Page 98 of The Rom-Commers

I turned to Charlie, likeBrilliant. “Shoe leg warmers!” I said, holding up my hand for a high five.

But no high five from Charlie. He just shook his head.

“I’ll do this research,” he said then, “and I’ll let you slam into me ahundred times, and I’ll watch you ogle that Italian guy, and I’ll double-knot your laces all night long…”

Just then, someone behind jostled us into each other, and Charlie’s eyes roamed my face for a minute, adjusting to the closer distance, before he finished: “But I will never”—he paused for emphasis—“everput leg warmers on my sneakers.”

HALFWAY THROUGH THElesson, Lorenzo gave us a break, and Charlie and I found ourselves at the bar.

“So what’s the verdict?” Charlie asked. “Is it?”

“Is it what?” I asked.

“Is line dancing romantic? Now that we’re actually doing it. Is it?”

“What doyouthink?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure I know what that word means.”

“You don’t know whatromanticmeans?” I asked. “Be serious.”

“I think I am being serious. It’s like I can’t quite remember it.”

“You can’t rememberthe feeling of love?”

“You know how you can have a sense memory? Like if you try to imagine what it feels like to put a spoonful of ice cream in your mouth, you can summon up a mental experience of that feeling?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you do that for love?”

“Of course you can!”

“But—how?”

Was this a real question? “Just…” How did you do it? “Just think of someone you love, and you… feel it.”

“What does it feel like?”

“Are you asking me whatlovefeels like?”

“I’m just wondering if it’s the same for you as it is for me.”

He looked earnest—like it was a real question. I could have shamed him for even attempting to write a romantic comedyif he couldn’t remember what love felt like.

But I decided to be earnest back.

I imagined my dad and Sylvie and Salvador sitting at our dinette table, and then I just took in the sight in my head. “It feels warm,” I said, eyes closed. “It feels hopeful and kind. Sunshiny. And soothing.” And then, knowing there was a chance he’d scoff at me for talking about “the heart” and call it a cliché, I went ahead and said: “It feels like your heart is glowing.”

Because that’s true. Thatiswhat it feels like.

Sometimes clichés are clichés for a reason.

I waited to hear something cynical from him.

But when I opened my eyes, Charlie was shaking his head. “I can’t feel my heart.”

And then, maybe because it was the only response I could think of, I lifted my hand and pressed it against his chest. “Can you feel it now?”

---