Page 61 of Dating Goals
“No, no. Now it’s your turn,” I say, leaning slightly closer. “Tell me something about you.”
“There’s nothing interesting to tell.”
“Oh I think there is. What’s with the 80s music obsession? Every time I come into S’Holzfass, it’s like stepping into a time machine.”
“What’s wrong with 80s music?” She narrows her eyes defensively.
“Nothing! I just find it interesting. Most people our age are into…I don’t know, whatever’s trending now.”
“Well, most people have terrible taste,” she says with a shrug. “The 80s had the best music. New Order, Falco, Yaz…”
“Were you secretly born in 1971 and just aging really well?”
She laughs, the sound bright against the murmur of the party. “Maybe I’m taking after my mother. She acts like it’s still the nineteen sixties. All peace signs and tie-dye. I think she was born in the wrong era.” Anika takes another sip of champagne. “Maybe I was too.”
“That explains a lot, actually,” I say. “Why you’re so different from everyone else I’ve met.”
Her eyes soften for a moment before that familiar wall comes back up. “Different or weird?”
“In your case,” I say, gently tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “more like extraordinary.”
Her eyes glimmer with something unreadable when I call her extraordinary, but then a ripple of movement flows through thecrowd as the string quartet stops playing their tasteful chamber music. For a moment, only murmurs and clinks of champagne glasses float through the air. I cast my gaze around the room again, searching for Malcolm Chase among the elite crowd.
Then electronic music pumps through hidden speakers. The opening synthesizer notes of “The Safety Dance” by Men Without Hats.
Anika freezes, her face lighting up. “Oh I love this song!”
“Fun fact, did you know Men Without Hats is a Canadian band?” I ask, raising my voice over the music.
“You don’t say.” Her eyes sparkle with amusement. “No wonder I love it so much.”
I notice her feet tapping against the polished floor, her fingers drumming on her champagne glass to the beat. She’s trying to maintain her sophisticated composure, but her body clearly wants to move.
“You can dance if you want to,” I quip, nodding toward the center of the room where a few brave souls have started to sway.
Anika shakes her head, suddenly shy. “In front of all these people?”
“Who cares what they think?” I take her champagne glass and set it on a passing waiter’s tray alongside mine. “Come on. Your practice date is requesting a dance.”
She hesitates, glancing around at the sea of black-tie elegance. “I don’t know…”
“What happened to the woman who broke into my cabin singing Blondie at the top of her lungs?”
Her cheeks flush pink. “She wasn’t wearing a designer gown in a room full of millionaires.”
The music builds, and I see her resolve crumbling. Her shoulders start moving almost imperceptibly to the beat.
“Your feet are already dancing,” I point out. “The rest of you might as well join them.”
Less than a minute into the song, something magical happens. Anika finds herself on the dance floor, her inhibitions seeming to vanish with each step.
“We can leave your friends behind,” she sings, suddenly transforming into a 1980s dancing queen right before my eyes.
She bounces on her toes, her arms swing with enthusiastic abandon, and she does these little kicks, which shouldn’t work with her floor-length gown but somehow do.
The formerly stuffy atmosphere of the gala suddenly turns into a disco as she spins, the DJ’s lights becoming a halo of fire around her laughing face.
I stand frozen, watching her become this radiant creature of pure joy. My heart hammers against my ribs with such force I worry I might need medical attention.
