Page 51 of Finders Keepers
“Hey. Wanna dance?” Quentin asks.
“What?”
“Do you want to dance? With me.”
“Really? Here? Now?” I don’t bother adding “To S Club 7’s ‘Never Had a Dream Come True’?” because it feels like that part goes without saying.
My hesitation to slow dance with Quentin must be obvious, because he pulls a very dirty trick. “Unless…Well, if you don’t think you can keep up…”
I scoff. “Oh, please. I remember the homecoming debacle. How many stitches did you wind up needing that time?”
He grins, running his finger over a barely visible scar by his left eyebrow. “Only three, which is practically the same as none. And that was mostly Edgar’s fault anyway. Who wears spiked leather cuffs to a formal dance?” He holds out his palm, waiting for mine as if it’s an inevitability I’ll give in. Which I hate to admit, it is. “Besides,” he adds, “I’ve lived a lot of life since then, as we’ve spent the evening discussing. My coordination and balance have improved quite a bit.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” I grumble, laying my hand atop his.
He pulls me in quicker and closer than I expect, and I laugh in nervous surprise as I place my left hand on his shoulder. “Doyou remember Mrs. Mann coming around with a ruler during our middle school dances to make sure everyone was at least a foot apart?”
Quentin’s response sends a delicious tingle down my spine, his voice only inches from my ear as he brings me even closer to his warm body. “Thankfully, she doesn’t seem to be here tonight. Unless she’s the person in the Daft Punk helmet I saw in the bathroom.”
We exchange smiles as we settle into a nice swaying rhythm. It isn’t long before his eyes on mine become too much to bear. I clear my throat and tentatively rest my forehead against his jaw, which strikes me as even more intimate but somehow soothes my nerves. “So, uh, when and where did you learn to dance without incurring or inflicting injuries?”
“I took a class senior year of college,” he says, his words fluttering the curls framing my face. “Needed a phys ed credit to graduate and it was the only thing available that worked with my schedule. I also learned how to waltz…” He adjusts us into a more formal posture and spins us around the patio. “And cha-cha.” His hand on my lower back leads me into a few unfamiliar movements before we fall back into our previous low-key sway, matching the sedated rhythm of the music. “A lot of it’s muscle memory,” he tells me. “But I did get to practice a few times over the years. Lots of friends’ weddings.” He pauses. “Huh. Guess I would’ve been dancing at my own wedding in just a few months, if things had been different.”
“I’m sorry things didn’t work out,” I say. Because that’s the polite response, even if it’s not strictly true. I’m glad he isn’t with Charlene. Quentin might have hurt me in the past, but I’ve never stopped wanting only the best for him. And she certainlywasn’t the best when she didn’t even understand how lucky she was to have him in the first place.
“Yeah?” He looks down at me, and I’m startled to find his eyes filled with heat. My tongue darts out to sweep across my lips in unconscious response. “I’m not,” he whispers as his thumb dips beneath the hem of my tank top and strokes back and forth along the exposed skin above the waistband of my shorts.
I think…Are we actually…?
Best-case outcome: He kisses me. Worst-case outcome: He kisses me. Most likely outcome: He kisses me? Or maybe I kiss him? I am internally screaming at the near certainty of what’s coming. I’ve never wanted something as badly as I want his mouth against mine at this moment. Even if the worst outcome were the end of the world, it would be challenging to talk myself out of it as long as our lips still made contact for a split second beforehand. My eyes flutter closed as I lean in, waiting, waiting for the contact I’ve been craving so intensely it feels like an intrinsic part of me.
There’s the warmth of his exhale, of his nearness as inches between us turn into centimeters into millimeters and—
The song transitions abruptly, the speakers seeming suddenly louder as they blast outSomeBODY once told me…
Goddammit. We’ve been mouth-blocked by Smash Mouth.
Our laughter erases the remaining tension. I rest my head on his shoulder, and he wraps his arms around me for a moment before stepping away and downing the rest of his third drink. He pulls my empty glass toward his and pinches them both between his fingers. “Want anything else?” he asks.
My brain immediately responds:You. I want you.
I shake my head, feeling said brain rattle around a bit in myskull. “No. I’m good. Probably should have stopped earlier, really.”
“Same. I blame Hanako. These things go down way too easy.” He bangs his hip into a stool as he passes by and mutters an apology to it—the most endearing evidence of his tipsiness. “I’m going to run these in and we can head home.”
“Sounds good,” I say. As soon as he’s out of sight, I press my fingers to my lips, trying to ease the anticipatory buzz. But I suspect nothing is going to do it except finally,finallykissing Quentin Bell.
FORM C—6
Text of Interview (Unedited)
VI
No, I never did marry. Friends suggested that it might be good for me to have a wife, that it might be good for Isolde to have a maternal figure. For myself, I saw little point in it—I have never felt the need to wax rhapsodic about anyone’s hair or eyes, nor do I crave physical affection the way most men seem to do. There’s a German doctor friend of mine, Hirschfeld, who calls it “Anästhesia sexualis.” Perhaps that is more information than you wanted, but there you are. What you get for letting an old man speak at length about whatever his heart desires. Or does not desire, as the case may be!
[AA: Informant was reminded at this point that this interview was primarily to be about his experiences in business and industry.]
Oh, it’s all business and industry, Mr. Aaron. All intertwined, don’t you see? Life imitates seltzer, sir! Clear and fizzy and good for all ages.
