ever practiced driving the Avion on a flat island in Florida while much of the country was anything but. My ignorance of this has become perfectly clear as we barrel north on the highway toward New Mexico.

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