Page 86 of Last First Kiss

Somewhere close by, a Bluetooth speaker pumps out “Marry You.”

It starts with a group of joggers wearing matching pastel sweatsuits. They stop for a coordinated shoulder shimmy in the middle of the pathway. Suddenly, two men in business suits hit perfect pirouettes. A skateboarder hops off her longboard to do a high kick. Someone with a face full of glitter and a skintight leotard vogues their way into the small crowd that keeps growing.

Jamie points to the left. “Look!”

The dripping teens from the pool join in. People run up to do the Macarena. A grandfather and grandchild pop and lock in front of them.

It’s the kind of thing you don’t expect to see at the park. Something from a Broadway musical’s opening act. Or straight out of those ’80s dance movies Jordan’s mom loves.

Or on YouTube, in one of those corny—

Holy shit, Jordan almost screams.

Jamie does. “It’s a flash mob proposal!”

As if on cue, the mass of dancers parts. A twentysomething East Asian woman slinks through. She points at a pretty Black woman seated on a bench.

Bruno Mars croons on. The Black woman sob-laughs. Her girlfriend leads the crowd into the “Thriller” dance sequence. It’s absolute mayhem. A choreographed train wreck Jordan can’t look away from.

A gentle hand closes around his elbow. It’s Jamie, grinning conspiratorially.

Jordan’s stomach drops into his feet.

“Oh no,” he says.

“Oh yes.”

“Jamie, wecan’t.”

“Wehaveto!”

Jordan tries to back away. Jamie keeps pulling him closer. “I don’t even know the dance,” he whines.

“You filthy liar,” Jamie accuses, still smiling. “I know you do. Your mom has shown me photos of you and Denz…”

On Monday morning, Jordan’s marching right down to city hall to demand a complete name change. He’ll burn his birth certificate. A Carter no more.

Until then…

Something warm and nostalgic flits through Jamie’s eyes. Jordan’s helpless to it. A goofy-grinning, heart-thudding, pathetic goner.

He allows Jamie to drag him into the belly of madness.

Strangers surround him. Over a dozen people dancing. Only half of them actually have any rhythm. No one cares. Especiallynot Jamie, who moves like a zombie fromShaun of the Deadrather than an undead dancer with any concept of staying on beat.

Jordan’s mortified on his behalf.

Still, the teens whoop. The men in suits encourage him. Bruno Mars croons “If you’re ready, like I’m ready” to their side of the park.

Jamie looks at Jordan with a wild and unguarded expression.

It’s a dare. A challenge Jordan refuses to back down from.

The choreography comes to him instantly. Muscle memory at its best. He claps his hands above his head. Drags his feet on the grass. A shoulder shrug, then a head turn.

When the crowd switches to the “Single Ladies” dance, he’s right there, step for step. To his right—bless him—Jamie fails to keep up. He shakes more with laughter than rhythm. It’s an undeniable flavor of cuteness that Jordan gravitates to.

“Stop laughing at me!” Jamie shouts.