Still, I find my foot tapping to the swinging beat.
Dirt On My Boots – Jon Pardi (Spotify)
Dirt On My Boots – Jon Pardi (Apple)
“You want a drink?” Raylan asks me.
“Sure,” I say.
I watch Raylan head over to one of the beer stands. It’s hard for him to push his way through the crowd—partly because it’s so packed in here, and partly because he keeps bumping into people he recognizes, who want to slap him on the shoulder and ask what the hell he’s been doing the last few years. I see more than a few women greet him with particular friendliness. I feel a hot flush on my cheeks as a pretty brunette gives his arm a squeeze and tries to keep him talking as long as possible. Raylan is cordial, but he keeps moving.
He waits in line and returns a couple of minutes later, carrying two plastic cups of foamy beer.
“That’s all they had,” he says apologetically.
I take a sip. I don’t usually like beer, but there’s something about the sharp, effervescent taste that seems to pair well with the smell of leather and hay. The beer is nice and cold, refreshing in the hot, humid space.
Raylan drinks his down in a matter of seconds, then he crumples the cup and grins at me.
He always attacks his food and drink like that, as if it might disappear if he doesn’t swallow it down fast. As if it’s the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted.
He pulls me out on the dance floor the same way, like there isn’t a moment to lose.
Raylan has so much restless energy, so much active drive.
“I don’t really know how to—” I start, but he’s already pulling me into his arms, one hand on my waist and the other clasping my right palm.
I know some basic ballroom dancing—you pick it up going to fancy parties and events. As far as I can tell, country dancing doesn’t seem to have structured footwork in the same way as a waltz or salsa. Instead, there’s a basic rock-step and then a whole lot of twirling and spinning.
Raylan directs me with his big strong hands, sometimes resting them both on my waist to spin me one way or another, sometimes switching his grip between my hands, or holding both my hands over my head as I twirl.
I’m clumsy at first, stumbling a couple of times. But it’s a whole hell of a lot easier to dance in cowboy boots compared to the stilettos I’d usually wear. And Raylan’s lead is truly flawless—he directs me effortlessly, shifting my momentum one way and another, dipping me down over his blue-jean clad thigh and then pulling me back up again.
He makes it all looks so easy. He moves with a kind of casual grace that belies the fact that he’s really fucking good at this.
I’m not a great dancer. But I am a quick learner. Once he puts me through a particular move once or twice, I can anticipate it the next time around. Soon I’m doing a kind of three-part spin where I duck my head under his hand on the third rotation, and a move where Raylan wraps my arms around my body, walks me around, and then flings me out to the end of his reach like a yo-yo, before pulling me back and wrapping me up in his arms again.
At first I’m focused on learning the moves. But the more I can follow his lead without thought, the more I notice the heat coming off his body, and the tension of his arms when I press up against his chest. I can smell the spicy scent of his aftershave.
I find myself relaxing, melting against him like butter in a hot pan.
The dance floor is packed with people. All kinds of country boys—tanned, muscular, and charming. But none of them are as handsome as Raylan, not even close. And none can move like him. I’m not the only woman who can’t take my eyes off him. I’m sure plenty of these girls would love to cut in for a dance, but Raylan doesn’t pause for an instant between songs. He’s grinning and brimming with energy, dancing faster and harder by the minute.
I can’t believe he’s got this kind of stamina, when I know he spent all afternoon breaking that horse.
Actually . . . the way he leads me through the dances reminds me of the way he rode that horse. Directing it so subtly and gently that the horse thought it had the freedom to run, while all the time it was doing exactly what he wanted.
He’s doing the same thing now. Directing and training me, without me even noticing. He’s got the lead, and I’m totally under his control.
I stiffen up, resisting his motion.
Raylan puts his hand on the small of my back and pulls me closer, trying to swing me around in his orbit. But now I’m pulling away from him, my pleasure in dancing evaporating.
I don’t want to be trained. I don’t want to be broken.
“What’s wrong?” Raylan says, standing still, but still holding onto my hands.
“I don’t want to dance anymore,” I say.
“Alright,” Raylan says easily. “Let’s get another drink.”
“Just water,” I say. I blame the beer for the warm flush that made me think I could dance. It made me think it was a good idea to let Raylan spin me and dip me any way he wanted.
Raylan goes to get us a couple bottles of water. I lean against the wooden railing that borders the dance floor, looking around the room. I see Grady and Shelby dancing as best they can with Shelby’s belly in the way. They’re mostly just swaying, Grady’s hands on his wife’s hips, and Shelby stretching up as high as she can reach to link her hands behind his neck.
I hate the idea of being pregnant—of being essentially debilitated, unable to walk or run like normal, my body stretched out and taken over by another living thing. I never get that vicarious excitement that other people seem to experience. Quite the opposite—when I see a pregnant lady, I want to wince and look away.
Even when Cal and Aida had their baby, I felt discomfited. I was happy for them, but at the same time I felt like some kind of strange spell took hold of them both, changing them forever. It wasn’t a bad thing. But my brother is a father now. He’s irrevocably a different person than he was before.
I can see Bo standing just outside the doorway, on the wraparound porch that encircles the building. I walk over to speak to her, drawn to her by the pensive set of her shoulders, and by my own desire to breathe fresh air for a moment.
Bo is looking out over the dark fields. Washed in moonlight, the fierceness has vanished from her face. Her dark eyes look wistful.
“It’s nice out here,” I say to her.
The cool breeze feels lovely after the heat of the dance floor.
“I saw you dancing,” Bo says.
“Do you like to dance?” I ask her.
She shakes her head. “I don’t like crowds.” Then, with a half-smile, she admits, “But I don’t really like being alone, either. So I guess that’s why I’m standing out on the porch like an idiot.”
I laugh softly. I understand that feeling—sometimes I go to a club or a party, and the minute I get there I’m annoyed by the noise and smoke. But then as soon as I get home again I feel a kind of blank emptiness.
“I wish I could enjoy things as easily as everyone else seems to,” I say.
Bo glances over at me, her dark eyes glinting beneath her thick lashes. “Sometimes I think they’re just pretending to have fun. And other times I think it really is that simple for the rest of the world. They’re a bunch of clocks that run right, and I’m just missing a gear somewhere . . . ”