Alyssa’s husband skipped the reunion to watch their two kids.
Lucky Ryland.
“I cannot dance,” I say. “I simply cannot. For you see”—I point at the dance floor—“Seth is there.”
“They exchanged words, and now she’s a wreck,” Alyssa summarizes on my behalf.
“A wreck,” I emphasize, because I have consumed enough alcohol to lose all sense of proportion.
“Then come dance it out, honey,” Dez says, grabbing my arm.
The DJ is playing hits from when we were teenagers, and it’s a little bit hard to resist dancing to “Baby Got Back,” even though I think it might be canceled. Dez throws her arms up in the air, dancing furiously, and before I know it, I am too. I discover that if I dance hard enough, and close my eyes tight enough, I do not need to worry about Seth Rubenstein.
A slow song comes on, and Rob materializes. “May I steal her?” he asks Dezzie, taking my hand.
Dezzie spins me into her husband’s arms and grabs Alyssa.
“Come on,” she urges her. “You aren’t too pregnant to slow dance with me.”
I put my hands on Rob’s shoulders.
“Having fun?” I ask over the Céline Dion.
“This is a blast,” Rob says. He’s already drunk—he keeps lurching and throwing off my balance—but he’s the infectiously jolly kind of drunk.
“Is it, though?” I ask, over the music.
“Yeah! I love your friends. Did you know Chaz is a professional comedian? He’s gonna get me free tickets for his standup act next time he rolls through the Chi.”
“Lucky you.”
“And that hedge fund guy at our table was telling me he used to be secretly in love with Dezzie and was too shy to talk to her. Isn’t that cute?”
“Yeah! She should leave you for him. He could buy her an island.”
“I know! That’s what I said. Oh, and I met those fun lesbians who live near you in LA.”
“Gloria and Emily?”
“Yeah. And get this—they design film sets for movies.”
“Uh, yeah. I know? Because we’re neighbors? Like you said?”
“And I love Seth,” he shouts, just as the song ends abruptly.
“Shut up,” I hiss.
“What?” he asks with feigned innocence. “He lives in Chicago. We’re going to get a beer when we get back.”
“You know he’s my ex.”
“Yep. All the better.”
“Traitor.”
The DJ taps on the microphone. “And now a request and dedication to the lovely Molly Marks,” he says in that goofy voice all DJs seem to have.
“Oooh,” the crowd yells, every single person in the room knowing I hate any attention, especially the kind that involves dancing.
“Molls,” Rob drawls. “You must have an admirer.”
The iconic opening strains of “It’s Gonna Be Me” by NSYNC blast out over the speakers.
I whirl around to Dez and Alyssa, who are laughing at me.
“Did you do this?” I shout over the music.
They shake their heads innocently. Alyssa gestures at me to turn around.
Seth is standing behind me, mouthing the words to the song.
He bends down on one knee. “May I have this dance, my lady?”
“You didn’t.”
He smiles, tickled with himself. “I had to. I had to.”
This was the opposite of “our” song in high school. I loathed it so much that Seth would blast it in the car to annoy me when I was being a brat. I loathed it so much that he would make me dance to it when I was upset to channel my sadness into rage. I loathed it so much that he serenaded me with it every time we did karaoke, as some perverse mating ritual.
