Two to Tango, page 13
I almost want to fight that nobody needed to get my car, that I could have figured it out on my own, but they did and now I don’t have to. Now I have one less thing to worry about.
In bed, with my Jello limbs and my dull aches and my churning stomach, I think about how I have so much paid time off. Would the world really end if I just took it for once?
Before I can think too much about it and lose my nerve, I call Barbara. I take a deep breath, this act making me even more nauseous.
“Barbara Prescott.”
“Hey Barbara,” I clear my throat. “Good morning. I’m so sorry to have to do this, but I am not feeling well. I can’t make it in today.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” I push forward. “Must have been something I ate. Not sure.”
“Fine. Can you work on your cases at home then?”
Can I? Probably. But do I want to? I feel my stomach churn some more as we have this conversation. “I’m actually going to take the day.”
Her huff on the other line is loud. “Fine. See you next week.” She hangs up, and the phone call is done. I feel the lingering guilt for a minute, but then it slowly starts to evaporate. Lifting and lifting until I feel free of it. Well, I feel like shit—my own fault—but I have banked sick leave and I’m going to take it. I’m finally going to take it.
As I crawl back into bed, the night comes back in pieces. Little ones, like dancing and loud music, laughing with Logan. Then bigger ones, like the elevator ride up, my purse spilling onto the floor, the feel of Logan’s grip on my arm. How it all still feels so potent.
I pull up my messages and type out another one.
Chapter eighteen
Logan
Julie: Thank you for having T get my car.
I read the text, and I can’t help but smile. I know it’s early. I know I’m about to push my luck, but I take the risk and call her.
“This is a bold move,” she teases when she answers, her voice rough with sleep and—I can only imagine—one really bad hangover.
“I thought so, too.” I laugh.
How much of last night does she remember? How much does she want to remember anyway? I might have said too much, lost in whatever moment we were having, but her drunken confessions threw me for a loop, too.
“So.” I clear my throat. “About last night.”
“God, how much of a mess was I?” she groans.
“You were a delight.” I smile.
She snorts. “I’ll take that as a five out of ten.”
“The more important question is how are you feeling?”
“How do you think I’m feeling? Like shit.” She laughs. “And can I tell you … I called out of work.”
“Wow.” I’m impressed.
“I know. Used a sick day and everything.”
“Wild streak,” I tease.
“You’re a bad influence,” she says. But with the raspy sound of her voice and the quiet cadence, it doesn’t feel much like an accusation as it does an invitation to play along.
“I think you like it,” I tell her.
And in that same quietly seductive voice she says, “I think I do, too.”
I wish I could see her right now. I wish I could go back to last night and watch her again, her body moving on the dance floor, sweaty and messy and not caring about a thing.
“You know, it’s okay to be a little reckless, but maybe pace yourself. Hangovers are not the same in your thirties.”
Her answering laugh is loud, but I imagine there’s a blush attached to it. One that follows her neck down, one I’d love to follow, too.
“Hey Julie,” I start.
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry I just left you hanging like that.”
“You didn’t leave anything hanging.”
“I did,” I insist.
“You were trying to get away from the drunk girl that was blabbing away. Nobody would blame you.” She huffs out a laugh. “I crossed a line, and I made you uncomfortable.”
“You didn’t make me uncomfortable,” I tell her.
“You sure looked it.”
“You were drunk,” I admit. I didn’t know how to handle everything she was saying to me when she was drunk enough that there was a chance she wouldn’t remember. “I don’t know what you remember about last night …”
“I remember all of it, believe it or not.”
Everything gets quieter; everything becomes amplified. The sound of her breath on the other line, the rustle of bedsheets where I assume she’s sprawled out, the clearing of her throat. So that answers that.
“I meant everything I said,” I whisper.
“I meant it, too,” she reveals, and my eyes close at the sound of it. “So, what are the rules now?”
My mind is trying to catch up with my heart, that’s the issue. This is foreign territory. This is … I don’t know what the hell this is.
“There’s a milonga tomorrow night,” I say instead. “Come with me.”
“Uh. Not sure if I’m there yet.”
“You are. There’s a practice session an hour before, and then the milonga runs all night. But you could stay as long as you wanted. It could help you get a feel for different styles, help you get comfortable. Really get your feet wet. What do you think?”
“I think this feels like a low blow asking me when I’m hungover.”
I let out a small laugh. I haven’t been to one in a while. I’ve felt oddly removed from it, and the thought of going with Julie … well, it would be good for her. Maybe good for both of us. “People are non-judgmental. It’s just meant to be a good time. Drink some wine—”
“Don’t talk to me about alcohol right now,” she groans.
“Eat some snacks.”
“Also, no.”
“There’s a tango DJ. Does that sound enticing?”
“You’re funny,” She chuckles, but the following silence makes me wonder if she’s thinking about it. “And I can practice before hand? With you?”
“Yeah, we can meet an hour before.”
“Okay,” she concedes. “What time?”
“Let’s meet at six. The milonga starts at seven. Ideally you want to dress up for this but try to be comfortable. Oh, and it’s at the Midnight Ballroom. Down on Tenth street?”
“Yeah, okay. I can do that.”
I’ve got her, and now I need to keep going. “Want me to pick you up?” I offer.
“Seems to be the theme,” she quips. “Sure, I would love that.”
“Great. I can’t wait.” I bounce on the balls of my feet, the anticipation building.
“Hey Logan? Thanks for last night.”
“For what?”
“You know what. You carried me into a car for crying out loud.” She huffs out a laugh.
“Always. You know that.”
Her answering sigh is loud over the phone as she says, “Yeah. I guess I do.”
***
“Hey, do you think mom and dad gave you too much responsibility?”
“Uh …” Gavin is on the couch, remote in hand, searching for whatever new Netflix documentary he’s going to binge.
“Like, did they make you take care of me because you were the oldest?”
“They didn’t make me.” He shakes his head. “I wanted to. I had to. You know how things were after the divorce.”
“Yeah.” I nod.
“Why? What’s this about?”
“Just a question. Did you ever feel like you couldn’t prioritize your own things?”
“Are you okay?” he asks, mildly concerned.
“Yeah, I’m fine. I know you did a lot for me back then.” He got a full-time job at eighteen, balancing school and work, offering to help me pay for the ballroom classes when the tuition increased. He wanted me to keep going—fully supportive, fully proud of me. “Did I take anything away from you?”
“I didn’t have to do anything, Logan,” he tells me, brows scrunched together. “I already said that. I wanted to do it for you. What’s this about?”
“Maybe you felt resentful towards me, I don’t know.”
“Nah.” He’s quiet for a while, looking at me, his mind probably racing. “I did what I did for you because I wanted to. And I hope you know that. I got to live my life, too. I did plenty of things for myself. You didn’t stop me. Mom and dad didn’t stop me.”
“Okay,” I say, trying to ease out of the topic of conversation. “Well, I’ve got a full day of classes and then I’m headed to the milonga tomorrow night.”
“Is this about San Diego?”
I almost flinch at those words but manage to shake my head. He’s talking about last year. The competition that Tara and I made a mess of. But now with the promise to Julie, the weight of San Diego is that much more prevalent.
“I’ve been proud of you from the very beginning, Logan,” he says clearly. “That shit isn’t changing. Ever. We all have bad days. You’re still alright in my book.”
I scratch the back of my neck, probably a nervous habit at this point. He’s said these things to me before. He said them then, a year ago, but with the both of us working on new trajectories of our lives, it seems oddly more genuine. “Thanks.”
“Are you still searching for jobs?”
“I’m not going to work with Steve if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Fair enough,” he laughs.
“I don’t know what I’m doing yet.” Truthfully, I don’t.
“Also, fair,” he says. “Have fun at the milonga then. It’ll probably be a late night for me, and a busy weekend, so see you when I see you.” He lifts his hand in a wave, remote still in the other as he presses play on a documentary about koala rescue habitats.
“See you later.”
Suddenly, everything seems so different.
Suddenly, everything feels like it’s starting new.
Chapter nineteen
Julieta
Tia Cecilia used to frequent milongas when I was younger, going out and staying until late. She would stumble back home laughing and humming to herself, her dress stretched out around her body like she’d been dancing all night. She always made it a point to wear something flowy or stretchy, something with give to allow for movement. I remember that now as I’m desperately searching my closet for something, anything decent, to wear. I find a simple black dress with thin straps, falling just past my knee, a slit up the side. A dress I bought on a whim for a date with Jeremy. I didn’t end up wearing it, breaking up shortly after instead. That was probably for the best anyway, but this dress will do.
My grandmother’s signature look was always a bright red lip. Didn’t matter how the years crept up on her, she kept that signature. And I always thought it was the most sophisticated look.
I feel a little more than silly as I try to recreate it now. Deep, lush, ruby red painted on in strokes. Any other dancer could fashion a glamourous updo with their long flowing hair. My short bob gets pinned back with small pins, brushed away from my face. I step into the shoes, buckling them with the same nerves I felt the first time. I’ve been wearing them for weeks now, but this somehow feels more official. Headed to a milonga in these shoes feels like I’m really doing the thing.
When I look at myself in the mirror, the surprise is jolting. There’s a steady acknowledgement that I look damn good in this dress. And Jeremy didn’t deserve to see me in it anyway.
But Logan…
Well, maybe he’ll like it. Not that I’m dressing up for him. But maybe he’ll appreciate that I look presentable, that I’m properly dressed for the part.
Though after Thursday night, I don’t know where anything stands.
One more look, one more turn in the mirror. Maybe I’m lying to myself. I should at least aim to be honest. There’s no point in going down this rabbit hole searching for the authenticity in my life if I’m not going to be honest with myself.
The knock on the door breaks me from it and I race to answer, smile on my face. When I step out to greet him, his jaw turns slack, slowly perusing my body in this dress. I feel practically naked.
“Wow.” There’s a devilish smile in place now. “You look great.”
“Oh. Thank you,” I reply, but the compliment makes me stand up straighter. It makes me feel like I’m getting it right. And this dress, I can admit, is for him.
He leans in to kiss me on the cheek in greeting and the move, familiar in every other aspect of my life, surprises me.
“You look great, too,” I add in. And he does. With loose pants again, and a button-down shirt. It looks casual, yet somehow professional. Like he knows what he’s doing just fine. He smells faintly like cologne, something generic enough that I’ve probably smelled many times over in the courthouse, but on his skin it smells bright and novel and deliciously sexy.
“Let’s go dance.” He smiles as he offers me his hand, and we walk to the elevators and out to his parked car.
“Okay, here’s a quick rundown of a milonga,” he begins as we drive down Seventh Street.
“I know what a milonga is.”
“Do you know the etiquette?”
I eye him. “Give me a refresher.”
“So, it’s a social night for the tango community. That’s it, first and foremost. Nobody is judging you, there isn’t a prize to be won. This is just a good time. The fun thing about milongas is the casual aspect of it. You can people watch; you can drink your wine in the back of the room if you want. That being said, I’d like you to dance with different partners tonight, if that’s alright. Get a feel for different styles.”
He keeps his eyes on the road as he talks, but I can’t help but look over at him: his hand loose over the steering wheel, his hair that same mess as always. He takes up space—in this car, in the studio. Wonderfully. And he does so without a second thought.
“The practica will help get you acclimated to the milonga style. There’s a closer embrace and the steps are quicker and shorter. It’s meant to be improvisational, fun.”
“Fun,” I repeat, with a tight smile, but the nerves are starting to emerge.
“The cabeceo,” he keeps going. “If a man is making eye contact and you’d like to dance with him, you need to hold eye contact and give a nod. If you’re not interested, you look away.”
I just stare.
“You should wait until he approaches you, and then he’ll lead you to the dance floor.”
I can’t help but snort in laughter. “Oh God.”
“He can also verbally ask you, but it’s not as common. But even in those situations, do not be afraid to say no. A no is very respected in a milonga, at least it should be. Also, no talking during the tanda.”
The tanda I know. It’s two to three songs in the same tempo that are played for dancing.
“One tanda is customary, and it’s enough,” he continues. “You say thank you once the tanda is done, and that is a means to an end. Two tandas … well, that means he’s probably interested in more than just a dance.” He winks, mouth curved into a smirk.
“What year is it again?”
“Don’t walk through the dance floor when getting on or off, try to walk around. And just have fun with it.” He turns into the parking space effortlessly.
“Just have fun with it after you listed forty-seven rules for me to follow?”
He puts the car in park, then turns to look at me. “This should be a good time, something enjoyable, so let yourself have it.”
We open our doors, stumbling out into the warm night, and I can’t help but laugh in response again.
“What?”
“I don’t know how I ended up in this predicament with you mansplaining a milonga to me, but here we are.”
“Unless you’re in the tango community, it’s not the most common knowledge. Even to Argentinians.”
“I guess so,” I say. But maybe I would have hoped to know. I should have known all of this.
“You alright?”
“Just nervous, I guess.” Just dragging up memories. Just remembering why I’m here.
“Hey.” He stops walking. “You know you can say no to me, right?”
“What?”
“You can say no.”
“I know that,” I respond, but the answer falls flat. Do I know that? Of course, I do, why is he saying this?
“I just want to make sure you know. Fun, remember? If it starts to feel like a chore, or like pressure, then you can step away. I won’t be upset about it.”
But what happens when I can’t let myself step away? I think. “Okay,” I nod.
“Okay,” he replies with a deep breath, and he opens the door to the ballroom. Logan takes my hand, my very own lifeline, and we walk in. “Vamos a bailar.”
Chapter twenty
Julieta
“I found us a table over here if that works?” He points to a small round one. It’s close enough to the dance floor to watch other couples dance, but not so close that we’re in it.
We spent the hour before doing the practica, standard practice where I worked on getting used to a quicker, more improvisational technique.
“This is great, thanks.”
“Would you like some wine?” he asks. “Or are you trying to take it easy, party animal?”
This makes me chuckle, something looser, as I answer, “I’ll just take a cup of water.”
“You got it. I’ll be right back,” he smiles.
He walks through the crowd easily, like he’s familiar with all of this. People call his name, and he stops to give each person a greeting: a kiss on the cheek, a handshake, a hug. They look so happy to see him. He gets caught up in animated conversation, and there’s something so comforting about it. About how embedded he is in it, how he knows the language and the customs, how they’ve welcomed him, too.
Older couples are standing around the dance floor, and the tango DJ is setting things up. The house lights are dim, and spotlights in muted red light up the space, making for something more intimate. Long tablecloths cover tables around the dance floor, streamers of fabric are loosely draped and hanging from the ceiling.
