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against his sternum.
    “Whoa there, Vera.” He clutches onto my shoulders, the sole support keeping me upright as I sway on my heels. “You know, we could have called a cab. They do still have those here.”
    I laugh softly, steadying my quaking hands with a few cleansing breaths. “Well, I'll just have to practice my landings, won't I?”
    His answer is an inelegant, derisive snort.
    “All right, so maybe 'practice' isn't quite what one wants to hear at a moment like this,” I murmur.
    Nate makes a soft amused noise and brushes his lips across the pale arch of my temple. “Peaches, you just keep talking and I'm guessing I'll find myself in a happier frame of mind soon enough.”
    That perks my spirits up, knowing that Nate will always be happy to see me. I thread my fingers through his, fumbling my own slightly calloused fingertips over the unsettling smoothness of his. Nate's immortality possesses a few downsides, like an inability to scar or acquire wear and the growth of his supposedly thick golden hair slowing to a crawl before it finally began to fall out years ago. Nate's been shaving off the piebald patches left behind since before I met him. It probably doesn't even grow anymore by now.
    “Come on,” I whisper, pulling open the stall door and peering around the pink porcelain exterior of the bathroom to verify we're the only occupants. “Let's go excavate my parents from whatever trouble they're getting themselves into, shall we?”
    “I don't think your dad's gonna be all that thrilled if we get him out of this particular brand of trouble, you know what I mean?”
    I ignore him and tug him behind me out into the club.
    I haven't been to Swing in years, and it's apparent as soon as we surface from the dimly lit hallway leading to the restrooms that I've missed a major overhaul in the interior design. What once was red wallpaper and ebony wood stain has been replaced with cream wall coverings and rich chestnut accents.
    For as long as my parents have indulged in their public-relations dance displays here once a week, Swing has prided itself in its dedication to preserving and encouraging classic dance in timely styles. Just try to swan in the front door attired in a barely-there miniskirt and request anything dumped into the radio mainstream by a former boy-band member or treacly pop princess. The customers will cackle in gleeful delight as you're ordered to leave and probably pat you on the head on your way out as a condescending dismissal.
    It's not that the clientele of Swing spit on the trendy bejeweled twenty-somethings swaggering through their midweek barhopping or anything so crass. Swing maintains a carefully cultivated atmosphere, mixed drinks that cost an exorbitant amount but taste like ambrosia, shuffling theme nights that include period-era dress code regulations and a full orchestra to perform the appropriate musical genre.
    Needless to say, there used to be some nights at Swing I rarely missed, back when they were the only chances I was allowed to be myself.
    Luckily, neither one of us is offending the dress code too badly tonight. The orchestra pounds its way through a Benny Goodman standard, half of the musicians enthusiastically following the energetic tempo to their stomping feet. Women with plump waves in their hair and jackpot cherries on their swishing skirts cling to their dates, allowing men in wingtips and button-down shirts to twirl them around the dance floor. Couples taking a breather nurse martinis and sip from beers as they lean towards the walls to give others more room, pressing back against delicate cream wallpaper and stained accents.
    “You sure your mom and dad would hit this place up tonight? Looks a bit too energetic for Everett's tastes, if you ask me.”
    I tilt my head to give him a teasing glance and a lively grin. “You really don't talk to my dad all that much, do you?”
    “Not even a little bit, peaches.” Nate blushes, ducking his head. “Everett's never