Story: Pinehurst

Chapter 2: Every Savage Can Dance (Jane Austen)

Summary: Set right after Run Away Little Boy. Tristan heads to North Carolina, to military school. A look at his life as he makes the jump from troubled bad boy with a trust fund to military cadet in the midst of his reform. Not a Trory. OC, with the exception of the Dugreys and the occasional Gilmore reference. Tristan-centric.

Rating: T. For language for sure. Possible adult situations later on.

AN: Thanks for the feedback! I love hearing your thoughts and I'm glad people are willing to go on this journey with me (and Tristan).

My shirt is nearly soaked through. It's the only t-shirt I'm allowed to wear on campus, dark grey with blue letters spelling out Pinehurst across my chest. I have two identical shirts in my meager closet. Everyone in this yard has the same set of three, school issued requisite wear. We cadets are on a water break, timed like everything else on this campus. Chugging the cool water doesn't seem satisfying enough, and I briefly consider pouring it over my head. I swallow a big mouthful and look to my right, were Jess is taking normal sips and has barely broken a sweat. We're running sprints. There are what look like oversized boxing bags laying in a heap at the other end of the field. It's the last day of my first week at Pinehurst, and while I haven't thrown up from exertion yet, I don't rule it out as a possibility for the future.

"So," I say, my words breathy and winded. "Your friends."

She puts her bottle down and shoots me a side-eye. Jess never gives her full attention right away. Not to me, anyway. I can't tell if she's lost in thought or she's just good at filtering. She stretches her arms, one pulled across her chest, blocking the letters displayed there, holding it in place with her other bent elbow. I take this as a sign and tuck an arm behind my head, bending my elbow until I feel a stretch in my triceps. It doesn't take much, my arms are extra sore from lifting weights yesterday.

"I hear you've been meeting up with Charlie and the guys for their workouts."

I bob my head once, as I switch arms. We only have another two minutes before we pick back up, and then I'll be too winded to speak. "Yeah."

"How sore are you?" she asks, a twinkle in her eyes.

"I'm crying on the inside," I admit dryly. It's true. Everything hurts. It's worse after the days we lift weights. Like today. Stretching should feel good, but if anything it feels like I'm reminding my arms that they have been abused.

She chuckles. "I applaud your mental fortitude. Those guys aren't easy to keep up with."

"Neither are you. It's like everyone here is a part of some superhuman race. Governmental test subjects."

"Nah, just a bunch of Army brats," she said.

There's a pause. We are running out of time to talk. "They don't mind having me around, do they?" I ask.

She shook her head. "They wouldn't have invited you if they didn't. Charlie did say you seem like you have a lot of stuff you're working through."

I shrug and look around the yard. Everyone else is in little groups, gearing up for the next exercise. "What about Bailey?"

"She's not much of a weight lifter," Jess says, keeping her response light.

I pick up my water bottle again. "No, I mean, does it bug her, having me around?"

Jess lifts her eyebrows at me. "She hasn't said anything about you at all."

"She doesn't say much, does she?"

Jess pays attention to me now. She's sizing me up and she's putting her weight into it. If I weren't already sweating, I'd start now. "She's pretty private."

"It was cool of you to pull me into your group. It's not easy to get to know people here. I don't want to intrude, though, if I'm unwelcome."

Jess shakes it off. "It's not a problem. If it were, she'd have said something. To me," she adds. "Look, it's not my business. Either she'll warm up to you or she won't. But don't take it personally if she doesn't, okay?"

"Rob said you all look out for her."

"We do," she confirms. She doesn't elaborate.

"And that she doesn't date."

Jess stiffens. She looks at me like she caught me with plans to break into a bank. "She doesn't. Is that... you want to ask her out?"

"I didn't say that. I just wondered why. I mean, I'm sure it's not because no one ever asks her."

A whistle blows, a one-minute warning. "It's not my place to talk about her personal life, that's her business. If you really want to know, ask her. But, Tristan?"

I try to appear casual. I have no plans to ask anyone out, not yet. "Yeah?"

"Just tread lightly there. She's had it rough. That's all I'll say. Bailey's tough, but she has to be. Got me?"

I nod. I smile for effect. "Yes, ma'am."

"Just keep in mind, Cadet, I can still assign you extra laps," she warns, but she's smiling too.

I look over to where the instructor waits next to the huge bags. He looks far too smug. Now I'm concerned. "This is gonna hurt, isn't it?"

"You bet your ass," she assures me. One of the things that is comforting about Jess is that she doesn't sugarcoat anything. She's straight with me all the time. She always has an answer for me, even if she has to get back to me later. Her presence in my life this first week kept me sane. It's a miracle I don't deserve, that's for sure. Not that I believe in miracles, that is.

I try not to impede on her down time, as it's clear she doesn't see enough of her boyfriend for either of their liking. They didn't see each other for a few days, over Thanksgiving break. They hail from separate states, her in Tennessee and him in South Carolina, and spend holidays with their own families. They don't get a lot of time during the week to spend together, mostly just at meals and meager hours in between. He works part time in the mail room on campus, in addition to his ROTC duties and the time he spends with his friends, working out, and studying. They don't have any classes together.

I ask her how they even met, given their total lack of overlap. She gives me her signature smile, a cross between a smirk and genuine amusement. It is clear she enjoys retelling the story.

"My mom sent me a package, a batch of her famous homemade peanut butter cookies. He was working when it came into the mail office. He could smell them through the wrapping, and instead of giving me a package slip he made an unwarranted personal transport to my door, hoping to beg a few cookies upon delivery. He got two weeks detention for breaking protocol, but he still claims it was worth it."

"Must have been some good cookies," I say. She hits me in the stomach, but she laughs anyway.

Everyone here is booked up, though. Everyone is a part of some organization, group, or extracurricular, in addition to the intensive studies and military protocol we follow, and some have jobs on top all the rest of it. I'm keeping up, but I've yet to join anything extra. I go to bed late, exhausted, and get up early, just to rush to be on time. I sleep hard, and I'm sort of thankful for the fullness of my days. Military time starts to make sense, because every last minute of my time is accounted for, is needed. I haven't had time to sit around and lament the life I left behind. I don't have time to think about the fact that Christmas break is coming up in a couple of weeks, and I have no desire to spend it with my family. Not that anyone has sent me a plane ticket or asked me to find a ride share. No one has even reached out to let me know that I'm still welcome in my own home. The only person I'd want to see wouldn't be around Hartford anyway, not while school is out of session. She lives in the sticks.

I'm amazed, then, when talk at lunch turns to actual plans for the weekend. As in getting off campus. Jack's talking about a club, and Rob's teasing him about his dancing skills, and Jessica and Charlie are staring at each other like they're already on the damn dance floor. Bailey, true to who she is, says nothing. She hears them, I know she does, because she starts tapping her thumb against the bottom of the book she's reading. I know her reading is for school now, I checked when she sat down. It's our next play for English Lit, A Midsummer Night's Dream. We just took the exam on Romeo and Juliet yesterday. I stayed after my first class to speak with the instructor, assuring him I was ready, as we'd just finished our unit at Chilton. I got a B plus. It wasn't quite the end to the unit I'd been dreaming of for the last month, but my grade was no longer dependent on my kissing skills. Alas.

"You want us to pick you up, Bailey?"

Jess engages her in a direct question, and I force out a breath oddly when I realize I'm holding it while we wait for her to answer. She puts a finger in the folds of the book to hold her place. "Thanks for the offer, but I can't. My dad's home this weekend."

Jess nods and doesn't press further. I find this to be one of her most redeeming quality and the most frustrating. She turns her focus to me and smiles. "How about you, rookie? You too sore to dance?"

Rob snickers, as does Charlie. I roll my eyes at the lot of them. "Dancing isn't exactly my thing."

"We don't go so much for the dancing as much as the beer," Charlie says.

"Speak for yourself," Jack says.

I don't try to cover my surprise. "I'm not really looking to get busted again so soon."

Jess leans forward, her elbows on the table. "We cross into South Carolina, to get away from places where anyone from the administration might show up. And it's legal to get into the clubs at eighteen."

"I'm not eighteen," I shoot back, surprising myself again. I haven't hit a party in two years without having a beer at some point. I have no idea why I'm arguing, save for I don't want to know what future befalls me if I get kicked out of military school after one week. My father was way too quick on the trigger to send me here. I'm sure he has a back-up in mind.

"I am," Charlie says. "And they know us there. The bouncer will stamp my hand. It'll transfer until it dries, and then no one checks an ID. Plus, The Grange is a patriotic establishment. They'd never turn down military."

"The Grange?" I ask, my suspicions raising. It sounds like we're going to a barn dance. I don't say this out loud. The idea of beer and girls isn't unappealing in the least. "I'll think about it."

"You should come," Jess says. "You've had a shitty week. Getting out will help."

It could have been worse, I think to myself, another surprising realization. Not that I'm happy to be here, not in the least. It's still my last choice, save for jail. But even though I'm sore, exhausted, and otherwise overwhelmed, my state of mind is markedly different than before I left. "Yeah, I guess."

Jess claps her hand briefly in delight. "You can ride with Jack and Rob."

"You two just want to be alone so you can screw in the pickup on some pull-off on the way home," Jack says, stating the obvious.

They start to bicker among themselves, and I tap Bailey's book. She jerks her head up, startled at the intrusion. "How'd you do on the test?"

Bailey's in our Lit class. I actually have a few classes with Jack and Rob, too. Charlie's a year older, set to graduate come spring. The rest of us are juniors and the core classes are pretty standard. Electives are our only main divisions. "Oh. An A."

I raise my eyebrow, impressed. The test was hard, and I know that play. I can recite the final death scene backward and forward. I know the symbolism and the subtext and the history of the time period. "Wow. Good for you."

She furrows her brows at me, as if she's trying to decide if I'm being sarcastic or not. "Thanks."

"You're going home this weekend?" I ask, unable to stop myself. She spoke to me, and I want to see if I can keep it going. It feels like an aberration. I feel like anything might spook her and seal her up again.

She closes her book, putting her finger in the pages again. She turns toward me, her shoulder turning past mine. It's the first time she's looked at me full-on. I'm not sure what to do with myself under her scrutiny. Making eye contact feels suddenly overwhelming. I notice that she has freckles smattered across the bridge of her nose, sprinkled like fairy dust. "I go home every day."

"You live off campus?" I ask. I'm definitely surprised by this, even though I know some people don't board. It never occurred to me that she was one of them.

She nods and her gaze drops down. She's not looking at her book, though. She looks at my hand, which is still resting next to her book. I pull it away and rest it in my lap. "I live in Pinebluff."

I have no idea where that is. Honestly I have little knowledge of the geography of North Carolina or the South in general. Before now, this was fly-over territory for me, on my way to spring break destinations. "Is that nearby?"

She looks at Jess for a second. I fear she's going to shut down and return to her book, but she looks back at me. "It's just a bit south. On the way to The Grange."

Jess puts her hands together, in prayer position, as if she's ready to beg Bailey to come. "Please don't make me go with all these boys alone."

Bailey smiles, for the first time in my presence. She laughs. God, the sound is soft and light and magical. I become aware that I'm staring a few seconds too late, when I'm caught by Jess. She says nothing, but I know she noticed. She is definitely glaring at me, in a subtle if slightly terrifying manner. It's possible we've spent too much time together this week. She has been wavering between personal topics and school-related issues more and more in the last couple of days. Thankfully for both of our sakes, her duty ceases at end of day today.

"Something tells me you'll be just fine," Bailey says with no remorse.

"It's still more fun when you come with us. The more the merrier," Jess says, her hand disappearing under the table to rest on Charlie's leg. His hand disappears under the table not two seconds later. "It'll be the last chance before finals. We are all going out after finals. Attendance not optional," she says.

"We'll see," Bailey says, creasing her book open. She reabsorbs herself in the play, and Jess looks at me. She's switching gears, back to official duty. My mind is still somewhere between the idea of approaching final exams and winter break and how the green in Bailey's eyes contrasted the deep brown while she was talking to me.

Jess snaps me from my thoughts. "Do you remember where the conference rooms are?"

"This doesn't involve dancing, does it?" I jest. No one laughs. Bailey turns a page as if the interruption never occurred.

"Briggs set up an appointment with your mentor. You need to be in the Eisenhower Room at eighteen thirty."

"Who's my mentor?" I ask, genuinely curious. I assume she knows, because it's become obvious that she was given some sort of file on me when she was assigned to me. I wonder how many other people she's helped during their transfer process. If she's helped anyone else in our little group.

She shrugs. "Classified information. I'm on a need-to-know basis with my assignees during transition."

"Is that like Don't Ask, Don't Tell?" I inquire, another half-assed joke.

Jack stands up, muscling his tray as he leaves the mess hall alone. Jess gives a heavy sigh. "No. It's nothing like Don't Ask, Don't Tell."

The mood has shifted, sour and tense. I have no idea why my joke was so bad, other than it was a stupid joke. It was more a showcase of my limited knowledge of the military than anything else. Before I can ask, which I sense will make it worse, Bailey is packing up her things and sliding away from the table.

"I'll go," she says, giving me a reproachful look before she turns her back. I can see she's disappointed in me, and it cuts deep. It seems far too early to have upset the apple cart here, with these people.

"I didn't mean anything," I begin.

Charlie holds up a palm, indicating a full stop. "Don't worry about it, man."

But I do. The rest of lunch is spent in awkward, stilted conversation. I decide it's probably a good idea for me to skip out on joining the guys for an afternoon workout. It's not like I can't claim exhaustion. Jess doesn't say anything to me until after sixth hour. She meets me in front of the door to our history class, where we're about to start a new unit on military campaigns of the nineteenth century. She looks resolved. My guess is she's just come from a few stolen moments with Charlie.

I wait in the hall, books under my arm, for Jess to arrive. It's still my job to listen to her, and honestly I'm hoping to clear the air. The threat of alienating everyone I meet for the rest of my life has started to feel like an unavoidable pitfall.

"Look, Tristan. Everyone has their own stuff. I know there's stuff in your life, in your past, or maybe just stuff you left behind—stuff you don't want to talk about. Am I right?"

I open my mouth, but close it with a snap. I nod instead.

She relaxes her posture. She looks slightly less likely to hit me. "You seem like a decent guy. You just need to tread a little lighter. This place makes people tougher, mentally, but it isn't a cure-all for people's problems."

"If this is about Jack," I begin.

She draws back. "Jack? No, he's fine. He's… not the problem I was talking about. But that was a stupid joke. It wasn't funny, at all."

"I know."

She eyes me for sincerity. "Do you?"

"Yes," I say with force. "I do."

She waits for a second, apparently for me to figure out the gist of her message. "Bailey," she says finally.

I'm lost. I'm nearly positive I did nothing to disparage Bailey, unless my existence alone is enough. "What about her?"

She cocks her head and raises a stiff eyebrow at me. "Seriously?"

I groan. "I'm not interested in her, not like that."

She doesn't believe me. "You're not?"

"No! I don't go around hitting on any available female in my direct vicinity," I say, adding just one word to myself, anymore. "Besides, there's someone else… back home," I manage, but the words taste bad in my mouth. It's misleading, to Jess and myself. I've been misleading myself for months. Buying concert tickets, shamelessly flirting, starting fights. Breaking into a safe. Jesus. I cringe at what a fool of myself I made.

"Then," she says finally, "You should stop being so moony about Bailey. She isn't someone to play with."

I press my lips together and the color drains from them. I'm irritated at being lectured like this. Again. "Should I not talk to her at all?"

"If you can't keep from staring at her like she's emerged from a mystical lake? Then no, you shouldn't."

"I don't look at her like-," I defend myself.

"You do. I get it, okay? Bailey has no shortage of guys interested in bringing her out of her shell. But sometimes shells are in place for a reason. She needs her shell right now, okay?"

"But you won't tell me why," I say, not even asking. It's not a question.

"It's not my place," she says simply. "It's not my shell."

"But it's your place to tell me not to talk to her."

She groans, wishing I'd just obey her commands. "I think, yes."

"Are you this bossy with all your transfer cadets?" I ask, irritated. I rub a hand through my hair, like a phantom mannerism. There's no hair to thread through my fingers, just buzzed remains. I land my palm against the back of my neck before pulling it down to my side.

"Only with the ones that like to argue. Look, we all like you. I don't just invite people into our group like this."

"You mean your group isn't comprised of your rag-tag team of misfit toys? I'm special?"

"I've only taken one other transfer under my wing, into our group."

"Who?" I ask. I have the right to know. Part of me already knows, I just want to hear her say it.

She hangs her head for a second. "Charlie's been tight with Jack and Rob for a couple of years. We started dating early last year."

"When did Bailey transfer in?" I ask.

She bites her lower lip. She's physically uncomfortable, which is odd. She's always in control. She does not like that I've hijacked her conversation. "Last spring."

I nod. "I'm not going to do anything to her. I like her—I like all of you. I didn't have this at my old school, a group of friends, at least, not like this. I don't want to fuck it up. Apparently it's a skill I need to work on. Not fucking things up."

She accepts this. "Fine. You can talk to Bailey. But don't flirt with her. Don't stare at her. Don't stare at anyone. It's weird."

I smile, even though she pokes me in the chest. "No staring. Got it."

"And if Jack, Rob, or Charlie kick your ass, you deserve it."

I continue smiling. "I don't doubt it."

She frowns at me. "And stop smiling like that. God."

I follow her into the class, letting her take the lead. I know how much I have to learn here. At least, I think I do. Turns out, I'm wrong. As usual. I spend the afternoon working out with the guys, thankfully not getting my ass kicked. Whatever specifically bothered Jack at lunch is water under an unspoken bridge. We run in a staggered pack, looping the track until we risk missing dinner. I feel good that I'm getting faster, keeping up more and more.

Jess doesn't offer to walk me to my meeting—she's officially off duty. Her last official decree is for me not to make her regret her faith in me. I honestly don't know if she's tired of me or trusts me to navigate the campus alone. I still half expect to be uninvited from their plans later this evening, but before we all break up after dinner, Rob says to meet him in the main lot at eight so we can head down to The Grange. Jess gives me a nod, glad that things are smoother. Bailey isn't at dinner, and I assume this keeps my jackassery in check, at least in Jess' opinion.

I head off to the administrative building, and I find the Eisenhower Room by reading the posted sign in the main lobby. The light is on and the door is cracked, but I knock first anyway. I've started to err on the side of caution and good manners this week. I don't know all the right gestures and responses yet. I'm starting to catch on, both via repetition and observing people around me, but I've actually started to study that huge manual they thrust at me when I arrived. Not only does it help me avoid demerits, but it cuts down on my dependence on Jess.

"Come in."

I enter the room and offer a salute, even though the person seated at the long table isn't in uniform. I know he's military or ex-military, and honestly, it's becoming a habit. Anyone older than eighteen at this school has stars or stripes on their uniform and constitutes a salute. He's actually wearing worn jeans and t-shirt. He'd almost blend in anywhere.

He waves off my salute. "You're Dugrey?"

I nod, not sure what to do next. "Yes, sir."

"Sit down. You want something to drink?"

I think about my plans for the evening. The idea of cutting loose and having a couple of beers relaxes me. I've spent all week tense, rigid, pushing myself to physical limits and reigning in my thoughts to the best of my ability. Trying to holding back thoughts. "No, thank you."

He sizes me up as I sit down. "How was your first week? You ready to go home yet?"

I straighten my shoulders and meet his gaze, appraising as it is. I'm sure he's read my file, too. I'm tired of going into situations where I have no information and everyone's read my damn dossier. "That's not an option. I don't have a lot of options at the moment."

He claps a hand on the wood table, startling me. He stares at me like my head is lined with lead. "You really have no idea the opportunity you have here, do you?"

I immediately wonder if I can request a new mentor. Given all the flexibility I've witnessed during my first week, my guess is a resounding no. "Because I'm not in jail? I've heard the speech. Look, we can cut to the chase. I'm sure my file told you all you need to know."

"I know you're argumentative, you have a distrust of authority figures, and you got yourself shipped from Connecticut because you made some bad decisions."

"That's me. The luckiest son of a bitch here."

The guy smiles at me. I see why Jess told me to knock it off. I pull back in my chair. I don't sulk, but I'm ready to go. I'm ready to take off this stupid uniform and put on real clothes. Listen to real music, in a club, and just relax. He's just getting started, however. "You get to start over, Tristan. You can do whatever it is you want. You get to pick your path from here. You get to be whatever kind of man you want. What I want to know from you is who that man is going to be."

I leave forty-five minutes later. My mentor is stationed at Fort Bragg and will only say he's on an administrative assignment, in transition. He does a lot of talking, again about my options. He asks me questions, and I don't have a lot of the answers. He asked me where I wanted to go to college, and without thinking about it first I gave an automatic reply: Princeton. It made me mad, as I realized that was my old future. Where I was supposed to go; it's where Dugrey men attend college. It hit me at that moment. My last name no longer dictates my future, and I feel cut free in a different way. It makes me feel strangely empowered, to be so far from my old life. Last week seems more like last year.

I feel reborn.

The sense of temporary euphoria carries through the evening. I meet up with Jack and Rob in the main parking lot, and the car is already started—engine rumbling and music blasting. I get the backseat, but I don't care. I haven't earned shotgun status; I'm lucky to be getting a ride. The windows are down, wind whipping through the car, and bass rumbles the car, the seat, my body. Street lamps light up the highway until the road narrows to two lanes, and our headlights illuminate the dark roads. Hardly anyone passes in the other lane. I look for signs to Pinebluff, but we make it to The Grange without proof that such a town lies anywhere nearby.

The Grange is packed. The parking lot is dirt, and there's dust in the air from vehicles running over it in the dry, warm weather. There are more trucks on premises than anything else, and I can hear the music playing before we hit the door. It's unfamiliar, it's twangy, and I realize as Rob nods at the guy at the door and tells him that I'm with them, the dance floor is full. Charlie and Jess have already arrived, and I'm struck at how different Jess looks—if not for Charlie, I might not have recognized her.

Her hair falls just below her shoulders, in auburn curls. Her plaid flannel shirt is taken in at the waist and the sleeves are rolled up to her elbows. Her jeans are dark washed and look almost painted on her hips. She's wearing cowboy boots and dark lipstick. She looks so overtly feminine, and it hits me as absurdly funny.

Her glare shoots daggers my way. "What?"

My shoulders shake. I can't stop myself. "You just normally look like my superior officer. Tonight you look like a girl."

Her gaze narrows and doesn't get happier. "I am a girl."

I shrug and cough out the end of a laugh. "Yeah, but it's like you're my sister or something. I don't notice it so much."

"You don't have a sister, do you? Because if you did, she would have beat you if you ever said something like that."

Charlie listens to our conversation, amused at the exchange. I'm not sure if he finds her ire cute or my lack of interest pleasing, but he smiles as he pulls her in at the waist with his arm and kisses her cheek. "You're all woman to me, no matter what you're wearing. The less the better."

I pretend to gag, but she turns to him, mollified and appreciative.

He kisses her cheek. "Let's dance."

She thinks about the offer. "Let me kick Dugrey's ass first. It won't take long."

"Hey!" I say, dodging her attempt to connect her elbow with my ribs. "Charlie, wrangle your woman. Please!" I yelp as she makes another pass.

"You need to learn right quick not to piss off southern women," Charlie laughs at my fear and wraps both arms around her waist from behind, lifting her slightly as if she weighs near-to-nothing and swiveling her away from me. They hit the dance floor, hopefully a distraction that will save me a few bruises. The music is up tempo, the sound is heavy on violin—fiddle?-and guitars that strum and pluck. The sound of hard soled shoes fill in the foreground noise as the dancers spin and step. I try to listen, but I can't make out if the guy is singing about a truck or a woman. I continue up to the bar, where Rob hands me a beer—one of two in his hands. I'm surprised, I assume he got one for Jack instead of me.

Jack's nowhere to be found, however. I figure he's lost in the masses. "Thanks. So, this is where you guys usually come?"

Rob regards me with cool indifference. "You don't like it?"

I take a sip of beer and look around. The beer is light and cold. It will take more than a couple to make me drunk. But the night is young. "I didn't say that. It's different than what I'm used to, is all."

Rob snorts out a response. "I bet it is. What are the parties like up there? Where are you from again? New Haven?"

"Hartford. The parties are full of entitled rich kids with too much money and very little attention spans."

He nods. "Partying while their parents are away?"

"Pretty much. Hard to find parents that are around, most of the time."

"Poor little rich kids," he says, before taking a swig of beer.

I can't bring myself to argue my case. I embody what he seems to loathe, or I did until very recently. I decide to change the subject. "Where's Jack?"

Rob keeps scanning the crowd. I assume he's scoping for a girl to hit on. The crowd is a mix of couples and singles, and it's clear that those who aren't a part of a pair are hoping to find a partner in the throng. The music remains upbeat, but now the lyrics are about damage done to a cheating lover's property. "We'll pick him up later. He likes to hit another club, not far from here."

"Divide and conquer?" I ask. It's not a bad plan, to avoid stepping on toes. Which is literally what I will most likely be doing if I attempt these dance steps with anyone. I learned how to steer a girl around a ballroom for cotillion purposes, but this style of dancing is nothing like what I know. Feet are stepping in quick sub beats and girls are twirling so fast they look like they're going to spin off to another partner. Lots of the guys are wearing cowboy hats, and it's not an ironic nod to being in a country bar. These people are the real deal.

"Something like that," he says, but his tone of voice is off somehow. "There she is."

I look up to see who he's talking about. He's already caught her eye across the room, and she's smiling. "She's cute."

He elbows me and cocks his head toward me, without taking his eyes off her. "College girl. Her roommate's cousin tends bar here."

"Does she know how old you are?" I ask, already guessing the answer.

"It hasn't come up. I just told her I was military."

"That works?" I ask, but he's already getting up to cross the bar. It's only getting more packed in here. I watch as he saunters over and starts flirting. She giggles at something he says, and part of me is jealous. I want something that easy. Thinking about an unattainable girl that's already forgotten about me isn't really a cure for lonely nights.

Picking up girls is not a problem for me, at least not in Hartford. At Chilton, everyone knows my name, my general net worth, and my projected future, and it is easy as showing up at the right party to gain my choice of feminine attention for an evening.

Standing at the bar nursing a beer, I realize yet again that I am no longer in my element. I am not from this world, and my navigation around it has been bumpy at best. Getting into an inadvertent bar fight is not the way to thank my new friends for letting me tag along. I'm grateful-I needed to get off campus. The girls around me are reminding me that I have other needs as well. Even when I was hopeful that Rory might give me a chance last spring, I didn't go without the affection of other girls. An evening spent cozying up to one of these ladies might ease the lonely nights in my dorm room.

"Rookie and a wallflower? Say it ain't so."

I turn to see Jess has returned, flagging down a bartender for a glass of water. Charlie must be in the men's room. I wonder if it has some made up moniker, like bulls or studs or something, on the door.

"How did you learn to do that?" I ask, gesturing to the crowd.

"What? Dance? Don't tell me you've got two left feet," she gives me a pouty lip in pity. I can tell she's been drinking. She's happy and a little sarcastic.

"I can dance," I argue. "Just not like… that." I gesture to the dance floor again. The words boot-scooting boogie are being repeated over the speakers. Everyone out there seems to know the same dance. I frown.

She laughs. "You Yankees."

"I'm being judged for my place of birth?" I ask. We're having to lean in to shout in the other's ear to have this conversation.

Her expression is not forgiving. "You just need to get out there and try it."

"Will you show me?"

She laughs at me. "If you laid one hand on my hip, Charlie would take you out back and rip you limb for limb."

I roll my eyes. I hate asking for help, but continuing to do so is torture. "It's just a dance."

"Dancing is intimate. It's putting your hands on someone and sharing space and time," she said. Her tone was a mix of her usual matter-of-fact realism and an almost dreamy romanticism.

"I'm not looking to merge my soul with someone out there, I just want to dance with a girl without bruising her toes."

"I'm hardly the only girl here. You're not bad looking—I'm sure any one of these girls would love to show you how it's done," Jess assures me.

"You think I'm attractive?" I ask, a little surprised.

"Like you need anyone to tell you that," she says, with a heavy eye roll. She takes a long pull on her water.

I shrug a shoulder, still confused. "Even if you thought so, I thought you were still mad at me."

She shakes her head and smiles as Charlie comes back into view. "You've been through a rough time. I get that. And we all needed to blow off steam, so let's just chalk everything up to that. Go ask a pretty girl to dance. One that doesn't have a better option in sight. I'm happy to help you out when I can, but on the dance floor, I'm spoken for."

I clear my throat and can't help but give her a friendly smile. "Go. God, it's nauseating to watch you two. Let me drink in peace."

She laughs as she steps off to meet Charlie again. Rob's dancing with his college girl. There's still no sign of Jack. The music changes to a slow, hazy tune. The whole place gets quieter, and the couples get closer. The whole mood of the place softens. I order a second beer.

It's not until I take my first sip that I notice that someone has just come up to the edge of the bar, just to my left. And I freeze. I'm staring at hazel eyes rimmed with mascaraed lashes.

"Tristan. Hey."

It's Bailey. In civilian clothes. My mouth goes dry, despite the fact I just swallowed. She's ordering a soda from the bartender and I take the opportunity to really look at her. Not only are her clothes flattering, but she's wearing a dress that doesn't quite fall to her knees. With cowboy boots. I never thought cowboy boots could be considered sexy, but I'm suddenly converted. She wears a cropped denim jacket over her light dress. I decide that I love the weather that allows for sundresses to be worn year-round. Jesus.

"Having fun?"

She doesn't have to yell, because it's nowhere near as loud as it had been. The crowd is muted by the slow song. Her hair is down, falling in blonde waves halfway down her back. I nod, as if I've been struck mute.

She smiles and looks out over the crowd. I watch her under the guise of taking another drink. She starts to sway a little, back and forth, in time with the music. She likes this song.

"Do you want to dance?"

I turn my head suddenly, away from Bailey. Someone has approached me, and I vaguely recognize her as one of the girls that were with Rob's college friend. I glance over toward him, and he gives me a thumbs up. I hear Jess in my head, her heeding not to flirt with Bailey. Bailey, who standing so close, who wasn't supposed to be here—who doesn't need me disrupting her shell. I want to know so much about her, but I'm resolved to give her all the space she needs.

I need to dance. I put my beer on the bar and leave Bailey alone, and let a very nice girl show me how to navigate a country dance floor.