Page 6 of Every Time We Touch

Marcy shakes her head. “It will give us nothing more than assumptions, Jen. Come on.”

“What am I supposed to do with this?” I put the phone on the table. “I can’t just ignore what I’ve seen.”

“You could talk to her. Ask her, woman to woman, like an adult.”

It’s worth considering, but having Marcy swipe right on her is a lot easier.

“Please,” I ask. “It’s just a swipe. If there’s no match, I’ll feel a lot better. Dad already had his heart broken by Abby. I don’t want to see him hurt again.”

“I mean…” Marcy reaches for her phone and studies Clancy’s picture. “If I were casually browsing, I would definitely swipe her. No doubt. If only to ask her about her workout routine.” She winks at me. “Let’s not overthink this.” A split second later, Marcy has swiped right on my dad’s new girlfriend. Not even a second later, her phone chimes with a notification.

It’s a match.

Chapter 4

Clancy

I’m replying to emails when my phone buzzes. It’s an alert from a dating app I haven’t opened in weeks. Curiosity gets the better of me, because I haven’t swiped right on anyone since my thing with Eric drifted into something more serious—serious enough to introduce me to his family. Although ‘more serious’ can still mean a lot of things. We haven’t talked about being exclusive, or how we stand on monogamy in general. It’s all still so early, yet I do feel a small pang of guilt when I open the app.

Wow. The person I’ve matched with is a very attractive woman with a buzz cut and the kind of arms that suggest she takes working out extremely seriously. I vaguely remember swiping right on ‘MB’ a while ago—I would have, even though I’m picky. Where was she hiding when I was still available?

It makes me wonder how available I am right now. I close the app and put my phone away, drawing the only conclusion possible: Eric and I should talk about this. From my perspective, things between us are still pretty casual. Even though I no longer actively use them, or even open them, I’m still on a few dating apps.

My phone buzzes again. It’s a text from Eric.

Miss you.

It puts an immediate smile on my face. A man who’s not afraid to show his feelings pushes all my buttons, especially a man of Eric’s generation. There’s a lot to like, although, as with every new person you start dating, there are some question marks—his age being one of them. I’m not in the habit of dating older—my train of thought is interrupted by another text. Another one from Eric—I had no idea seventy-year-olds were so into texting.

Can I give Jen your number? Turns out she’s actually interested in that tango lesson. xo

Really? The frostiest of the St James clan is interested in private lessons with me? I might be a lot younger than Eric, but I wasn’t born yesterday. But, of course, I say yes, while thinking to myself: bring it on, Jen.

Then I put my phone on silent. It’s time for my group salsa class. Teaching makes me forget about everything else going on in my life. I never thought I’d take to it so much. I always considered myself too much of a competitor for that. But there’s such joy in helping someone stiff-limbed and self-conscious find that rhythm. That one-of-a-kind pleasure of moving your body to the beat.

When I check my phone after class, there’s a message from Jennifer St James.

Physically, Jennifer takes after her mother more than her father, but there’s an uptightness about her I haven’t seen in either—although I’ve only met Mimi once. She looks around my studio as though appraising it for some sort of real estate listing. She’s not dressed to dance—nor had I expected her to be. I know what this is. Best-case scenario, she just wants to get to know me better. Worst case, she’s here to have some kind of awkward chat with me about her father.

“I take it we won’t be hitting the floor immediately,” I say, giving her a once-over.

“I figured we’d need to talk, um, terms and such first.” She runs a hand through her dark, shoulder-length hair.

“Terms?”

“Payment et cetera. I don’t expect free lessons just because you’re sl—dating my dad.”

“How about some tea?” I nod toward my office at the back of the studio. “Come on.”

Jennifer follows me and even though she’s behind me, I can feel the tension radiating off her. I understand her apprehension. I’ve been where she is. My own father married a woman many years his junior only last year.

“I also have coffee and kombucha,” I say, as I gesture to a chair. “Or good old water, of course.”

“I’ll take that kombucha, please,” Jen says.

We settle in our chairs with our drinks, and I send her a soft smile, trying to break the ice. Jen shuffles around in her seat.

“I can give you a family discount,” I joke, not sure how it will land.