Page 12 of Last Call Lindy Hop
She nodded. “I know. It’s not a setup. I just think another man might be able to get him moving.”
I looked at him again, then shrugged. I had no reason not to, and it was the last song. “Ok.”
“Thank you!” Kenzie cried.
“No prob.”
I took one glance at the computer to make sure the final song was about to start, then I strolled across the hall. Finally I was standing in front of the other man.
I held out my hand. “Shall we? It’s the last dance.”
He stared at my hand for long enough that I was sure he’d refuse. Then he looked up at me, and my heart broke. There had been something about his posture that had nagged me every time I’d looked at him, but his eyes…
No wonder Kenzie had asked me to dance with him. He was utterly broken—shattered—and she had to be grasping at straws, trying anything to put him together again.
“Come on,” I urged. “Nobody should sit out the last dance.”
There was a beat of hesitation, then the barest nod. “Ok…”
He stood, hand in mine, and I led him a few steps away, where there was enough room to dance, but so that we weren’t crowded either. Somehow I had the feeling that he wouldn’t appreciate a crowd.
“Do you want to lead or follow?” I asked.
“Follow, please,” he murmured.
“Ok.”
I decided to start us off in closed position, where I’d be able to feel his responses slightly better.
“What’s your name?” I asked as I led him into an easy jitterbug.
“Lance…”
“Nice to meet you Lance. I’m Eli.”
“Hi…”
I struggled to find something to talk about. What did you say to a person so fundamentally broken that words themselves seemed like a struggle? Finally I decided to play it safe. “Been dancing long?”
“Since high school.”
It was the most words he’d uttered, but it was a good start. “Just jitterbug?”
“Lindy, Charleston, blues, foxtrot… and a couple salsa styles.”
“You Lindy?”
“Yeah…”
I smiled and adjusted my step, transitioning from the six-count to the eight-count style and smiling as Lance matched my movements. He was an easy follow, not backleading at all. He swung out with the flair of a seasoned dancer, and I wondered why he’d sat out most of the night.
Part of me knew why: that shattered look in his eyes.
“So did you just move to Mesa Roja?” I asked, trying to engage him in any sort of conversation.
“About a year ago,” he answered softly.
“Did you move out for a job?”
