Page 83 of The Plus Ones
It says:You may be riding the winds of change. Things may at times seem to be out of touch. Soon they will come down to a better order.
“Aimee got it that first night we spent together, and she gave it to me when I had fallen for her but I was thinking that we had to pump the brakes while she was working in our offices. And Keaton was…you know the story.”
“Yes, I do.”
“I’ve kept it in my wallet ever since then, to remind myself not to get too caught up in whatever my brain is telling me when it comes to matters of the heart. You’re the last person I ever thought would need this more than I do. And I guess Keaton was the last person I ever thought you’d be riding the winds of change with…but I don’t know anyone who’s changed as much as he has over the years. For the better. There is nothing that guy wouldn’t do for the people he loves, and I’d tell anyone the same about you. So whatever little love-hate, push-pull song and dance you’ve got going on in that head of yours…it’s time to find another rhythm. Know what I mean?”
I slip the card inside my bra, wipe the stupid solitary tear that’s formed in the corner of my eye, and nod.
He gives my arm a little punch as he holds the door to the nightclub open for me. “You got this.”
I walk through that door and straight over to Keaton, who’s standing at the bar, surrounded by our best friends, and I take his face in my hands and kiss him on the mouth. I kiss him in front of our friends and the bartender and the band and the good people of The Coco Beach Resort. I’m done pretending that he’s not really my boyfriend.
By the time I’ve finally detached my lips from his, Keaton is the one who’s a little wobbly for a change, and our friends are all out on the dance floor. I take his hand and lead him out there to join them. The house band is some kind of fusion of Calypso, rock, and island beats. I don’t know what to call it, but it’s happy and it’s impossible not to move your body to it.
Unless you’re Matt McGovern. I have never seen Matt McGovern dance before—and I still haven’t. He’s basically just standing there looking hot and laughing while Bernie holds his hand and does some kind of salsa step around him. Chase and Aimee are their usual sexy cool selves—although they really can’t compete with Don and Debbie, who are practically doing the horizontal mambo and putting us all to shame.
When I’m still facing away from Keaton, I close my eyes, say a silent prayer to the gods of dance and new love, and hope that this man’s dick doesn’t shrivel up and crawl back up inside him when he sees me dance in the only way I’ve ever known how. But before I can let go of his hand and start swinging my arms vehemently, twisting and jumping while kicking the air, he spins me around and takes both of my hands, holding them up about chest height. He sways his hips a little and steps back and forth, and I just follow. I don’t know if this is salsa, mambo, samba, or some new thing that he’s making up just for me, but it feels right and I can do this. I can’t even tell if he’s leading or not. I just know that I’m willing to follow him and see where this goes.
21
Keaton
We had one perfect day together yesterday in Antigua.
A day of lying out on the veranda naked. A day of lounging in our private plunge pool naked. A day of bathing in our outdoor bathtub together naked.
We napped in each other’s arms on a hammock with a view of the beach—fully clothed.
We had one epic dinner in town with our friends—three real couples with amazing tans who were enjoying each other’s company and the final hours of warm salty air and a slow pace before returning to an icy, slushy hellscape where everyone is battered by relentless noise, rushing to get everywhere, and constantly aware of never having enough of anything when you get there.
Except us.
Roxy and I are in the bubble.
There’s a Norwegian word for this phase that we’re in:forelsket. That feeling of euphoria when you’re falling in love.
I went to a cocktail party once where they served chocolate-covered candied ginger as a snack. That’s what Roxy reminds me of now. Sweet and zingy with a hint of spice and fire. Satisfying and mouthwatering and absolutely fucking perfect.
We held hands the entire plane ride back. Her fingers spoke of love while her big sexy mouth expelled mostly sarcasm and sass. But with every snarky comment, there’s a twinkle in her ice blue eyes, like some fairy that got stuck beneath a frozen Siberian lake.
I’d love to say that we’re too happy to notice how fucking cold it is when we land in Newark, but it is really fucking cold.
Manny carries our luggage to the car, and I pick up Roxy. She doesn’t have her winter boots with her, and I think she’s much lighter now that she isn’t holding all that sexual tension and resistance to my awesomeness in her muscles.
“What are you doing?”
“Carrying you to the car.”
“Isn’t it at the curb? There’s no slush between here and there!”
“I’m just making sure you don’t try to run off.”
“Oh my God, put me down.”
“Okay. Your feet are funny-looking.” It’s not true at all, but there’s nothing about her that actually deserves a put-down.
She buries her face in my chest. “This is humiliating.”
