Page 3 of Tasty Cherry

Sorry, universe, I’ve changed my mind again.

This man could totally be the one.

Or does he have a girlfriend sitting somewhere who told him to come save me?

We keep dancing, and as I survey the bar while we circle, there aren’t any unattended ladies sitting around.

Could he be for me?

Surely not. He’s gorgeous, older than me, and well dressed. In my experience, men like this don’t go for frumpy, curvy girls like me. It’s not that I don’t deserve them. I do. But I’m never anyone’s first pick. That’s the facts. I have years of evidence to demonstrably prove I’m never the center of anyone’s attention.

And yet, here is this one, holding me close as we circle the floor.

The song switches, and mystery man seems perfectly content to keep dancing. The woman on stage sings the opening line to “Cherry” by Lana Del Rey.

Really? Cherry?

But she’s right, I am falling to pieces right here. We make a turn, and when his hand tightens its grip and lifts over my head, I know what to do, even though I’ve never been a good dancer. I turn beneath his arm in a slow spin, only to end up right back in his arms.

I’m completely entranced. No movie has ever been as good as this. No romance story.

This song has a different beat, so we don’t two-step, but something closer to a waltz. I feel like I’m in Bridgerton, or Giselle in Enchanted. I don’t need the big ball gown, the ceremony, the glitz.

A Colorado honky-took with sawdust on the floor and neon signs on the walls does just as good. I’m a taxidermy princess, a dive bar debutante.

Works for me.

“Cherry” ends, and he leans in. “You want something to drink?”

I nod. We sit at a booth in the corner, and the waitress brings us two blackberry ciders. “On the house for getting Carl to leave.”

We laugh and clink our cans. The cider is cold and sweet, and I feel high. How is this working so perfectly?

“I’m Sebastian,” he says. “Sorry about Carl.”

“Mila,” I tell him. “And thanks.”

It’s so easy from there. We grin at each other. We talk about random, unimportant things. TV shows. Favorite musicians. We compare concerts attended, movies seen, memes shared. We don’t have a lot in common, but there’s an age gap at play.

I peg him at thirty-something to my twenty-two. I don’t mind. That’s even better if I’m trying to find someone who knows what he’s doing.

But how do I go from this to what I need to get done?

What’s normal? How do I have a one-night stand where we never exchange information, and he never knows why I had a stranger take away my status as a crotch noob?

I can’t mess this up now that we’ve gotten this far.

“Did you drive here?” he asks.

Oh, God, we’re transitioning.

“I did. I’m at a hotel about a mile away.” Here goes nothing. “Want to see my room?”

My face burns hot. I think I said exactly the same thing to my first boyfriend in sixth grade.

But Sebastian simply runs his fingers over the back of my hand. “I’d like that.”

And the way I shiver tells me this is it. If he’s a one-night-stand kind of guy, then I will, at last, be the girl.

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