“I’ve never had white wine before,” Ryan says.
“Well, as a connoisseur, I promise you this bottle is quite lovely.”
“It’s strange to think that you barely drank in college. You went from zero to wasted in two drinks flat.”
“I’m still a bit of a lightweight but I have gained some experience since then.”
“Oh, really?” Ryan asks. “I might need you to prove that to me.”
Prove my experience? With him? Um, okay!
“So how was your day?” I ask unsteadily as I finish pouring his glass.
Ryan twists around to lean back against the kitchenette counter as he picks up his wine. “You already asked me that.”
Crap.
“Did I?”
“Yes, but I’d be glad to go again. My day was good. It was weird not being at work, though. It felt like I was skipping class.”
“Don’t you ever take a day off just for fun?”
“Not really. Why would I?”
For some reason, Ryan’s words give me pause. Is he so set in his routine that taking a day off doesn’t even cross his mind? Or does he have nothing or no one worth slowing down for? Whatever the case, I don’t want to press him. Rather, I turn to the stove and pull the lid off the pot of fettuccini.
“You hungry?” I ask.
Two minutes later, we’re settled at the dining table with our food hot and plated in front of us. I’m about to dig in when Ryan lifts his glass.
“I’d like to make a toast,” he says. “Thank you for making this amazing meal, for taking care of Duke and for letting us stay here. Cheers.”
“Cheers,” I say with an embarrassed smile.
We take a sip of our wine and place the glasses back onto the table. The pasta smells impressively tempting and we’re soon digging in.
“Tell me more about your job,” I say when I eventually take a breather.
“There’s not much to it but I really like it. It’s what I always wanted.” A tired sort of smile crosses his face and I wonder what it means. I’m about to ask when he goes on, “Most of the time I make project speculations and apply coding rules. I visit and inspect building sites and review designs. I mean, I’d obviously prefer to be a professional golfer or an international spy, but this will do for now.”
I smirk, shaking off my previous concern. “I’m thinking you’re probably better off as a golfer. I can’t picture you as a spy.”
“Why not?” he asks seriously.
“Because you’re not suave enough. Spies need to be well-rounded. They have to blend into places, speak different languages, dance...”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Ryan says, pausing his fork as it twists in his fettuccini. “I know how to dance.”
I choke on my wine slightly as I swallow down my laugh. Ryan glares at me and I wipe my chin where some of my drink trickled down.
He drops his fork altogether. “I don’t think I like what you’re insinuating, Sullivan.”
“Really? What am I insinuating?”
“You were scoffing at me.”
“Did I scoff?”
“Yes, you scoffed when I said I could dance.”
I join him in resting my fork down on the edge of my plate. “Okay, I feel bad telling you this since you’ve somehow made it to adulthood without learning the truth. Please know this comes from a place of honesty and friendship...but you are arguably the worst dancer in the entire world.”
“What? I am an amazing dancer!”
Poor guy. He really has no idea.
“Okay, I was a kid the very few times we did dance and I have changed a lot since then. You know what? You need a demonstration.” His demeanor is pure determination as he slides his chair away from the table. “And just know, once I start, I can’t be held responsible if you faint. That has been known to happen to the women I take out dancing.”
“That I do believe,” I say in earnest. “But when these women did faint, was it because they were so utterly mortified or were they just laughing too hard that their bodies physically shut down? Or were you too busy bouncing around like a kangaroo on crack to notice?”
“Damn. You’re in for it now, Sullivan.” Ryan gets up and strides over to his computer that’s on the couch, opening his music library and double clicking on his chosen song. A fast-paced dance tune fills the room as he turns back to face me and kicks his sneakers off one by one.
“Oh, boy,” I say, “the shoes are coming off. Should I expect high-kicks?”
“There’s no telling what you should expect. Once the lord of the dance is released from societal chains, he does whatever feels right.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“Ominously rhythmic and sensual.”
Ryan moves into a standing leg stretch and I smile and shake my head. “You really have gotten so much weirder with age. What do they put in the water in North Carolina?”
“Mainly testosterone and Cheerwine.” Ryan rolls his shoulders backward and forward and proceeds to pull his arms across his chest like a pitcher.
“A demonstration really isn’t necessary,” I say, raising my voice to be heard over the now-pumping music.
“I think a demonstration is necessary unless you admit that I have moves.”
“Can’t do it,” I automatically respond.
“Say I have moves.”
“Honor forbids it.”
“Fine. Remember, you were warned.” Without another word, Ryan claps his hands together. He whips a hip to one side with a shimmy-shake and I shut my eyes, refusing to watch the embarrassing dad-dance of a now-desperate man.
“Okay, you have moves!” I yell. “You have serious moves!”
I crack an eye open and see that Ryan is now frozen in place.
“Are you sure?” he asks, fully prepared to start dancing again if I change my mind.
“I’m sure.”
He gives me a victorious smile before standing up straight, clicking off the music and returning to the table. “I knew you’d eventually admit the truth.” He sits back down and takes a dignified sip of wine.
“You’re deranged,” I tell him,
