Two to Tango, page 1
Copyright © 2024 by Natalia Williams
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
ISBN: 979-8-9887512-2-9 (ebook)
ISBN: 979-8-9887512-3-6 (print)
Book Cover by Lucy Murphy, Cover Ever After
For my mom.
Also by Natalia Williams
Taking the Cake
Contents
Author's Note
Prologue
1. Julieta
2. Julieta
3. Logan
4. Julieta
5. Julieta
6. Logan
7. Julieta
8. Julieta
9. Logan
10. Julieta
11. Julieta
12. Logan
13. Julieta
14. Julieta
15. Logan
16. Logan
17. Julieta
18. Logan
19. Julieta
20. Julieta
21. Logan
22. Julieta
23. Julieta
24. Julieta
25. Logan
26. Julieta
27. Logan
28. Julieta
29. Julieta
30. Julieta
31. Julieta
32. Logan
33. Julieta
34. Julieta
35. Logan
36. Julieta
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the author
Author's Note
When I set out to write this book, I wanted to share bits of my culture and my experiences as an immigrant kid. But these experiences are not one size fits all. Each journey is different, each childhood tells a different story, and Julieta's story is just one of many.
This dives into the pressures and struggles of being raised in a new country. Especially by immigrant parents that are trying to make sure their children don't lose their culture, while coming to terms with everything else they're losing. This story features discussions of immigration. There is Spanish dialogue, and I hope I have provided enough context clues for you to understand the conversation. This story also involves the passing of a beloved grandmother and subsequent themes of grief.
Thank you for reading.
Prologue
Julieta
When I was eight years old, I got to watch my grandmother compete for the first time. She had traveled to the States for a tango competition —one that was local to us—and I sat there completely captivated.
Everybody will tell you that Celestina Rossi was captivating when she danced. That was the word. When she walked out onto that stage everybody knew they were in the presence of somebody great.
My mother insisted that we were all going to go see her. We got dressed up, and it felt like a rare special event. I got to wear my new outfit and lace-up canvas shoes. My brother was bored, of course, but he was only five.
I couldn’t help but fall completely in love with what I was watching. It was like she glided on air. Her moves were swift but purposeful. She was strong but delicate.
Strong legs, graceful arms. Powerful, mesmerizing and so glamorous.
Her lips were painted a deep wine red —her signature—and she wore a dress that swayed every time she moved, almost as if it was dancing with her, trying to keep up. Facundo, my grandfather and her longtime dance partner, danced with her, too, leading her gracefully.
I watched them take perfect steps across the floor. I sat silently watching their bodies entwined as they moved forward and back, from one end of the dance floor to the other. She danced like she loved: with abandon, with passion, with feeling.
From the corner of my eye, I caught my mother looking at me curiously, but I was too hypnotized to look away. I felt frozen, trapped in the beauty of what I was witnessing, completely succumbed to the music.
And in that moment, at that table, in a tango championship watching my grandmother dance a beautiful dance, I thought, I want to be her when I grow up.
But I was eight. What did I know anyway?
I grew up to be a lawyer instead.
Chapter one
Julieta
“Yes, I’ll get started on that first thing.”
I haven’t taken more than ten steps into the building before Barbara Prescott, my boss at Prescott and Associates, throws demands my way. She’s in her office, huddled over her desk, elbow deep in paperwork already.
“I’m also going to need those appellate briefs, plus the summary judgment motion for the Warner case,” she says in her no-nonsense tone.
I add it to my mental to-do list, walking briskly to my office.
“Morning, Jim,” I call out as I pass by Jim Haskell’s office, senior associate at the firm, his door wide open.
“Morning, Julie.”
My office is towards the back of the building, the one where the air conditioner doesn’t quite reach some days. The one where I can at least do my work in peace.
The stark white walls keep in theme with how I’ve managed to decorate. Functional and efficient and just enough of something to give this room a little indication that it’s mine. A couple of family pictures, a plant that my mother gave me that I’ve had to research to learn the best watering practices, a stock framed photo I found at TJMaxx once. Not like, say, Larissa’s with a bowl of candy and big vases with flowers and a bright painting and pictures of her sisters. Figurines and little knickknacks and an abundance of joy.
Larissa Post, paralegal at the firm, comes in shortly after. “Morning,” she calls out. Her vibrant curls match the vibrant office she’s so perfectly curated. Tight, gorgeous ringlets in a lush strawberry blonde.
“Hey, Larissa,” I say from behind my desk. “How’s it going?”
“Had a shit date,” she replies, dejected. “How are you?”
“Oh no. Again?” I boot up my computer as we chat.
“It’s fucking brutal out there. No wonder you don’t want to date.”
“Who said I don’t want to date?” I brush my long brown hair off my shoulder.
“Oh, please.” She laughs.
“So, who was this date with again?”
“Paul, the dentist?”
“Oh right.” I nod. “The one with the cute dog.”
“Maybe that’s my problem. I need to stop swiping right on guys with cute dogs. I want to befriend the dog, not them.”
“Maybe you just need to get a dog?”
“With these ridiculous hours I work? I couldn’t do that to a pet. But if there were two of us…” she sighs. “It’s rough out there is all I’m saying.”
“I believe it. And you’re right, our work doesn’t help. Speaking of, Barbara is going to have my ass if I don’t get these briefs to her, so I’ll talk to you later.”
“Need any help with it?” she offers.
“No, I’ve got it.”
“Alright.” She waves and leaves me to my work.
My office line rings shortly after. “Julie,” I answer quickly.
“Hey, Julie.” It’s Jim again. “I’ve got a prospective client in need of translation on line two. Can you take it?”
“Of course.” I answer and switch over to line two. “Julieta Martí.”
“Buenos días, Señora Martí. Busco un abogado.”
Larissa usually fields these calls, but since I’m the Spanish speaker, I’m handling this one. As the man on the line starts speaking, stating his case, I write down the information quickly. We discuss details and I ask questions as we chat.
When I first applied to law firms fresh out of law school, they were always taken aback by my background and the fact that I could speak Spanish.
“You don’t even look Hispanic!” they would proclaim.
“Where are you from?” they would pry, as if perhaps they didn’t believe me.
I was born in Argentina, I would tell them. I moved here with my family when I was five and was practically raised here.
“Oh, Argentina,” they would brush off, with a tone that seemed to mean, “So, you don’t really fit into the Hispanic stereotype society has mapped out. So, you don’t check the boxes.”
It was a rough road when we moved here, a jump in the dark that my family took to get a better life. All of them wanted the promise of a country where they could raise their children, find work, and get better pay.
But this country, with its space for opportunity and a better life, can be so unforgiving.
My parents did everything they could for my younger brother and me and in return, I made it my goal to make sure their sacrifices weren’t in vain. It was drilled in me to go to college. Get a degree. Get a good job. Make good money. Buy a house. Lay a foundation down for a solid life. Go through all the steps and go through them properly. Follow the path and do so with pride. We were given this chance, and we should remember to be grateful.
So, I went to college, and I went to law school, and I got a good job. I bought a condo, which was close enough. I went down the checklist fervently. I am successful—at least in their eyes.
I finis
The coffee area is a mess. Empty sugar packets and stirrers are littered about the counter. The creamer wasn’t put back in the fridge. I clean up as I go, throwing away the garbage and organizing the contents of the fridge, muttering to myself, Why can't anybody clean up after themselves?
I walk back to my office briskly, mug in hand, and sit back down to work on more cases.
***
“Hey, Julie. I set up your appointment for tomorrow morning at nine.” Larissa’s voice breaks me from my work as I’m typing away at the computer.
“Great. Thank you.”
“Lunch in a minute?”
I look at the time. “Yeah, sounds good.” I step away from my desk to stretch my arms out and grab my lunch bag before we walk outside together.
Our two-story building backs up to a small pond with lush green grass surrounding it. Somebody had the foresight to put some picnic tables around it, and Larissa and I have taken to eating lunch out here whenever the time and weather allow. Right now, we’re still dealing with end of summer heat that precedes rainy evenings brought on by hurricane season. A deceptively long stretch that lasts through summer into November.
“So, Paul showed up twenty minutes late,” Larissa tells me as she unpacks her lunch, huffing in annoyance. She leans in like she’s bursting at the seams, her curls bouncing in tandem, ready to vent to anybody about this awful date. “He told me as he sat down that he’s not a big fan of tacos. Tacos! He kept getting annoyed that I was asking about his dog, and then he ended the night by talking about how gummies ruin your teeth. I know they ruin my teeth. I don’t need you to be holier than thou right now, Paul.”
“He sounds terrible.”
“Terrible,” she agrees.
Larissa is my age, near mid-thirties and constantly dating. She’s highly sociable and friendly, and while I’ve always appreciated her work ethic, I’ve never been comfortable enough to get closer than colleagues. But sometimes I wonder if I should just try.
She sighs, stabbing at her salad. “This job is taking up too much of my time. There is no work-life balance here, you know?”
“Yeah. That’s law for you.” I shrug. “By the way, I need motions filed for the Hernandez case,” I add, bringing the attention back to work.
“Of course.” She nods, as if she understands that she’s veered the conversation elsewhere. “You’ve got an appointment set up tomorrow at eleven.”
“Did you figure out that issue with your password?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Perfect. Thank you.” I look at my watch, then take another bite of my own lunch in silence.
“Doing anything fun tonight?” she asks.
I huff out a laugh. “No. I’ll probably be here late tonight.”
She sighs again, “We are mercilessly bound to this job, to our paychecks. To the hope that we’re helping somebody. But are we really at the end of the day?”
I don’t expect perpetually happy Larissa to feel this way. Maybe she’s having a hard day. Maybe her date with Paul the dentist took it out of her.
Or maybe, more realistically, she’s right.
We work in employment law. I got into it for the hope of helping others, too. But it’s become long hours and high emotions and a shitty boss to deal with.
“It’s a tough job, that’s for sure,” I agree. “Is there anything you need?” I can carry this weight for her if I need to.
“I don’t know.” She shakes her head and smiles weakly. “I’m okay.”
And with that, we finish up our lunch and stand to get back to work. The walk inside is quiet, but Larissa and I both turn our game faces on, ready to get on with the day. And I make it a point to take on more of the workload to give her a break.
I power off and head to the door sometime close to eight, blindly walking to my car and getting in. At this time, the rush hour traffic has died down. A perk of working so late, I guess.
By the time I’m at my apartment, parking in my designated spot, I realize that I don’t know how I even got here. Well, yes, I know I drove here. But really how I got here. Because I got in my car, and the next thing I knew, I couldn’t remember anything—my walk, my drive. I’d been too busy, too zoned out. Probably staring at my phone at red lights. Following up with more emails, texts. A constant loop of constant communication. Of somebody needing something, or somebody else demanding my attention, and me, willing to give it. All of my time, all of my energy. Scrolling from the morning I wake up, answering early phone calls and messages, right up until I close my eyes, letting the blue light accompany me to sleep. My phone sits on my nightstand right next to me every night, within arm’s reach, easy to access. I’m ready to respond to anybody at any time.
Larissa had a point when she said there is no work-life balance. But some days I wonder why I would need it when I aim to fit my life around my job instead of the other way around.
I walk into my building and pass by the nighttime security at the desk, scrolling on his phone barely giving me a glance. He looks relatively young, always working the night shift, always bored.
I hop into the elevator and take it up to the seventh floor. I bought this place for its proximity to work, a quiet building in midtown that is a comfortable distance from the rest of my family.
Once home, I kick off my shoes, jump in for a shower, and step into comfortable pajamas. I grab a handful of nuts for a snack, having already eaten a quick dinner at the office. I bring my case folders to my bed, my phone nearby. And I go over notes and pieces of information, working on yet another checklist for the following day.
I brush my teeth, I wash my face, I apply my nighttime skin creams. This, too, is a checklist. One that I go down every night. One that I can follow with my eyes closed.
I make lists and I cross them off and I wake up and I work and I come home and I work and I follow every list like a robot.
And then I wake up and do it all again.
Is this the successful life my parents wished for me? Some days I can’t help but wonder.
Chapter two
Julieta
“Hola,” I call out, walking right into the house without knocking. I’m right on time for our weekly Sunday family dinner.
My brother, Dario, is already on the couch, channel surfing. I lean down to give him a kiss on the cheek in greeting.
The walls I walk by are covered with Argentinian relics and family photos in mismatched frames. I make it to the kitchen where I find my mom battling trays of empanadas. She fills a dough round, folds it over, and expertly twists the ends into a decorative shape, the kind I could never figure out how to do.
“Hola, ma,” I say, peeking into the pot of empanada filling dreamily. My cousin Agostina bursts in shortly after me, calling out, “Hola!”
When she makes her way to the kitchen, she doesn’t think twice as she grabs a spoon from the drawer, digs right into the pot, and stuffs her mouth full of the meat and olive mixture.
“Agostina!” my mom cries out.
I try to hide my laugh on the walk back into the living room. “She’s going to ban you from eating empanadas,” I tell her over my shoulder.
Agostina loves to eat the filling right out of the pan every time my mom makes it, not that I can blame her. Always little spoonfuls that don’t really make a dent in the amount. At least, it never appears that way. But those spoonfuls add up. One time, she ate so much of it there was one dough round left, but no more filling for it. My mom was so upset, she didn’t stop talking about it for six months.
“No, she won’t,” she responds, matter of fact.
She’s probably right. My mother loves to feed her family, finds immense joy in it, no matter how pissed she is at them.
I’m about to sit down on the couch next to my brother when my mom calls me back into the kitchen to help. My other cousin Delfina is already in there dressing thickly sliced tomatoes with olive oil, salt, and dried oregano.
“Hey,” I greet her.
“Hey, what’s up?” She answers without looking up, her light brown hair pulled back in a ponytail.
