Page 109 of Best Laid Plans

"That has a certain attraction," he agreed. "But there comes a point when you need more space."

"No one needs this much space." I waved a hand around. "Unless you're a thirty-people family."

We descended back into the main part of the house, where Polly continued to share more stories about the house's history and the lives it had touched.

The tour ended in the backyard, where a beautiful garden overlooked the river.

"This was so much fun." I leaned into Anson.

"Now…how about something even more fun?"

I looked up at him. "You know, you don't have to go all out for every date."

He was making such an effort, from dolphin cruises to beach picnics to bourbon tastings to treasure hunts—Anson seemed to be infusing our lives with events to make up for something I'd already forgiven him for.

"I know I don't. But I like doing things with you. I like that we're building memories."

It came too easily to him, I thought, this ability to make every day interesting and fun. But when I told him that he laughed, because he thought that's what I did and had always done for him.

"I like the sound of that," I whispered.

Maybe this was what dating meant—you spent time doing things that help you grow and learn while having fun. Maybe this is what it meant to be in a relationship. And that worked for me.

"So, what's next on the agenda?" I asked brightly.

"Lunch…and gangsters," he said cryptically.

I laughed when we went to the American Prohibition Museum and took pictures, posing with wax figurines of gangsters.

"I've always wanted to visit, but you know how it is, you never have time to play tourist in your own city," I said.

The museum was the only one in the United States that focused on the history of the 18th Amendment to the U.S. Constitution.

"I can't imagine living through dry times," Anson said as we looked over photographs that detailed the history of speakeasies. "I mean, if you can't drink bourbon after a fucked-up day, what the hell else is there to do?"

"Sex?" I suggested.

He nodded thoughtfully. "Yeah, but all those society stiff-upper-lip men and women needed alcohol to loosen them up so they could fuck."

We walked around learning about Rum Runners, hooch, and even tried our hand at making moonshine!

We ended our date by learning how to dance the Charleston. Anson and I had never gone dancing—in fact, we hadn't done a lot of things as a couple. In some ways, I understood his need to fill our dates with activities to make up for lost time, for him to show me how special I was and how great we were together.

We followed a cheerful instructor who stood at the front of a live band, demonstrating dance steps to a group of eager participants, which included me (Anson, not so much).

I grinned mischievously. "Come on, everyone wants to learn how to do the Charleston."

"That's an overgeneralization," he retorted but acquiesced.

We joined the group, and the instructor welcomed us warmly. "Alright, folks! The Charleston is a dance that's all about having fun. Don't worry about getting it perfect—just enjoy yourselves!"

As the music started, we began to learn the basic steps. The instructor broke it down into simple movements, the kicks, the swings, and the iconic knee-crossing.

I stumbled a lot at first.

The rhythm of the music and the energy of the dance were exhilarating. Anson and I moved together, our steps gradually becoming more synchronized. I found myself laughing more and more, the joy of the dance washing away any lingering doubts or fears I had about us.

We spun and kicked, our movements becoming more fluid with each pass. The band played a lively tune, the trumpets and saxophones filling the room with an irresistible energy. I glanced around and saw everyone else having just as much fun; their faces lit up with smiles.

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