Page 96 of The Rom-Commers

“Did he just gethandsomer?” I asked, looking around at all the women in the room who were asking themselves the same question.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Charlie said.

But this really was a game changer. Our instructor wasn’t a hillbilly. He was a gorgeous Italian dreamboatcosplayingas a hillbilly.

“Welcome,” Lorenzo said next, in a perfectly delicious accent.

And then, even as he launched into explaining the class, and how we’d learn three simple dances tonight—he’d do a “teach” first, and then he’d turn on the music and we’d do it for real—I couldn’t concentrate. His voice was like a deep-tissue massage.

Had I brought Charlie all the way here to prove to him that line dancing wasn’t sexy?

Can’t win for losing, I guess.

I blame Italy.

“Try to focus,” Charlie said, punching my shoulder to break my trance.

But I’ll tell ya: Line dancing is not as easy as it looks.

I’d always kind of harbored a suspicion that I might be a secret dancing savant. Notline dancingper se, but just—from all the moves I’d busted in the kitchen while cooking over the years—I’d nursed a secret fantasy that maybe, if I everreallytried to dance, I’d astonish us all.

Ten minutes into that chance, I stood corrected.

I was not secretly awesome.

I was terrible.

We’d need a more humiliating word for terrible.

As Lorenzo led us through the steps of the first dance, I could follow pretty well as long as I could see him—but as soon as we all turned to face the next wall, which happens a lot in line dancing, I forgot everything. My mind went blank. I’d wind up craning my neck over my shoulder to try to keep him in my sights.

Which didn’t work too well.

I’d get all pretzeled up, and then I’d step on my own feet, and then I’d slam into Charlie. Sometimes hard enough to get him coughing again.

“Don’t keep looking backward,” Charlie said.

“I’m a visual learner.”

“Just watch me. I’m right here.”

“But he’s theinstructor,” I said. “And he’s Italian.”

We were learning a dance called the Canadian Stomp, which started out easy—a heel touch, a toe touch, and then a very satisfying stomp—but then devolved into lots of fluttery grapevine-ing that flummoxed me. And also forced me to confront that I’d never fully mastered my left from my right.

Was I the worst person in the room?

By a mile.

I was like a bumper car gone rogue, colliding into everybody—especially Charlie.

Every time I slammed into him, he said, “Oof.”

“Sorry,” I’d say, and pat him at the place of impact.

I was bad enough that Lorenzo himself eventually came down from the stage to help me. But having that face and those shoulders and that belt buckle in close proximity only made me worse.

“It’s a scuff with a quarter turn into the jazz box,” Lorenzo said pleasantly, like he was clearing things up.

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