I opened it, pulled out a twenty, and slid it across the DJ table.

“Whoa, hey,” said Ziggy. He raised his fingerless-gloved hands in the air. “I can’t take that.”

I pulled out another twenty. Slid it across the table, directly parallel to the first bill.

“This is called bribery,” said Ziggy. “I could lose my DJ gig here, just looking at this.”

I removed a third twenty. Pressed it into the table with a single, electric-blue fingernail. Slid it sloooooowly.

“Dude, fine!” said Ziggy. “I’ll play your song next. Just get that shit off my table before someone thinks I’m dealing nose candy!”

And not a yoctosecond too soon. The slowest of slow songs had finally come to an end. Ziggy’s hands danced across the keyboard like a duet—like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers—ending with a show-stopping tap of the enter key.

The sound system echoed with familiar chirping guitar chords ricocheting across the metaphorical chasm separating two hearts, somewhere in the ’80s.

Ziggy sighed, grabbed his mic, and waved it at me like a magic wand. “Shall I make a dedication, or would you like the honors?”

I grabbed the mic in response and pranced to the edge of the stage.

“WYNONNA JONES!” I said.

I pointed directly at Wynezra. She appeared double-startled because Holden had suddenly stolen away, lost in the crowds, and now her name was a Mach wave blasting from the speakers.

Her eyes met mine.

“This song is for you,” I said.

Okay, so it sounded a little narcissistic, like I was dedicating the song to myself. But Wynonna knew. And that was all that mattered.

“Many times I tried to tell you,” sang Pat Benatar, “many times I cried alone. Always I’m surprised how well you cut my feelings to the bone.”

I tossed the mic to Ziggy—which he fumbled for and barely managed to catch. I crouched down with ladylike grace, knees tucked to one side, swung my legs off the edge of the stage, and descended with finesse.

I marched directly to Wynezra. By some miracle—fueled by the magic of prom—the crowded parted before me.

They parted all the way to her.

Wynezra stared at me, openmouthed.

“May I have this dance?” I asked.

Wynezra grinned. “Yeah, okay.”

“We belong to the light, we belong to the thunder!” Pat wailed. “We belong to the sound of the words we’ve both fallen under!”

Okay, so neither Wynonna nor I was what you would call a good dancer. If anyone had been hoping for the finale of Dirty Dancing with Baby and Patrick Swayze, they would be sorely disappointed.