Page 34 of Three Grumpy Groomsmen

The man isn’t fucking around. He plays “Footloose,” which allows me to really move next to Ivy, who is suddenly shrieking and laughing as she tries to catch up. It’s silly and fun and yes, I am enjoying myself. I’m also sweating.

Harrison has given up on dancing and is leaning on the bar watching us.

The “Git Up” follows, and it gives me some wiggle room to add a little hip hop edge to it.

People are yelling and clapping and pointing fingers at me. “Go, Cali!” a woman calls out.

Ivy yells to me, waving her arms, “I can’t keep up! I’m out.”

She squeezes her way through the throng over to Harrison. Ford has joined him.

It doesn’t bother me that there are a lot of eyes on me. I even give a few hip thrusts that have people screaming. But two more songs and I’m officially out of breath.

“A big round of applause for our Cali Boy!”

I grin and wave as I pretend to wipe my brow and slide off of the dance floor.

“That was…something,” Harrison says.

I shrug. “I can dance.”

He’s trying to be cool about it, but at that, he cracks a grin. “Yes. Yes, you can. Nice thrusting, William. Here’s your payout.”

He pulls cash out of his wallet, which momentarily stuns me. He has a grand in his pocket? But then I take it with a feigned nonchalant “thanks,” and head right over to where they’re collecting donations for the family of the little girl. Her picture is emblazoned across a plastic jug with her name on it. I give the money to the woman who is in charge of it.

Her eyes widen. “Bless you!”

“My pleasure. I hope Alyssa has a speedy recovery.”

When I return to the table, Harrison looks at the others. “Are we ready to leave now that William has made me look like a complete dick?”

“I’m ready.” Ivy pinches off one last piece of cornbread from her platter and pops it in her mouth.

Ford nods.

“Works for me. I can drive.”

Except when we open the front door and step outside, it’s pouring down rain. An absolute torrential downpour.

We all pull up and pause under the overhang. “Now what?”

“We could find a hotel,” Ivy says.

“Or wait it out,” Ford adds.

“Oh, this is an all-nighter,” a man says as he steps outside and lights a cigarette. “If you’re looking for a place to stay, there’s a hotel a mile up the road. The Armadillo Inn.”

“That sounds appropriate,” Harrison says with a smirk, sticking his hand out into the rain like he can gauge how long it will last by touch.

“That’s probably our best bet. I’ll drive. Wait here, I’ll get the car,” I tell them.

I dash through the rain and jump in. Once I pull around, Ford has taken his shirt off and is holding it over Ivy’s head in some overblown chivalrous gesture. I frown, but then they’re in the car. Driving in the direction the man pointed, I can barelysee the road. I’m going twenty miles an hour and the only way I know we’re still on pavement is the tires aren't spinning.

Relieved, I spot the motel and turn in.

There is a debate in the backseat between Ford and Harrison over who will go into the lobby. Ford has put his wet shirt back on at least. I don’t need Ivy ogling him. I don’t offer to go in because I’m not putting four rooms on my credit card.

For whatever reason, they do rock-paper-scissors and Harrison wins—or loses?—and he opens the door and jogs through the rain.

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