Page 2 of Single Chance

Interest.

He was tall with dark hair and broad shoulders under a light brown trench coat. What tripped up my heart was that smile. It reached across the room and grabbed me.

I smiled back, then glanced away self-consciously, resisting the urge to check behind me to verify it was actuallymehe’d been looking at.

I was out of practice on more than enjoying a cocktail. I hadn’t been on a date for over three years, since the early days with Christian. Hadn’t been with a man since he’d dumped me because of my inability to give him enough of my time, or really,anyof my time, once I’d become my grandmother’s full-time caretaker.

Alzheimer’s was like that. It not only robbed its victims of their brain, identity, and life but also took so much from the victims’ loved ones. I didn’t regret a single minute with my grandmother, felt genuinely grateful I’d been her trusted one ather side as she gradually transitioned out of a long, love-filled life. But recovery would take a while. Finding my way forward would be a process.

My next breath was shaky, and I had to force my grandmother, my grief, and my profound loss out of my mind.

Not tonight.

Tonight was about possibilities.

I glanced around for the guy from the bar. He was no longer there, and my gaze skimmed the room until I spotted him among a group of people gathered around several of the standing cocktail tables. At the same moment I saw him, he turned his head my way, and we made eye contact again.

There was the smile. He had an irresistible dimple on one side.

My heart raced, and a feeling of lightness rushed through my chest.

I lifted my glass for a drink and looked away, trying to play it cool.

As the band started a Billy Idol song, I meandered closer to the stage, sipping my drink and bobbing my head slightly to the beat. They were good. The lead singer had the Billy Idol growl down. The guitarist’s hair was very eighties, like those guys from Duran Duran.

I was angled just enough to the side of the stage that I could easily, nonchalantly glance toward the brown-coat guy, and I’m not even kidding, he happened to look my way again.

I might be out of practice, but I was pretty sure he was checking me out.

I didn’t hate it.

I also knew better than to come across as a desperate girl. I’d just gotten here, for Pete’s sake. The outdated expression had been my grandmother’s favorite and came tomind automatically, bringing with it a pang of sadness and a bittersweet smile.

I was a certifiable mess in my head. I didn’t need to hook up with anyone. I just needed to enjoy the mental space. Savor the lack of responsibility.

I watched the band through three more songs, hovering along the wall so I wasn’t really part of the crowd. When they went to intermission, I wandered toward a different bar, planning to order another Blue Lagoon. On the way, a guy dressed in a blue letterman jacket stopped me.

“Claire?”

“No,” I said automatically. Then the blue letterman jacket of his costume clicked. “Oh! Andrew?” My counterpart from the movie.

We laughed and agreed we had to share a dance to the Go-Gos, played by the DJ who was spelling the band. Our conversation remained impersonal as we discussed the best lines ofThe Breakfast Club. The most personal we got was me confessing I was not, in fact, a princess, and him clarifying he’d never wrestled in his life but had played tennis and golf in high school.

At the end of the song, he leaned in and said, “Thank you for the dance, Claire. I’m off to find the goth basket-case chick for the next one.”

I laughed and wished him luck, then resumed my path to the bar.

How long had it been since I’d danced? Just set aside reality for three minutes and felt the music?

Ages.

Dancing was good for the soul, I decided. I needed to dance more, even though I wasn’t a particularly good dancer.

And laughter? Mine was almost rusty.

More dancing, more laughing.

More alcohol.

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