An elderly man had stepped onto the dance floor, staring down at a white rose trembling in his own hands, while Elliot walked toward him with a patient, familiar kind of smile — the exact same one I'd seen him wear exactly once before, the day he'd taught our nephew to ride a bicycle.
Confusion pushed straight through the heartbreak.
Who was this man? And why was my husband looking at him instead of the woman I'd been so certain was the entire reason I'd followed him here?
Who was this man?
I stayed exactly where I was.
"I don't think I can do it," the old man repeated.
The dance instructor smiled kindly. "That's what you said last week, Gordon."
"And the week before," Elliot added.
The old man sighed. "I mean it this time, guys."
Elliot walked over and rested a hand on his shoulder. "No. You're just scared this time."
The room went quiet.
"I haven't asked a woman to dance since I was seventeen years old," Gordon said, his voice cracking just enough to tell me this was no joke at all. "I keep thinking she'll laugh at me."
I keep thinking she'll laugh at me.
Elliot shook his head. "No. You keep imagining she'll laugh at you. That's different." He picked the rose back up off the floor and pressed it into Gordon's hand. "My grandfather used to tell me something."
Gordon looked up.
"He said most people think regret comes from hearing someone say no." Elliot's voice softened. "But almost all real regret comes from never actually asking in the first place."
Almost all real regret comes from never actually asking in the first place.
Gordon stared down at the flower. "I've already wasted fifty-eight years, son."
"Then don't let another five seconds decide the rest of it for you, Gordon."
The words settled over the whole room like something physical.
I suddenly understood I wasn't looking at a secret romance at all.
I was looking at borrowed courage.
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