Two to Tango, page 10
“Oh yeah? Find anything fun?” he asks.
“Some videos.”
“Do tell.” He narrows his eyes.
“You were incredible.” I sigh.
“Just lots of practice,” he says casually, unbothered.
“Don’t be so humble,” I call out. “You’re a wonderful dancer. You’re good with your feet.” I point to his. “There was one video where you did a giro and ocho. I loved how you did it, how your feet stepped in line. Tara is fantastic, too. She’s so beautiful, so graceful. What a great partnership you two have. Or, had.” I wince.
He doesn’t say anything in response, just smiles as he listens to me ramble on. And at this point, I am absolutely rambling.
“You’ve traveled all over the world, it seems like. You’ve won championships.”
“Tell me more about your research,” he grins.
I have the decency to blush at least. “It’s very admirable, your success.”
“Mm. Success is relative.” He comes to stand next to me, looking at me in the mirror as he speaks. “You’re very successful, too.”
My parents think so, I want to tell him.
“We'll start with a warmup and then some basic moves,” he says, redirecting the conversation to why we're here.
We go through the moves slowly, Logan detailing every step and proper form. We’re starting from the beginning again, but I don’t mind. I like this thorough exploration of the dance. I like it with him.
“Let’s do a proper tango hold,” he suggests.
His arm comes around behind my back, and mine finds a home along his upper arm. He’s attentive as he touches my spine gently to adjust my posture, and the heat radiates throughout my body. I look up to meet his eyes, silently asking for validation that I'm doing this right. He looks at me, and quickly nods, like almost encouraging me to keep going. I step closer, leaning into his space, and I find that I really like it here. This feels intimate. This feels … special.
I’m looking over his shoulder, our faces almost cheek to cheek, when he gives the next direction.
“Basic step,” he says.
We move together on the basic eight count as he leads. Such a different experience from what I’ve danced so far. Maybe he was right to have me forget about Ethan.
“Remember, slow and quick,” he adds, leaning into my ear. “Every slow is two beats, every quick is one. Think of that as you walk.”
We refresh the steps for the basic cross, the ocho, and the giros briefly. I revel in this dance with a proper tango instructor, one who leads like he means it. One who meets me where I’m at.
Towards the end of our time, he grabs his laptop and sits down on the floor, pulling something up. I sit with him, drinking some water, and catch myself staring at his long limbs, his loosely defined muscles, his body moving fluidly.
“Does anybody else in your family dance?” I ask.
“Nah, not really. Gavin can do some basic steps, but he’s not big on ballroom. More of a silent supporter.” He chuckles. “What about you?”
The question inexplicably catches me off guard, and I almost choke on my sip of water. “Oh, um. My grandmother.”
“That’s nice. Yeah, it was very popular with that generation. Is she an avid dancer?”
I smile now—a small one, close-lipped—and nod. “She was.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t be,” I wave off. I don’t usually talk about her, but in this scenario, it almost feels sacrilegious not to.
“When did you move here?” he asks, and I’m grateful for the subject change.
“I was five.”
“Wow, you were practically raised here.”
I can only nod in agreement, this statement so common, then drink some more water as he continues doing whatever else on his laptop.
“Truthfully, I haven’t done private classes in a very long time,” he says.
This surprises me. “Why did you agree to do these then? You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.” He looks at me for a moment before turning back to his computer screen. “So. Homework.”
“Homework?” I ask, surprised and maybe slightly appalled.
“Work on the steps we learned today at home. Practice, practice, practice,” he recites. “And, if you feel so inclined, Google some more videos,” he smirks. “Maybe look at some other dancers. I could give you a list of some favorites?”
“No, no,” I smile. “Thank you, but I’ve got it.”
“Great.” He gives me a grin in return. “We’re going to work on the basics, get them very polished, and then little by little work on improvisation, and then eventually, a routine.”
“Wow,” I say, almost tentatively. Maybe I’m in over my head.
“You can do it. One step at a time. That might be a tango pun.”
I laugh. “This was good. Thank you.”
“It’s only gonna get better.” It sounds like a promise, and I shouldn’t love how good it sounds. There's a sudden swoop low in my belly like I'm sitting at the very top of the rollercoaster, ready to fall.
“Right. See you next week, then?” I grab my bag.
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
Chapter fourteen
Julieta
“You’re too … stiff.”
I scowl. Well, then.
“Why are you so stiff?” he asks, perplexed.
“I’m not trying to be stiff,” I answer, defensively.
“Move your limbs.”
“I am moving my limbs.”
“Just … okay, let’s try this.” He demonstrates a couple of exercises and warmups to get my arms and legs moving more freely.
I might be too nervous, doing these dances with him now privately. Sometimes I look at him dancing—the flawless delivery, the fluidity—and wonder how I could even match up.
“Bet you’re wishing you didn’t offer to do this,” I mumble.
“Not even a little bit,” he says firmly.
I start to backtrack, but he keeps going.
“We aren’t joining the tango Olympics here. It’s a fun competition. For amateurs.”
“Right,” I answer almost embarrassingly.
“And I agreed to be your partner because I wanted to. I don’t do things I don’t want to do. Remember that.”
It’s surprising to hear it. What a wonderful feeling that must be. I don’t do things I don’t want to do.
Logan sighs loudly, then takes a minute to, I assume, think.
“Okay, we’re going to try something else.” I see him walk over and grab what looks like an extra t-shirt from his bag. “Can I put this over your eyes?”
“You’re going to blindfold me?” I ask, skeptically, as I look at the shirt in his hands.
“Can I?”
“Well, you’re the professional, I guess.”
But he doesn’t rush to do it, instead just eyes me for a beat. I shouldn’t do things I don’t want to do, either, but in this instance, with him next to me holding this piece of fabric almost as a sort of peace offering, I find that I want it.
I swallow, then tell him, “Go ahead.”
As he gently slips the fabric over my eyes, his fingertips brush against my hair, and my scalp erupts in goosebumps. He ties a knot in the back tight enough to be secure.
“I don’t want you to look down at your shoes, or at me, or the mirror. I want you to feel the music. Trust your feet, and trust your body. I’m going to wrap my arm around you now, and I’ll help you do the same.” He takes my arms and positions them properly, his skin something warm that I get to explore through feel, and then we begin.
I start rough: stepping on his foot, tripping over nothing, missing a step.
“Dammit. Sorry,” I say.
“Take your time. I’m right here.”
But as it goes on, I start to find my confidence. I start to figure it out.
Maybe it’s the not looking, the feeling, the trusting. The rhythm I have to follow with my own body and then his. I walk, I turn, I sidestep and move backwards in an ocho. He leads me as he always has: gently, slowly, confidently. And as we’re temple to temple, intimate in our embrace, his deep voice is a reassuring sound in my ear.
“Very good.”
“Perfect.”
“Just like that.”
With my eyes blindfolded, and his breath on the shell of my ear, these words can almost take on a whole new meaning.
This is just a dance. He’s a professional. But it doesn’t stop my body from responding the way it does—a shiver and a trail of goosebumps on my arm. A racing heartbeat, and a secret wish. Thank God I’m blindfolded so I can be saved the embarrassment of him noticing and looking at me. Once the dance comes to an end, I pull back but keep the blindfold on as I wait for more instruction.
“That was great. Let’s do it again,” he says eagerly.
And so, we do. I wrap my arms around him, and his find a comfortable home around me.
A walk, a sidestep, an ocho, a medio giro. Again, and again. The feeling is now fiery, deep in my chest and finding a way through my veins.
His tone is low in my ear as he takes the blindfold off. “That was even better.” Our eyes meet, and his are a shade darker than I remember, burning into mine. “One more time without it. With music.”
I can do nothing but oblige.
The song starts, playing loudly through the speakers. This song is all longing and seduction, a slow rhythm meant to make for a deliciously slow dance. I walk to him slowly and we come together in an embrace. His fingers lightly brush against my ribs, moving to my back.
This is a surreal moment, grasping the elusive feeling I’ve been chasing since I started. The harmony in how we are dancing, the anticipation of each move, the follow-through. I’m letting the music move me. I’m letting it dictate as I follow.
I envision every step, I sweat with every turn. I stay focused but loose, allowing myself a moment out of the rigidity. I dream of his every step and fall in line accordingly. He leads like he was born to do it.
This time as we dance, I play the part. I let myself believe it: that I’m his, that he’s desperate for me. That I will most certainly fall to pieces if he leaves me. That I do nothing but dream of his hands and his eyes and his lips. But I'm finding that with him it's not too hard to pretend.
He is temple to temple with me, eyes closed like he’s savoring all of this, too. We sway and sway, and glide along this floor like we own it. He’s not offering any words of encouragement or otherwise, there’s just the music and our silence. All we want to say is being said through this dance. All I want to convey is being freed through these moves.
And when we stop, the music comes to an abrupt finish that should end with a pose, but we don’t break away. We stay, mere inches apart, out of breath, staring. I feel elation. This overwhelming, expanding feeling in my chest that is desperately looking for an outlet.
Logan’s smile unfurls slowly as mine follows, and his eyes fall to my mouth. The feeling, slippery and explosive in equal measure, finds an outlet in the form of a hug. One big, warm hug where my arms wrap around behind his neck, and my body takes space right next against his. A surprised grunt slips out of his mouth as I practically jump him, but his responsive arms reach around to hold me, squeeze me, and just like this I can feel how fast his heart is beating. How it sounds as fast as mine. How the dance really took it out of us.
“Thank you for today,” I tell him against his shoulder, my voice muffled.
“Thank you,” he says quietly.
“Are hugs okay? Does this break some sort of professional code?”
He chuckles quietly, rubbing my back gently. “Hugs are great.”
I peel away from him as I reluctantly say goodbye. I wish I could stay here forever. But I take my belongings, and my smile, big and bright, and I float home.
So much for not feeling anything. Right now, I feel everything.
Chapter fifteen
Logan
It’s past eleven in the morning when Gavin stumbles out of his bedroom, yawning.
“Late night?” I ask from the couch, huddled over my laptop working on a class syllabus.
“Mm,” he mumbles in response.
He’s been coming home late most nights, a different schedule than what we’ve both been used to.
“How’s work going?” I ask.
“Good, actually.” He makes himself a big bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, our favorite with stockpiled boxes in the cabinet. “Really good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He nods. “Well, Steve’s a fucking mess, but it’s … different. I’m still getting to talk to people, meet people, but it’s a little chaotic and fun and just something new.” There’s a light back in his eyes, something I didn’t fully realize was missing until just now. “My body’s sore as shit and I get home really late smelling like a fryer, but I’m having a great time.” He smiles around a mouthful of cereal. “How about you?”
“Same,” I laugh.
“Oh yeah? How are the lessons with Julie?”
“They’re going really well.” I choose my words wisely.
But there’s no denying that they are going well. The last class took a turn into unpredictable territory. I don’t know what I was thinking blindfolding her, but it helped. It fucking did something, that’s for sure.
And that hug? She hugged me.
It’s been one thing dancing with her, holding her close in a proper tango hold, but that was a kind of intimacy that left my body craving more. I’m not not a hugger, but the feel of her chest pressed up against mine, and her arms holding me tight like she couldn’t bear to let go, broke something open in me. I didn’t want it to end.
With each class I see her let loose a little bit more, and it’s only fueling this fire. She’s got power, more than she notices. She’s got an energy. It’s like she’s been pressed into a box for so long, I wonder what would happen if somebody let her out.
“Is she better than Tara?”
“She’s different.” Not that I would compare the two, anyway. There is no comparing them. Tara has had decades of experience, and at the end of the day, Julie is still an amateur. “She’s a different dancer than Tara, but—I can’t believe I’m saying this—I might feel a stronger connection with her. There’s a chemistry I feel like I’ve been missing.”
“Chemistry is good.”
I scratch the back of my neck. Chemistry is not what I was expecting. “Tara and I were great partners, but we’re tired. She’s acknowledging it; she’s taking a step back. I don’t blame her.”
“But Julie?” he asks with a smirk.
But Julie. Fuck, Julie is giving everything, and I can’t stop now. Not yet.
“I thought I was done with it, too,” I say. I know it’s not really a direct response to what he’s asking. But what I mean is that maybe these classes with Julie are somehow throwing me back in.
“Life surprises you sometimes.” He smiles around a mouthful of cereal like he knows what I mean.
“How’s it going working with her cousin?”
He pins me with a stare. “Don’t ask.”
“That bad?”
“Nah,” he says, smiling to himself. “Not that bad.”
He yawns again, pouring more cereal into the bowl.
“Hey,” he says. “I like this. You being home more. Me being home more.”
These moments between us aren’t new, but it’s been so long I kind of forgot how comforting they could be.
“Me, too,” I say.
But with that, I have to get up and get ready to go.
***
“How are the private classes going?” Tara asks once group class is done. The students have filed out, leaving us alone and the studio empty.
“They’re good. Good.” I nod in response. That’s believable enough, right? That shouldn’t result in any extra questioning. I’ve kept her up to date with the basics: Ethan bailed; Julie wanted to keep going, but things have gotten admittedly a bit more complex.
“Good,” she repeats skeptically. “Uh-huh.”
“We’ve got the third one tonight.”
“So, she was just looking for classes that worked with her schedule?” she asks, digging for more information.
“Yeah.” My voice cracks. I rub the back of my neck, clearing my throat. “Actually, she asked me to compete with her in San Diego.”
She meets me with stunned silence.
“I don’t know,” I groan. “I don’t know. This is so different from everything I’ve been feeling.” I run my hands through my dark hair, pulling at the ends in frustration, making it even messier. “This seemed important to her. I can help her.”
“You can,” she says then, her voice firm, her eyes soft. Before I can say anything else, she adds in, “I’ve got to get going. Meeting Silas. But keep me posted on this. Please.”
She gives me a hug goodbye and slips out quickly.
I have always liked the stability and precision of this dance. During separate houses and holidays, alternating weekends, and parents bad-mouthing one another, this dance kept me grounded and centered. But Julie’s making me feel off balance now. She’s starting to chip away at this numbness. Making me a little more reckless.
“Alright, what are we doing today?” Julie throws her bag down as she walks in, a night and day difference from when she first walked into this studio, looking for a way out.
She slips out of her blazer and there’s something about the act, the jacket sliding off her shoulders in slow motion and exposing her soft arms, and me watching, that is making me feel … starved. Desperately hungry as my eyes study every curve of her. I turn to look away, busying myself with the music selection.
I clear my throat. “We’re going to work on boleos, ganchos, and enganches today.”
“Sounds like a lot,” she says.
“You can do it.” I stand to walk over to her and can’t help but smile. “So, I’m going to lead with an ocho, and then quickly whip you around. You’ll twist your body, kicking your leg up.”
