The quartet goes through three more pieces before launching into their finale, Gogic’s interpretation of a Serbian folk song. The tune is so infectious that the audience claps to the beat, and a young couple starts to dance, twirling to the melody. The first violinist uses his bow to motion for others to join in, and more couples pair off around us. Even the little kids start shaking their hips.

That’s when the old woman next to me elbows me and whispers, “You should ask your young man to dance!”

I balk and whisper back, “He’s not my young man.” I mean, I wish . . .

She doesn’t miss a beat. “I sat out too many dances at your age. I hope you don’t mind if I try to make up for lost time.”

She proceeds to tap Milo’s shoulder and asks him something that I can’t hear, but it makes his eyes widen. Then he’s grinning and he holds out his arm for the woman to take, like they’re in a Jane Austen novel.

“A dance, my lady?” he says before they join in with the others.

I clap as I watch them, but my heart isn’t quite into it. It’s fun watching Milo dipping his septuagenarian dance partner, but now I’m kicking myself because I should be the one getting dipped. His hands could be on my waist right now, our bodies only inches apart, but that dancing grandma beat me to the punch.

Soon the song ends, and it’s showtime for me. I can do this. I’ve been practicing how I would ask Milo to spring fling all week. I even wrote out the lines: Did you hear that Ingrid asked Ben to spring fling? I was thinking that it could be fun if we went together. You know, as friends. Thea told me not to say that last part, but I’m keeping it in because I need to take baby steps and I’m definitely a newborn when it comes to dating.

“So,” I say to Milo, my pulse galloping off the racetracks. Hold on, what was my line again? Did you hear . . . something, something?

Oh no.

Milo waits for me to continue. “Sooo?”

I should just ask him to the dance—there’s no need to get fancy—but I get a panicky feeling in my chest and my brain is shouting at me, Abort! Mission abort! So I say the next thing I can think of: “Want to get gelato at the food court?”

Milo loves sweets in any form, including gross stuff like stale Peeps, so he’s quick to say, “I’m game. Do you know the way?”