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Granny taught me the two-step when I was younger, and it’s pretty much the only dance I know besides the country waltz. She’d put on “Sunny Side of the Mountain” by Porter Wagoner or Patti Page’s “Tennessee Waltz” and we’d dance around the living room with her quietly counting out the beat for me. Sometimes Granddad would cut in, and I’d watch him spin her around and around.

My chest pinches at the memory, and I squeeze Paisley’s hand as we join the circle of dancers moving counterclockwise around the dance floor. It takes us a few spins to coordinate our steps, but soon we’re moving in sync. The other couples laugh and chatter, and it’s hard not to get caught up in the fun. Paisley’s smile is so bright it’s dazzling.

My heart skips a beat and I miss a step. We trip over each other’s feet as I try to get us back on track. Paisley giggles as she stumbles into me, her forehead bumping into my chest. My hands go to her waist to steady her, and she looks up at me with a dimpled grin. Our faces are so close and her lips are so irresistible, I’m tempted to lean down and kiss her right here and now, but before I do, the music stops. She blinks and pulls away, clapping.

We join in on a few line dances. She’s just as uncoordinated as I am. We turn left when everyone else turns right, kicking our legs when we should be hitching them. We’re a mess, but this is the best time I’ve had in ages.

We totally mix up a spin and end up facing each other. Wispy strands of hair frame Paisley’s flushed face, and her nose does that adorable crinkle thing that drives me wild. She looks around at the other people dancing in lockstep and tosses her hands up in defeat.

I grab her hands and spin her around before pulling her down into a dip. Our foreheads brush and my breath catches in my chest. Paisley’s eyes go wide in surprise and then twinkle as I set her back upright.

The next song is slower. Paisley lifts her hands to my shoulders and snuggles into me. I set my hands on her waist and we sway together to the beat. “Are you having fun?” she asks.

“Yeah, are you?”

“Kinda. I…” She takes a deep breath. “I have a pretty bad case of performance anxiety, so getting up there…” She looks over at the stage.

“That’s why you don’t sing in public?” I glance down at the top of her head. The soft light from the twinkling white strands strung on the barn’s rafters above us makes her hair gleam.

Paisley leans closer and rests her head on my chest. I wonder if she can hear the way my heart skips a beat or feel the surge of adrenaline as it races through my veins.

“One of the reasons,” she says.

“And Halley knows that and she still had you get up there?”

That’s kind of a jerk move.

“Yeah.” Paisley snorts. “Everyone knows.”

“I didn’t know.”

But I do now.

It strikes me that I want to know everything about Paisley. To know her better than anyone else does. I want to watch her favorite movies together. Memorize her go-to coffee order. Learn how it feels to tuck her close on a winter day as our foggy breaths mingle in the cold.

I pull her in closer as I picture it and rest my chin on the top of her head, catching the faint scent of pine trees in her hair. I can’t believe I was stupid enough to think my time here would be easier without her. I can’t believe I almost missed out on all this.

Paisley melts into me, and we spin in slow circles. The music winds down, and soon we’re one of the few couples left on the dance floor.

When the music stops, Paisley pulls away. My arms feel empty without her. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear before wrapping her arms around her waist.

Does she miss me holding her, too?

Mr. Morgan gets back on the microphone. “First, I’d like to thank everyone for coming out and spending the better part of your day with us. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again—we are so grateful for your friendship and the time we spend together. Thank you for celebrating an early Thanksgiving with us.” He brushes a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair and shifts his weight. “Second, I know some of you have to leave soon, but just know there’s an urn full of fresh coffee and plenty of pie back there.” He points to the banquet tables. “So make sure to help yourselves before you go.”

People separate into smaller groups, pulling metal folding chairs into circles while they chat and eat dessert. Paisley’s uncle John plays his lap steel guitar, and someone pulls out a harmonica. A few other people grab instruments, and they all start improvising.

“I’ll be right back,” Paisley says.

While she’s gone, I listen to the impromptu jam session, awed by the song that they’re playing with no prior plan or practice. I wish I could do something like that.

A minute later, Paisley’s back carrying her acoustic guitar. “Here.” She hands it to me. “You should join them.”

“I don’t know…” I say.

“You don’t have to, but I can tell you want to.”

She’s right. It’s been a while since I sat and jammed with Six String Justice. Even after everything, it’s one thing I miss.