“Our first foray into teamwork is off to a bumpy start,” I hiss, cha-cha- ing real smooth as instructed.

Eli slides me a look as he hitch-steps. “Don’t judge our abilities on this.

Remember the ring yesterday?”

How could I forget? I’ve been playing it on an endless loop, minus the ring-saving—how it felt to have his arms around me again, the way his lips nearly—

“It’s not us,” Eli continues, reaching out to steady me as I stumble. “It’s him.”

“And then usually I transition right into ‘Cotton Eye Joe’ from the ‘Cha- Cha Slide,’ ” Danny Diamond calls out, adjusting the fedora perched on his head. A sequin leaps poetically from his red vest, landing near the toe of his saddle shoe.

I had a sinking feeling when the address we entered into Google Maps led us to a dilapidated Napa strip mall, but I forced myself not to judge a book by its cover.

Turns out, I should have. Adam and Grace’s potential DJ for the biggest day of their lives bears an uncanny resemblance to the principal from She’s the Man, a thought that’s distracted me every second of the thirty-three minutes he’s walked us through “the experience”—a live demonstration of his typical wedding set, where participation is required.

“I love ‘Cotton Eye Joe,’ Danny,” Adam’s voice rings out. “Great vision there.”

I glance at Eli’s phone propped up on a rickety coffee table in the “lobby,” which is the table squeezed between two sagging, puke-green couches on the other side of the room.

We dialed in Adam and Grace when we got here and since then I’ve watched as Adam has moved through the five stages of grief. Grace dipped while Danny was in the middle of explaining why “The Chicken Dance” is

still relevant, claiming nausea (same), but Adam’s been with us for the entire debacle.

That fifth stage of grief? Trolling.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Eli roll his. I’m almost certain Adam’s never even heard that song; he doesn’t acknowledge nineties pop music.

Eli nods his chin toward the phone. “It’s intervention time. We’ve got three minutes before he loses it.”

The first notes of “Cotton Eye Joe” hit like the beginnings of food poisoning, as a rumble in my gut. I hold a finger up toward Danny. “We need a quick intermission to chat with the groom. Be back in a sec.”

He throws me a dazzling smile. “No problem, I’ll keep the music pumping.”

Thanks to my enthusiastic participation, I’ve managed to do what I couldn’t with Margot: capture Danny Diamond’s undying adoration. Unfortunately, it’s useless to me.

I drag Eli off the scuffed dance floor and over to Adam. We crouch down, scooching closer to fit onscreen, which puts Eli’s thigh against mine from knee to hip. A waft of his pheromone-laced, spicy scent drifts right up my nose. It might as well be going straight into my veins; my mind goes blank, caught up in an Eli Mora sensorial storm.

I’ve tried my damnedest to forget what happened yesterday, but every time Eli gets within six feet of me, it’s like we’re back in that kitchen. I’m hearing the tortured breath he let out when he pulled me tight to his body, feeling the raging beat of his heart, hearing him tell me to pull away, because he couldn’t.

Maybe it was all muscle memory and nostalgia, but certain parts of me aren’t getting the message.

“Hey, bud.” Eli’s greeting to Adam is low. It rumbles through me, shaking me out of my haze.

“Uh, yeah, what the fuck?” Adam hisses back. “Are we seriously getting stuck with the ‘Chicken Dance’ man?”

I grimace. “There’s no one else?”

“Not within a mile of our budget.” He runs a hand over his face, groaning. “I am cursed. This is karma for stealing that car senior year.”

“Wasn’t that an accident?” I ask.

“Yes!” he exclaims, throwing up his hands. “Doesn’t mean it isn’t the reason for my curse.”

Eli leans in. “Adam, you’ve done so many more curse-worthy things in your life.”

“Between the two of us, we could come up with a much stronger list,” I agree.

He raises an eyebrow at me. “Ten things, at least.”

“Twenty, probably,” I muse, sliding him a look. “Starting with the—”

“The thing, right,” Eli catches on immediately, dipping his chin as a tiny, conspiratorial grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. We’ve teased Adam like this a hundred times since we broke up. But this is the first time in over five years it’s felt natural, not like a performance.

It should scare me—and it does. But it also feeds something I’ve shut away for so long.

“What would you put that one at, curse-worthy wise?” he asks, shifting on the balls of his feet. His knee presses more firmly against mine and I let it.

“Has to be number one.”

“Really? I was going to say three, because of the other thing—”

I let out a low whistle, glancing at Adam, who’s watching us with his arms crossed, his expression bemused. “I forgot about that. Extremely curse-worthy. Definitely number-one material.”

“Good thing you have us to keep you honest, Kiz,” Eli says. “Accidental grand theft auto doesn’t even—”

“Okay, you dickheads,” Adam says, laughter finally breaking free. “Instead of doing your banter-attack thing, why don’t you take care of me emotionally? Save the roasts for your best people speech.”

“I’m not going to roast you,” I assure him, picturing the handwritten speech I completed weeks ago. “It’s the perfect mix of charming and touching, actually. Which is exactly what the rest of your wedding will be.”

“Yeah, and it’s going to be musically backed by the fucking ‘Hokey Pokey,’ ” Adam says, but his mouth twists into an easier smile. We’re turning a corner.

Eli leans in to close the sale. “Listen, you’re not getting anything out of watching this. Georgia and I will take care of the rest of the appointment. Go hang out with your wife.”

Adam wags a finger. “Not my wife yet.”

“In five days, though,” Eli says, and his voice drops into a sweet, cajoling timbre that whispers across the back of my neck. “And it’s going to be awesome, I promise.”

Adam sighs. “Right. I need to focus on that.”

“Yes, and we’ll focus on this. We won’t walk out of here without a plan, okay?” Eli holds a fist up to the screen. Adam does, too, with a smile that’s less anxious than it was two minutes ago.

His eyes dart to me and I nod, tucking away every trace of my doubt. “We’ve got this.”

“Love you, squad, thanks for always having my back.” On a dime, his fond smile turns into a smirk. “George, don’t end up on any tables if he plays Lil Wayne, okay?”

I let out an indignant gasp as Eli’s shoulder shakes against mine. “That happened one time—”

The call ends.

“Little asshole,” I mutter.

“I mean, I won’t stop you,” Eli says, “if that’s where the music takes you.”

When I glance at him, he runs a hand over his mouth, wiping away a smug grin.

“The music will not take me.”

“Oh, uh…” The last thing in this world I need is to be pressed up against Eli while some love song plays. “I think we understand how that works. Actually—”

“That’s great,” Eli speaks up, walking back to the dance floor. He turns to me as the overhead light dims, holding out a hand, his gaze intent. Get over here, is the message.

I go.

The music starts as I step into the cradle of his body. It’s an old Norah Jones song, but still shockingly modern compared to anything else Danny’s played. I wrap one arm around Eli’s neck, letting him take my right hand in his. It feels like that hug yesterday, but with intention.

I know exactly what I’m doing and I’m doing it anyway, because Eli asked me to.

The cutout in my pale blue summer dress is suddenly a liability. It’s at my lower back, exactly where Eli lays his hand, and it’s like being electrocuted, like being liquefied from the inside out. I’m barely human, just a wildly beating heart and spiraling attraction.

“Why are we doing this?” I croak out.

It takes him a beat to respond. “Because we’re rallying right now. We’re going to come up with an idea and when this song is over, we’re going to pitch it to Danny and get the fuck outta here, then drink an entire bottle of wine in celebration.”

I manage a laugh, my mouth nearly at his neck. His skin turns textured right there, tiny hairs standing on end, and I huff out another breath to watch it happen again. “All right, let’s rally. Before Danny interrupted us, you said, ‘Why don’t we…’ ”

“I—” He pauses. His fingers graze up my spine, then still, remembering we don’t do that anymore. “No idea. I think I was about to say something terrible so you could riff off it with something genius.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “You overestimate me.” “You underestimate yourself.”

The compliment does its job, as he probably intended. My brain kicks into fix-it mode, writing out options, crossing each one out as I get to them.

But then— “A list.”

“A list,” he repeats, a low murmur across my cheek.

“We’ll give him a list of songs he can play, and tell him he can’t deviate from it. We’ll pay him extra for it if we have to. Adam has about five hundred Spotify playlists we can pilfer from to make sure it’s what he wants.”

Eli pulls back, a smile blooming. “See? Genius.” “It could work, right?”

“It’s our best shot by far. We have nothing to lose except ‘Cotton Eye Joe.’ ”

I start to extricate myself. “Great, let’s—”

“Finish the song.” Eli’s palm is warm pressure at the small of my back, and it brings a flash of memory with it—his hand right there, pressing me down onto our bed. “I don’t want to insult his ‘experience’ before we ask for a deviation from it.”

“Sure,” I whisper. “Okay.”

We keep dancing. It feels incredible. Like torture. I finesse it in my mind until I can rationalize why we don’t have to stop: this is teamwork. Our new dynamic is an inarguable improvement from what we’ve been doing the last five years. If I can live in this space without slipping further into one that might hurt me, this week will be a success.

It’s just that I’ve only ever fully fallen into things with him: friendship, love, turning him into a stranger. I have to be careful to keep myself right here—in his arms, fine, but only for this moment.

When the song is over, I nearly fling myself out of Eli’s hold. My hip catches on his still-curled fingers, and he looks at me, dazed.

“Danny,” I say, unable to tear my gaze away from Eli’s for one second, then another. Finally, his expression clears, and he nods, a silent the floor is yours.

I turn to Danny, hands clasped in front of me. “We’d like to make you a deal.”

I’m curled up in bed, my pillow person at my back, mindlessly scrolling on my phone.

I can’t sleep. I got close earlier when Eli was in the pool and the sound of his measured strokes lulled me into a sort of trance.

But it’s silent now, well after midnight, and my brain is on an acid trip of thought patterns. Everything is either Eli-shaped—familiar and heated and somehow also completely different—or disaster-shaped—a list of the things that refuse to get checked off.

Danny Diamond wasn’t too keen on our idea.

“Now, Georgia, I like you, but I’ve been doing this for nearly thirty years. I know what works and what doesn’t.” His mouth pulled into a disappointed line. “You can take me or leave me, and by the sounds of this request, you’re going to have to leave me.”

It was my idea, and my fault he rejected us. It doesn’t matter that we wouldn’t have been able to hire him otherwise. All I can see is another thing that’s gone wrong.

I toggle back to my text messages with Jamie. She’s been checking in every day and I’ve been responding, but tonight she wrote, Okay, your text messages are a) too bubbly and b) way too infrequent. Is everything good up there??

My response was a paragraph just to prove her wrong, but the message boiled down to the same as all the others. I can’t tell her that the curse is alive and well: Everything is good. We’re making progress! Miss you, can’t wait to see you Friday. Xo

I didn’t hear from her after that, so I assume the text did its job.

I close my eyes, manifesting a lobotomy, a win. Some sign that everything is going to be okay, that things will at some point turn the corner from mindfuck to the way I need my life to be: compartmentalized and controlled.

What feels like seconds later, I wake with a start. Was that—?

Yes, a knock at my window. The ceiling swirls above me while I figure out what year I’m in, if I’m sixteen-year-old Georgia and I’m going to sit up and find sixteen-year-old Eli at my window, beckoning me outside like he used to.

I sit up, my eyes flying to the window. There is someone there, covered in white. A ghost.

My mouth opens to scream.

“Georgia,” the ghost says, exasperated.

But it’s not a ghost. It’s twenty-eight-year-old Eli, asking me to let him

in.