The Breakup Support Group

But dancing with Emory is different. His warm fingers slide around my waist, tugging me closer to him than I’ve ever been. His other and holds on to mine while he leads us around the dance floor. My feet fall into step with his, and soon our movements are as fluid as if we’d practiced them a million times.

We don’t speak for a while, but it?

??s not awkward. I find myself smiling and admiring the tight knot in the navy blue tie around his neck. I wonder if he tied it himself or if he had help. I wonder a lot of things, and none of them are about Nate.

The song ends and another begins, a slightly faster tempo that makes Emory’s feet shuffle a little quicker. We twist and slide through other couples, and I gaze into his eyes, marveling at how the starry night lights give everything a whimsical feel.

When this song rolls to a stop, the lead singer leans toward his microphone, sweat dripping from his forehead. “We’ll be back in fifteen minutes, kids.”

A hip-hop track begins to blare out of the speakers. Emory releases me, and something about losing the feel of his hands on my dress brings me back to reality. “Time for a drink?” he says, casting a dubious glance at the two girls getting their twerk on next to us.

“Please,” I say, unable to hold back my laughter. Those girls are doing no justice to the twerk movement.

Again, Emory’s hand finds mine, as if this were something we did all the time, and I hold on tightly as he leads me through the throngs of people. We pour ourselves a clear plastic champagne glass of blue punch and take a sip at the same time.

“Definitely not spiked yet,” Emory says, furrowing his brow as if he genuinely thought someone would have dumped a forty into it by now.

“Are you saying you need to get drunk to hang out with me?” I tease, tipping the cup to my lips again. I’m not sure what the drink is supposed to be, but it tastes good enough that I pour some more.

“Quite the opposite. I’m hoping you’ll get drunk so you’ll enjoy being with me,” he says, that one-dimpled grin beaming at me again.

“How’d you learn to dance so well?” I ask, changing the subject. I don’t want to discuss anything too intimate and test the blush-concealing strength of my foundation and matte powder.

“I took lessons in Spain,” he says, grabbing a cube of cheese with a toothpick. He bites the cheese off and stabs the toothpick into another square. “At a little studio in Barcelona.”

“Really? Wow.”

His expression turns a little guilty, and he leans in, his hand grazing my elbow as he whispers into my ear, “Real Emory took dance lessons from grandma in Louisville, Kentucky. But your fake Date Night Emory is well traveled.”

“I see,” I say quietly, feeling like a complete idiot. This entire night is a lie, I remind myself. A prescription written by my sixteen-year-old untrained therapist.

I down the rest of my raspberry blue punch in one gulp, hoping that maybe it is spiked, just a little bit. Anything to take my mind off the fact that I am definitely falling hard for Emory, or excuse me, Fake Date Night Emory. Fake Emory doesn’t have a past of dating a million girls. Fake Emory looks unbelievably hot in that tailored suit and tie. Real Isla can see herself spending a lifetime with Fake Emory.

I sigh.

And then Ciara’s bright white dress pops into view. She grins wildly and waves at me as she makes her way through the crowd, a tall African-American guy who looks as uncomfortable as the teacher chaperones, trailing along behind her.

“Hey,” she says, drawing out the single word as she approaches. She throws her arms around me and gives me a quick hug, making sure to keep our hair and makeup off of each other so it doesn’t get ruined.

Her eyes roam down Emory’s body, and she slaps a hand to her hip. “Damn, Underwood, you clean up nicely.”

“As do you,” he says. He holds out a hand to her date. “I’m Emory,” he says.

“Trey,” her date replies, shaking his hand. His voice is deep and even under his suit I can tell he’s muscular. “Are you in college, too?”

“Nope,” Emory says. “Still a senior here, unfortunately.”

“Damn, Cee. You promised I wouldn’t be the only old guy here,” he says playfully, wrapping his arm around Ciara’s waist.

She gives him a not-so-innocent pout of the lips. “The teachers are pretty old,” she says, sliding a finger down his chest. “Maybe you could go talk about old people stuff with them. Senior citizen discounts, maybe? Which vitamins help protect your old bones?”

“I’d rather just dance with the prettiest girl here,” he says in that low and sexy voice of his. Even I get the shivers, and he’s not my date.

Ciara turns to me with an eyes wide expression that makes her look like she’d never be the kind of girl to be in the Break Up Support Group. In this moment, she looks entirely too happy to have ever suffered a heartbreak. “Sorry, Isla. I promise we’ll hang out soon.”

I wave her away with my hand. “Go dance and have fun. We’ll meet up later.”

She winks at me and then wraps both of her arms around Trey’s massive bicep. “Take me to the dance floor,” she coos, batting her eyelashes at him.