I’m excited to explore the dance hall. This kind of dive is right up my alley. I love hole-in-the-wall places like this, where you can’t tell from the outside that it’s the best local haunt in town.
The door opens, confirming everything I was expecting—loud, country music played by a band of locals, a bar with nothing but beer and high-end whiskey, and a dance floor half the size of my whole house. It’s perfect.
Ace leans into me so I can hear him over the music. “Do you wanna get a drink?” he yells.
I smile and shake my head. “I wanna dance.”
A wide grin crosses his face and he takes my hand, leading me through the crowd to the dance floor.
He finds us a place and pulls me into his arms, which I don’t mind at all. It feels good being up next to him and his broad shoulders and solid chest. It’s been a long time since I’ve been this close to a man. But it’s not just being this close to the opposite sex. It’s being close to Ace.
I can’t describe it, but it’s like we fit together like a puzzle. Not just physically. We seem to align with our ideals and priorities. Never mind the fact that we understand each other for things like losing our parents too early or how important family is.
Taking my hand in his, we begin our two-step in time to the music. Or at least attempt to. Only a few steps in, I crash into the couple behind us.
Ace heeds the man I’ve run into and mouths “Sorry.”
The man gives us a friendly nod and dances away. I laugh when Ace gives me a sheepish look and says, “Oops.” But pretty soon, we find our rhythm.
Quick, quick, slow… slow…
Quick, quick, slow… slow…
It’s not the kind of two-stepping I’ve done before. There are a few more steps involved, but it sure is fun. I’m not sure how many songs go by before he’s adding a spin.
It feels good to let him take charge, follow his lead and not have to think about where we’re going or what obstacles are in the way. It’s just… freeing. Like I don’t have a care in the world. Like no matter where he leads me, I’ll follow because he’ll make sure I won’t run into anyone.
Well, not again.
We dance for I don’t know how long before I have to lift my hair up and fan my neck, because I’m sticky with sweat. Ace wipes the droplets off his brow with his sleeve, so I know he’s feeling the same way.
“You ready for that drink yet?” he asks, still beaming from how much fun we’re having.
I nod and he laces our fingers together as we walk off the dance floor. I gesture that I’m going to grab the small empty table that just opened up. He nods and heads to the bar.
The music is infectious, and I find myself tapping my toe in time with the beat while I wait. Apparently, I’m not the only one who thinks so. That couple we first ran into is still going. They’re something else.
They have to be in their fifties, but boy can they command a dance floor. They’re dressed in matching plaid shirts, blue jeans, and boots, topped off with cowboy hats that seem to stay on no matter how fast they spin. And the way they move together, it’s like they can read each other’s minds. You can tell they’re not just partners on the dance floor, but in life too.
Ace places a tray in front of me, capturing my attention. Two beer bottles, a basket of chips and two small bowls, one salsa and the other guacamole, sit on top.
“I know you said you already ate, but I figured after all the calories we burned off, you might be hungry again.”
I love that he’s thoughtful. Especially since I love a good guacamole. “Thank you. You’re right. I worked up a bit of an appetite.” Grabbing a chip, I dip it and take a bite. I like thinking guacamole counts towards my vegetable intake. Even if avocados are technically fruit.
“I hope beer is okay,” he says as he unloads all our goodies and pushes the tray to the side.
“Yeah, I think it is. What kind is this one?” I inspect the label. “Is this a local brew?”
He chuckles. “That’s Shiner Bock. It’s a staple of Texas.”
I take a swig, making my assessment. “Not bad.”
“It’s even better like this. May I?” He holds up a lime wedge, and I nod giving him permission. First, he squeezes the juice inside the beer, then he pushes the wedge down inside the bottle as well. “Now try it.”
I do, and he’s right. The addition of the citrus gives the beer a whole different flavor. I nod my appreciation. “I like it.”
“Now you’re truly a Texas woman.”
I laugh and keep munching while we watch the dance floor. The band finally decides to take a break, making it much easier to talk over the lower volume of recorded music.
“How long have you been divorced?”
“Um,” I clasp my hands in front of me and lean on the table, staring up as I do the math in my head. “I left, gosh, what was it, six years ago? Our divorce didn’t take that long. I guess I’ve been divorced about five years.”
“Wait, five years?” He smirks at me. “You haven’t been on a date in the last five years?”
I shrug because dating is hard. And it sucks. People don’t tell you that part when you’re getting divorced.
“I’ve tried, but I’m not a dating kind of girl. I’m a relationship girl. It’s different. There’s no online website for that. All the dating sites seem to be for booty calls.”
“That’s weird because Pedro met Brittany on an online dating site.”
“How long ago?”
“Gosh, they’ve been together for close to ten years.”
“Yeah, that’s what I’ve found. The people who met their spouse online, it was like ten years ago. All the decent people are gone. Now it’s a meat market for those wanting random hook ups. Or the crazy ones who were the reason they’re divorced in the first place.”
“Oh, come on. Surely it’s not that bad.”
I raise my eyebrows. “I’m on a date here with you instead of in a relationship with someone else, aren’t I?”
He laughs, a deep chuckle rumbling from his chest. I can’t help but wonder why the sound seems different somehow—sexier than when other men laugh. Is it because of his job? Like working outdoors gives him an abundance of testosterone or something? I’ve always seemed to date white-collar men. This is the first time I’ve gone on a date with someone who’s a hard-working guy for the sake of working to live.
No, that’s not right. I’ve dated some blue-collar men before. Long ago. Like before I got married. But somehow, this feels different. Very different. And not just because we’re older and wiser.
“Forgive me for laughing,” he says as a small blush creeps up his cheeks. “It’s hard for me to wrap my brain around how you’ve been divorced for five years and someone hasn’t snatched you up yet.”
“Thank you.” I warm at his compliment, but recognize he doesn’t see the reality either. Resting my hands on the table, I level with him. “There are not a lot of men out there who want a woman with a special needs child.”
He almost looks like I slapped him, he’s so shocked by my words.
“That can’t be true. It’s not like special needs are uncommon.”
“No, they’re not. And women who have children with special needs date all the time. And sometimes it works out. But in my experience, the older our kids get, the more that reality kicks in. Eventually, other people understand this is my life permanently, not until he’s eighteen and goes to college, or until he’s twenty-two and graduates and gets a job. This is my life forever. He won’t magically get better once he’s an adult, so I’m free to travel. He won’t be bringing grandkids over for me to dote on and then leave with his wife to live their lives. There won’t be any of that.”
I can see my words sinking in as I continue.
“Unless I magically come up with millions of dollars, there will be no private residential facility where he is taken care of and monitored by a loving staff at a facility for adults with special needs. There are state-run schools, but we don’t qualify for any of them. This is my life. Oli will always live with me. I will always be fighting over keeping him off the Internet. I will never not have locks on my closet to lock up anything of value or electronic. This is it for me. I will always have to monitor if he’s getting too violent. I will always have to monitor if his meds need to be tweaked. Even when I’m ninety, I will still be monitoring my son. That’s a lot for any man to jump into. I’m sure there are exceptions to the rule, but that’s been my experience so far.”
He swallows hard, and I watch his Adam’s apple bob. I can tell he’s thinking about how to respond, because he knows I’m right. Dating post-divorce is hard enough as it is. When you add a child with a permanent disability, especially one that is behavioral, that’s a whole different ballgame.
I could fall into the pity party, but millions of single moms do it all the time. Marriages that include a child with a disability fall apart at an astronomical rate. If the birth dad can’t hack it, how in the hell is a stepdad supposed to?
“Well, I’m here, aren’t I?”
It feels good hearing those words coming from a man as wonderful as Ace. I want to take them to heart. I want them to give me hope, but I’ve seen this before. Just because I haven’t been on dates, doesn’t mean I haven’t been flirted with. I’ve met quite a few nice men over the years who expressed interest. It never came to fruition once they saw what my life entails. Ace’s words are nice. He’s a nice man. But he doesn’t get it.
“And I keep waiting for you come to the realization that my life comes with more than you really want.”
He smiles sadly at me, knowing I’m right.
“Come on.” Standing up, he reaches his hand out for me. “Let’s dance.”
I slide my small hand into his larger one and he leads me to the dance floor, pulling me close to his chest with our fingers clasped between us.
Resting his forehead against mine, we sway to the music, enjoying the feel of each other. I breathe him in, trying to memorize everything about this moment because I’m not sure if this is him trying to comfort me, or if he’s saying goodbye.