Page 6 of What You Wish For

And that was true. I loved to dance. And I was actually pretty good, probably. I had good rhythm, at least. I danced around my own house constantly—while cleaning, and doing laundry, and cooking, and doing dishes. I’d crank up pop music, and boogie around, and cut the drudgery in half. Dancing was joyful, and mood elevating, and absolutely one of my very favorite things to do.

But only by myself.

I couldn’t dance if anyone was looking. When anyone at all was looking, the agony of my self-consciousness made me freeze. I couldn’t bear to be looked at—especially in a crowd—and so at any party where dancing happened, I just froze. You’d have thought I’d never done it before in my life.

And Max knew enough about me to understand why. “Fair enough,” he said, not pushing—but not releasing me, either. “You just stand there, and I’ll do the rest.”

And so I stood there, laughing, while the band played a Bee Gees cover and Max danced around me in a circle, wild and goofy and silly—and it was perfect, because anybody who was looking was looking at him, and that meant we could all relax and have fun.

At one point, Max did a “King Tut” move that was so cringingly funny, I put my hand over my eyes. But when I took my hand away, I found Max suddenly, unexpectedly, standing very still—pressing his fingers to his forehead.

“Hey,” I said, stepping closer. “Are you okay?”

Max took his hand away, like he was about to lift his head to respond. But then, instead, his knees buckled, and he fell to the floor.

The music stopped. The crowd gasped. I knelt down next to Max, then looked up and called around frantically for Babette.

By the time I looked down again, Max’s eyes were open.

He blinked a couple of times, then smiled. “Don’t worry, Sam. I’m fine.”

Babette arrived on his other side and knelt beside him.

“Max!” Babette said.

“Hey, Babs,” he said. “Did I tell you how beautiful you are?”

“What happened?” she said.

“Just got a little dizzy there for a second.”

“Can somebody get Max some water?” I shouted, and then I leaned in with Babette to help him work his way up into a sitting position.

Babette’s face was tight with worry.

Max noticed. “I’m fine, sweetheart.”

But Max was not the kind of guy to go around collapsing. He was one of those sturdy-as-an-ox guys. I tried to remember if I’d ever seen him take a sick day.

Now Max was rubbing Babette’s shoulder. “It was just the long flight. I got dehydrated.”

Just as he said it, a cup of ice water arrived.

Max took a long drink. “Ah,” he said. “See that? All better.”

His color was coming back.

A crowd had formed around us. Someone handed Max another cup of water, and I looked up to realize at least ten people were standing at the ready with liquid.

He drank the next cup. “Much better,” he said, smiling up at us, looking, in fact, much better. Then he lifted his arms to wave some of the men over. “Who’s helping me back to my feet?”

“Maybe you should wait for the paramedics, Max,” one of the guys said.

“You hit the floor pretty hard there, boss,” another guy offered, as an answer.

“Aw, hell. I don’t need paramedics.”

The fire department was maybe four blocks away—and just as he said it, two paramedics strode in, bags of gear over their shoulders.

---