I like her. I like spending time with her, talking with her, and having sex with her. Why do we have to put labels on people, trying to control them by claiming them as ours?
Ida giggles, sounding decades younger than her she is. “Lord help you, son. Love’s made you stupid. You’ve been struck with Cupid’s arrow. Hold on to her if you can. Now, get over there and ask her to dance before one of your cousins swoops in and steals her.”
I bristle at the thought of anyone else with Daphne.
“I love you, Nannie.” Leaning down, I place a soft kiss on her cheek.
“Save the declarations for your sweetheart.” She pokes me with the business end of her stick. “Quit stalling.”
I don’t bother telling her it’s too soon for me to be in love with Daphne. We’re only getting to know each other, have spent a small bit of time together, but there’s no point in arguing with Ida. Once she’s made up her mind, she’ll never be convinced she’s wrong.
The caller announces the dance as couples make their way to the center of the room in front of the band. Non-dancers shuffle to the side or take seats at the round tables along the edges, though Nannie Ida’s view remains unobstructed. No one is stupid enough to block her from seeing the action.
In the shifting crowd, I lose track of Daphne. Half-tempted to stand on a chair for a better vantage point, I finally locate her off to the side, with the other wallflowers.
I get the feeling she’s more comfortable being an observer, not because she’s shy but because she’s unsure of how to join. Her expression holds cautious delight and wonder, excitement about the dancing and dread at being asked.
I’m not a therapist, but I’m good at reading people. Maybe I missed my calling of studying psychology, though working in a commercial kitchen probably taught me more about people than any book or lecture could.
Squeezing myself through the narrow gaps behind chairs, I forge the shortest path between the birthday girl’s throne and Daphne.
“May I?” I extend my hand, palm up so the invitation is clear.
“Go ahead. I’m good to watch from here.” Without even glancing at me, she refuses my offer.
“Nope. The fun is had in the doing.” Before she can concoct an excuse, I slip my hand around her waist and give her a gentle nudge. She gives in more easily than her posture promised. Once she’s beside me, I tip my head closer to hers. “You’ll do fine. We practiced. Remember, contra is just Simon Says to music.”
“What if I mess up?” Her forehead wrinkles with worry.
“Everyone does. We laugh it off and keep going. Dancing isn’t about being perfect.” I give her a reassuring squeeze.
Near the dance floor, she hesitates again. “I don’t want to embarrass you.”
“Impossible.” I lead her to the line of women and squeeze her in between two cousins. “Just listen to the caller and follow what these ladies do.”
I take my place in the row facing them, the caller claps his hands and the dance begins.
At first, Daphne’s eyes are wide and nervous like a spooked colt. After a few turns and do-si-dos, though, her smile returns. Her steps aren’t perfect and her grip is tentative, but she isn’t the worst dancer in the room, not by a long mile.
Seeing her laughing and happy give me a warm feeling in my chest.
Nannie Ida might be right.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Daphne
Outside the barn, I inhale the crisp air and stare at the bazillion stars sprinkled throughout the Milky Way, visible in the clear sky.
My brain feels like it’s on the loopy-de-loop ride at the fair, and I don’t know why or how to stop it.
Could be the dancing, all those reels and swings with their turns and spins.
Could be too much sugar from the extra piece of cake I ate. Turns out stack cake is an irresistible combination of cake and pancakes with apple butter spread between the layers. It was Odin’s slice and he said I could have it, because he’s nice even if he swears he isn’t.
I remember the moonshine one of his cousins gave me in an adorably tiny glass jar with a slice of apple on the rim like a garnish … and the second or third jars that followed. I can’t recall if those had apple slices.
Or … the source of my discombobulation could be Odin himself. The man is dangerous with his disarming smiles and happy energy.
He’s not at all who I believed him to be—a weirdo scofflaw with a pig.
“At least Patsy doesn’t have a bad attitude. Good piggy.” For some reason, I begin singing, “This little piggy went to market, this little doggo stayed home. This farmer was a demigod, that one gave a dog a bone. Knick-knack-paddy-whack, something, something, and we all fall down.”
I hear giggling close by and whirl around to find the source, only to realize the sound is coming from me. “Whoa. Is this what an out-of-body experience feels like? I should go inside and sit down.”
My feet don’t cooperate and tangle themselves together, causing me to sway.
As I hear deep, masculine laughter, a steady hand anchors around my waist, keeping me from pitching forward. “You okay?”
The surprise contact shocks me, and somehow I manage to flip myself around so I’m staring up at the sky. I’m basically a ballroom dancer in a low dip, or a fish on dry land with my mouth agape. Breathing is difficult.
When I try to reply, my words get stuck in my throat, mainly because my head is tossed back at such an angle that I’m staring at the treetops upside down.
Using core muscles I rarely engage, I lift myself enough to speak and realize Odin is the one with the strong hand and excellent balance preventing me from hitting the ground. “Why are you dipping me?”
His eyebrows furrow together. “Are you drunk?”
“Maybe?” The effort to support my head is too much, and I let gravity win this battle. Bad idea. What should be solid earth shifts and undulates wherever my gaze lands. Even the barn wobbles on its foundation.
Better to close my eyes.
My lids meet, and everything goes toes over nose.
Nope. Definitely worse.
I peek between my lashes, the world still gyrating like an over-zealous male stripper in a gold thong. Just as I’m resigning myself to this topsy-turvy existence and the very real possibility of vomiting, I’m once again vertical with my feet on the ground and my stomach back in its rightful place.
“Hey,” Odin whispers, lifting my chin with his finger. “Can you focus?”
“You know I.” My words come out in the reverse order of what I intended, making me sound like Yoda. Still nauseated, I’m certain I’m sporting the same green skin hue as the wise one. “I know you.”
“You do. The question is, do you know yourself?” His mouth does that thing where it curves with amusement and knowing and smugness, like he finds me immensely entertaining in a reality-show-train-wreck kind of way.
In an effort to stop his smirking ways, I use both index fingers to smoosh his smile down into a frown. I rhymed in my head and it makes me laugh.
The hand not holding my waist defends his mouth from my prodding.
“How much did you drink, Daphne?” He glares at something over my head.