It was 80s night at my dad’s bar. Danny and I sipped Blue Moons and bourbon. We bopped our heads back and fourth to Dancing in the Dark.
Joey is engaged. Liz is engaged. Steve is engaged. Lauren is engaged. I live in a fake bedroom. Danny’s completely lost. We took a Child of the 80s quiz and talked about high school.
I pulled my hair into a side ponytail. “Remember when I liked you?” I asked Danny. “Remember when we kissed on Graham’s staircase?”
“Yes—but no. I don’t remember you liking me,” Danny said, honestly. And we looked at each other the way we looked that night on the stairs, full of high school insecurity and the fleeting desire to tell a truth that we would never divulge, a transient craze like legwarmers or day-glo.