Page 67 of Misfortune and Mr. Right

Something about last night makes me hopeful. Not that Olivia gave me reason to hope. Hope is the residue of having her in my arms and realizing what she’s always meant to me. I’m a man who usually knows what he wants. And when I want something, I do what it takes to achieve or earn it. I’ll earn Olivia’s friendship. And then, if she’ll let me, I’ll earn more. I almost can’t allow myself to imagine what I truly hope for with her. So, I throw myself into dancing with Rhett.

I’m doing some version of the sprinkler and Rhett is turning in a circle in front of me. Lady Gaga is singing the lyrics “Just dance.”

I tell Rhett, “Watch out, buddy. You might get sprayed by the sprinkler!”

I turn in a circle with my elbow cocked, my hand behind my neck, and the other arm extended and flapping like it’s spraying water in all directions. I aim my moving arm at Rhett, and he barks and jumps around. I look up in the direction of Rhett’s excitement and Olivia is in my doorway. At first I think she’s a mirage. Her eyes rival my dog’s—bugged out and intent. Then she starts giggling. She covers her mouth to try to suppress her laughter, but then she gives in and cracks up. She’s leaning on the doorframe for support, her flat palm on her belly, laughing uncontrollably.

I smile at her. What else can I do? I’m so busted.

“It’s his favorite song,” I say, as if that’s a reasonable explanation for why I was doing dad dance moves in my living room, alone with my dog.

“I bet … it is …” she says between bursts of laughter.

“Really. It is. Watch this.”

I press the song selection and change it to “September” by Earth, Wind and Fire. I love dancing to this one, but Rhett is not a fan. He stands stock still, staring up at me. I switch again to “Power” by Snap!, a notoriously danceable song. Rhett flops to the ground as if he’s been shot. I look over at Olivia. She’s studying my dog, leaning on my doorframe as if she’s deciding whether to come in or remain safely aloof in the neutral zone of my doorway.

I switch back to “Just Dance.”Rhett jumps up and starts circling, even standing on his back feet—obviously showing off for Olivia. I strike the pose made famous by Lady Gaga in the music video, one arm is cocked over my head, the other under my chin so my face is framed. I look straight at Olivia through the opening between my arms. She laughs again—at me.I made her laugh. When the beat starts to pick up, I hold her eye contact and pump my arms and legs in unison. Rhett continues to dance around me, executing his own interpretive dance moves.

Olivia loses it. “Who … are you?” she asks between bouts of laughter. “And what did you do with Logan Alexander?”

I stop dancing. “I’m still me. Just … me at home in my own apartment with Rhett. Do you need something? Or …”

I pause, searching for words that won’t chase her off. I like her being here.

“Yes. Actually,” Olivia says, her face sobering a touch. “My apartment is a money pit. Did you ever see that old movie where the tub falls through the ceiling and the stairs collapse and things keep going wrong?”

“I think so. Didn’t they buy a mansion at a steal and then the whole thing fell apart?”

“Yes. That’s the one. And that, apparently, is also my apartment.”

“What happened?” I stop the music.

“I was making a late dinner. Nothing fancy, just microwaving some leftovers. The outlet behind the microwave sort of wentffftz ffftz ffftzand then there were a few sparks, and the microwave stopped working. I tried calling the building super, but no one answered. It is a Sunday evening, so …”

“Do you want me to take a look at it?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want you to get hurt. Do you know anything about electricity?”

“I think there’s a positive and negative. And you try not to mix those up.”

Her face looks horrified.

“I’m kidding, Pennington. I know a bit. I used to wire things for fun as a kid. I had a kit for making circuits. Dad taught me basic plumbing and electrical repairs. He always said a real man can fix his own house even if he chooses to hire someone else to do it.”

“Somehow I can’t picture Jacob changing a lightbulb,” she says with a smirk.

I shouldn’t feel so seen and vindicated, but it makes me exceedingly happy that she said that.

“Well, I’m not Jacob.”

“You definitely aren’t.”

I smother my smile and look down at Rhett. “Stay here, buddy. I’ve got to go fix something. We’ll take an intermission from the dance party.”

Rhett toddles over to his bed near the furnace and plops onto it.

“He’s so smart,” Olivia says.

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