18. Shattered

18

SHATTERED

SPIN YOU AROUND, MORGAN WALLEN

Cara

The music is loud and although I was expecting a lot of people, nothing could have prepared me for this. The middle of the room is crowded with people dancing shoulder to shoulder on the dance floor. Everyone is dressed in fancy clothes with perky hats and holding drinks while they dance to some upbeat song I don’t recognize. Around them are high top tables, decorated with pastel tablecloths and three-tiered centerpieces holding bite-sized tea party cakes.

Manny’s hand drops to my lower back as he guides me through the garden toward the bar. The bar is near the river and with the sunset’s warm hues behind it. It’s picture perfect. I grab my phone from the clutch Manny picked to match my outfit and snap a quick pic before placing it back in the purse.

Manny, the forever gentleman. Manny, the “ Would you be okay with me calling you my wife tonight? ” guy. Manny, the stupid hot little brother of my best friend, has my head spinning with his damn gestures, damn manners, and his damn games. After the tipsy galore at the bourbon trail, I needed time to sober back up so I know it’s not the alcohol. I know there’s more to it but I’m going to need a drink soon if I’ll make it out tonight without trying to do something about my feelings, again .

“What can I get you guys?” the bartender asks.

“My wife first,” Manny says, setting his forearm on the table and turning his body to face me. It should be illegal to look as good as he does and to have perfectly curled hair in this weather. And calling me his wife on top of that? A crime. When he suggested this whole ‘let’s pretend we’re married rouse,’ I didn’t think he meant it but he has spent the rest of the day acting like I’m his wife. I’m not going to lie, I don’t hate hearing those words come out of his mouth but playing pretend could be dangerous in this situation. I can get carried away and start believing it.

“You know what I’m going to order,” I coo to Manny, tracing his shirt with my finger. “A Dirty Shirley, please,” I tell the bartender and Manny puts in his order too—Vodka tonic with lime.

“I never want to assume what you’re in the mood for, wife.” If I had a drink I would’ve choked on this because the innuendo behind his words is palpable and I’m literally just a girl.

“Such a gentleman, husband,” I sass, smiling at him and letting my eyes roam the space before looking back at him.

“I try,” Manny adds, winking at me.

We get our drinks and walk past the tables and to the dance floor. I wasn’t sure if he was going to dance after the last time I danced the night away he said he only dances to Latin music. But judging by the smile on his face and the way he’s swaying effortlessly to the music, I guess he’s in the mood now.

He walks ahead of me, keeping his hand behind him to hold mine, guiding me through the crowd and making the way to a small opening in the middle. Passing people too enthralled with the music and lost in their own moves to notice us, he turns, spinning me around to face him while smiling at me.

“Ready to dance, sunshine?” Manny asks, moving to the beat of “Lunch” by Billie Eilish.

“Always,” I reply, taking a sip of my drink and moving my hips side to side. This dress he picked flows effortlessly as I move, swirling with me, making me feel like a dancing queen.

The people around us move nearer, and Manny closes the space between us, caging me in but not touching my body. I don’t blame him, though. Last time I was in his arms, I tried to kiss him and he was very clear that kissing me was not in his plans—and that’s fine by me. I like his company enough and maybe kissing him would make it all weird. I don’t want weird, I want easy. I want to be a priority. None of that can happen with Manny, because we all know his job will always come first and I need to get over it. If it wasn’t for the amount of time we’ve spent together in my van, I don’t think that would’ve even happened. I like him—a lot. He’s funny and sweet but that doesn’t mean that I like him like that . It’s just a little lust because of how good he smells, because of how good his hands feel around my back, and how much I need to bust one out.

The music fades and “Spin You Around” by Morgan Wallen hits, changing from an upbeat tempo to a slower melody. He takes one more sip of his drink, before stretching his arm to set his short glass on a high top table.

“We can sit this one out,” I say because I don’t want him to feel pressured to slow dance with me tonight. I already dragged him to thrift store shopping and to this party. He, being the good sport he is, has not complained once but I don’t want to push it .

“Do you want to sit?” Manny asks at the same time he grabs my hand and pulls me flush against his chest.

“Maybe?” I whisper, bringing one hand to his shoulder and keeping my left hand down, holding my barely-touched drink.

Lowering his face and brushing my ear with his soft lips, Manny says, “Your body is saying otherwise. Listen to it and dance with me. Besides, couples usually slow dance when the opportunity arises and that’s what we are tonight, right?”

“I’m not sure which couple you’re thinking of, or maybe just in the movies, because I had to beg for the few slow dances I got,” I add.

“You’re too pretty to beg, sunshine. You deserve to be spun around on the dance floor, especially to a slow song.”

Our bodies are so close there’s not an inch of space left between us. My head is on his chest as his hips are squared with mine. His spicy, earthy scent wraps me up, sending goosebumps all over my arms and back. When his head rests on mine, I turn my head to look up, and find his eyes are pure fire now locked on my own. And maybe what I find in his eyes is just lust, or comfort, or familiarity—but regardless, I could drown in them forever.

As we sway to the music, my body tenses against him. I’m overpowered by the slight alcohol buzz, the slow song, and his overall presence. His hand gently presses on my back before he says, “Loosen up, sunshine. People are not going to believe you’re my wife if you don’t relax for me.”

“But I’m not really your wife, Manny,” I whisper. I was hoping my voice would sound steady, but it comes out breathy instead.

I do know how to pretend. I’ve been pretending for years. Pretending I’m happy when I’m not. Pretending my heart is not in shambles from a long-term relationship that didn’t work out. Pretending I’m strong when I’m not. Pretending all the damn time. But when I look into Manny’s eyes and I see his want, or at least I think I do, I don’t have to pretend I like slow dancing with my husband in the middle of a crowded room. I don’t have to pretend I like him a lot. Because I do and the only person I’m pretending for right now is me.

He swallows; I can see his Adam’s apple bobbing at the same time his hand traces slowly over my shoulder and down my back, finally resting firmly right above my ass. Manny repeats the feathery touch over my hand, past my elbow, up my arm and down my back. If he couldn’t tell before how much he’s affecting me, I bet he can now. There's no hiding the small bumps on my skin caused by his touch. My breath catches when he presses his fingers into my back and suddenly, I can’t breathe. I need air. I blink quickly, trying to calm my heart before it skyrockets out of my body.

And when he gently whispers, “Cara,” mere inches away from my face, I lose all my bearings and accidentally drop my drink, the glass breaking into a thousand pieces onto the floor—shattering the moment and my damn dignity with it.

“Holy shit, I’m so sorry,” I apologize frantically, lowering my body and starting to pick up the pieces.

“Cara, stop,” Manny whispers, his shoulder brushing gently against mine and his hand covering mine.

“I’m such a klutz. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t pick up the glass. You’ll get cut. Just stop. Let’s get some help,” he instructs as the people keep dancing around us like nothing happened. His touch elicits an electric charge in my body and although I’m still freaking out, his calmness is seeping into me.

“I got it,” someone standing behind us says. A bartender appears holding a broom and a dustpan, ready to clean up the mess I made. My toes are wet from the splatter and I need to compose myself.

“I’m going to run to the potty.” I leave without uttering another word, walking fast through the building toward the restroom. Potty. Like I’m still at work and I’m five years old.