Too Good to Be True by Kristan Higgins Page A

said, smiling, his eyes going distant. “She was the girl next door. I don’t remember a day that I didn’t love her. I was twelve when her family moved into the neighborhood. Twelve years old, but I made sure the other boys knew she’d be walking to school with me.”
    His voice was so wistful that it brought a lump to my throat. “How lucky, to meet when you were so young,” I murmured.
    “Yes. We were lucky,” he said, smiling at the memory. “Lucky indeed.”
    You know, it sounded so noble and selfless, teaching a dance class to the old folks, but the truth was, this was usually the best night of my week. Most nights I spent home, correcting papers and making up tests. But on Mondays, I put on a flowing, bright-colored skirt (often with sequins, mind you) and set off to be the belle of the ball. Usually I went in early to read to some of the nonverbal patients, which always made me feel rather holy and wonderful.
    “Gracie,” Julian called, motioning for me. I glanced at my watch. Sure enough, it was nine o’clock, bedtime for many of the residents. Julian and I ended our sessions by putting on a little show, a dance where we’d really ham it up.
    “What are we doing tonight?” I asked.
    “I thought a fox-trot,” he said. He changed the CD, walked to the center of the floor and held out his arms with a flourish. I stepped over to him, swishing, and extended my hand, which he took with aplomb. Our heads snapped to the audience, and we waited for the music. Ah. The Drifters, “There Goes My Baby.” As we slow-slow-quick-quicked around the dance floor, Julian looked into my eyes. “I signed us up for a class.”
    I tipped my head as we angled our steps to avoid Mr. Carlson’s walker. “What kind of class?”
    “Meeting Mr. Right or something. Money-back guarantee. You owe me sixty bucks. One night only, two-hour seminar, don’t have kittens, okay? It’s sort of like a motivational class.”
    “You’re serious, aren’t you?” I said.
    “Quiet. We need to meet people. And you’re the one faking a boyfriend. Might as well date someone who can actually pick up the check.”
    “Fine, fine. It just sounds kind of…dumb.”
    “And the fake boyfriend is smart?” I didn’t answer. “We’re both dumb, Grace, at least when it comes to men, or we wouldn’t be hanging out together three times a week watching Dancing with the Stars and Project Runway with this as the highlight of our social calendar, would we?”
    “Aren’t we grouchy,” I muttered.
    “And correct.” He twirled me swiftly out and spun me back in. “Watch it, honey, you almost stepped on my foot.”
    “Well, to tell you the truth, I’m meeting someone in half an hour. So there. I’m way ahead of you in the dating game.”
    “Well, good for you. That’s a killer skirt you’re wearing. Here we go, two three four, spin, slide, ta-da!”
    Our dance ended, and our captive audience once again applauded. “Grace, you sure live up to your name!” cooed Dolores Barinski, one of my favorites.
    “Oh, pshaw,” I said, loving the compliment. The old folks, male and female, thought I was adorable, admired my young skin and bendable limbs. Of course it was the highlight of my social life! And it was so romantic here. Everyone here had a story, some hopelessly romantic tale of how they met their love. No one here had to go online and fill out forms that asked if you were a Sikh looking for a Catholic, if you found piercings a turnoff or a turn-on. No one here had to take a class to figure out how to make a man notice you.
    That being said, I did have a date from one of my Web sites. eCommitment had come through. Dave, an engineer who worked in Hartford, wanted to meet me. Checking out his picture, I saw that, aside from a rather dated and conservative haircut, he was awfully cute. I e-mailed back, saying I’d love to meet for coffee. And just like that, Dave made a date. Who knew it was so easy, and why had I waited so long?
    Yes, as