Two to Tango, page 14
The music begins and the dance floor immediately fills like a flood. I’ve got a close seat, and the view is nostalgic. It’s incredible, wondrous that I get to be here, too. My eyes don’t leave the floor, or the dancers’ feet. Everybody has their own style, I notice. Everybody has their own version of magic.
This feels like home. A home I didn’t know I’d ever feel again.
Logan returns with a glass of wine and a cup of water, setting them on the table gently.
“Sorry it took me a bit. I got sidetracked by some regulars.”
“That’s okay. They looked happy to see you.”
“It’s been a while,” he admits, then takes a sip of his wine. “Let me know when you want to go out on the floor.”
“Soon. Let me get my bearings first.”
An older man walks past our table, doing a double take, and I recognize him immediately as Javier, an old family friend.
“Julieta! Que haces acá?” he asks in a playful tone. It must come as a shock to see me here.
I can only laugh in response, as he leans down to give me kisses on my cheeks in greeting. “Vine a bailar,” I tell him casually. Of course, I’m here to dance tango at the milonga on a Saturday night.
“Que bueno!” He turns to look at who he must assume is my date and stills.
“Logan? Cómo estás?” He shakes his hand, a genuine smile on his face.
“Re bien, Javier.” Logan answers. “Cómo te va?” Yeah, that Spanish is still hot.
Javier looks between us, thinking who knows what, then turns to me. “Y tus viejos cómo están?” Javier asks me, inquiring about my parents.
“Bien, bien. Todos bien.” I feel like a bobblehead with how much I’m nodding and smiling in this conversation.
He looks at Logan again, and I almost feel the words build up, the way I’m going to talk my way out of this. Defend it, deny it, whichever. But Logan just smiles at him, talking briefly about classes and tango and people I don’t know. A whole community of people that I know nothing of. It should be awkward, like I’d rather sink in my seat, except that there is a literal seat at the table for me here. I get to be here as much as everyone else, and it’s something I never quite realized I was missing. Soon enough, the conversation wraps up, and Javier says his goodbyes.
“Chau, Logan. Nos vemos. Chau, linda.” He leans down to give me a kiss on the cheek, then walks over to a woman and offers his hand to dance.
“You know Javier?” I ask.
He nods. “He’s big in the tango community.”
“Ah, that makes sense,” I say. “He’s an old family friend. My parents met him at night school when they were learning English.”
“I love that,” he says warmly. “How about we dance now?”
“I would love to,” I answer. “Oh wait, you’re supposed to make eye contact, and I have to hold it and nod.”
He laughs as he gets up from his seat, holding his hand out for me to take. I take it immediately.
The floor is crowded, but couples are keeping everything moving, and keeping their moves contained. Suddenly, thrown into the middle of it, my nerves decide to make a new appearance.
“I don’t know if I can do this.”
“It’s just you and me, Julie. Just you and me here. Nobody else matters.”
But I notice Javier on the outskirts. Friends about his age chatting, friends that maybe knew my grandmother and in turn may know me, and I just feel silly. Like I’m a poor excuse for a replacement, like I didn’t deserve to get these shoes let alone dance with them.
So, while I would love to think that nobody else matters, right now, in my mind, in my line of sight, everybody does.
“Stay with me, Julie,” he says right in my ear. “Take one deep breath.” My body complies, almost frustratingly quickly. “Good, now take another one.”
This one I pull from deep down within me, hoping to summon some of my grandmother’s bravery, hoping to find some of my own.
“You,” he whispers almost definitively, squeezing my hand, inching me closer to him. “And me.”
And maybe it’s the breathing, or the calm way he speaks to me. The way my body just molds to his in comfort and familiarity, this dancing position like muscle memory. Or maybe, I think, this is all I need right now.
You and me.
And the tanda begins.
Chapter twenty-one
Logan
The milonga style can take a minute to pick up, but I have no doubt that she can do it. The improvisation will do her good, the social dancing could be what she needs.
She’s dancing with Roberto right now, an older gentleman who is gentle and accommodating. The look on her face could be one of concern, but her moves are fluid, her feet are in rhythm. He’s no Ethan, I think to myself.
I try to keep her in my sights as much as I can, watching from afar, but somebody else pulls me into conversation. It’s been a while since I’ve been to a milonga, and I’ve missed it more than I realized. This place has always felt like home.
“We’ve missed you,” Susana says with feeling.
“I know. It’s been a while.”
“Heard about Tara,” Victor adds.
“Yeah,” I respond, but the commentary is getting old. Even Tara would think so.
“Is that the replacement?” Martina lifts their chin in the direction of Julie. “You work fast, Logan,” she says, as they all laugh.
“Oh, not quite,” I chuckle nervously, but I’m itching to end this conversation and find my way back to her. I don’t like that they’re calling her a replacement, likening her to something disposable. It feels disrespectful. It makes me surprisingly upset. And, even then, I don’t want to get into the tricky chats about what’s happening next, where I’ll be, what I’m going to do.
“We’re going to dance. Nice seeing you, Logan.” Susana squeezes my hand and walks away.
I stay put, leaning against the makeshift bar with a cup of water in hand. I spot Julie dancing with somebody new, somebody younger. I don’t recognize him, but I haven’t been here in a while, and he may well be a regular in this crowd. His hand is flush against her back, and I watch it slowly inch its way downward. My chest suddenly goes tight as my hand grips the cup of water, my eyes burning a hole into his hand.
Julie looks happy as she dances, her gorgeous red lips stretched into a grin, her body pivoting side to side. I knew she would dance with different partners tonight. I knew. But right now, face to face with it, my stomach is in fucking knots.
His feet move in rhythm, matching hers, and for the first time in a long time, I feel a strong desire to take this back. To hold my ground instead of calling it quits. To keep this dance as mine.
Just as the tanda ends, Julie thanks him, but he doesn’t budge. Yet, she looks around and when she sees me, staring right back at her, she holds eye contact. When I told her about the etiquette, I just wanted to prepare her for it, but I didn’t expect to have such fun playing along. Like right now, where I can’t do anything but hold her gaze. And when she gives me a nod and a smile, I know I’m done for.
“I think I’m having a hard time keeping up.” She winces as I walk over to her. “Nobody wants to dance with me.”
“That’s not true.” I offer her my hand. “Roberto seemed to have a great time dancing with you. And whoever that guy was.” I jerk my head in the direction of the person that was previously dancing with her, now on the outskirts looking annoyed.
“He was nice,” she says. “Roberto was, too.”
“Truth is, you will run into some who prefer more experienced dancers, who can’t leave their ego at the door, but those aren’t the ones you want. At the end of the day, tango should always be about surrendering to the music, and the joy of having a beautiful woman in your arms.” With that, I wrap my arm around her, getting into position to dance.
“That’s it, huh?”
“That’s it. So, if it wasn’t clear,” I say in her ear, “I want to dance with you.”
She smiles as her arm finds space around my shoulders.
“Much better,” I say, when we're in position.
“Did you miss me?” she jokes.
“I did,” I reply. But how do I tell her that watching her dance with a new partner was like a kick in the ribs. How do I explain it when I don't understand it myself? Luckily I don't have to as the tanda begins.
We’re in a close embrace, arms wrapped around. I made do with quick improvisation, and she follows along, humming as she does. We’re temple to temple, so if I wanted to lean over and tell her all my secrets I could. I could turn and whisper them right in her ear as we dance.
“Lean into me,” I say softly.
“You’re breaking one of the forty-seven commandments,” she whispers back.
Dancing hasn’t felt this personal in a long time. Everything feels that much better: the softness of her skin, the glide of her feet. The joy I feel again.
“You want to know why I invited you here?” I ask, in her ear.
“You told me it was to get comfortable.”
“Well, yeah, that.”
“And?”
“And I didn’t want to wait until Thursday to see you,” I admit.
She pulls back a little to look at me. “Bold move,” she grins.
“You command my attention,” I tell her again.
“Do I?”
I sigh, a breath pulled from deep within. “I can’t help it. I want to give you all my attention.” I want to give you everything.
When the tanda ends, I don’t part. She doesn’t move either. Instead, we smile during the transition period between the music, and when another tanda starts, I bring her in to dance again.
Breaking yet another rule.
***
Julie and I head back to our table, sitting quietly watching other couples dance. I happen to catch the time—almost midnight—and watch her stifle a yawn.
“Late night for you?” I tease.
“This is way past my bedtime.”
“Wild streak.” I waggle my eyebrows while she gives a quiet laugh.
“Yeah, something like that.” She takes a small sip of water, then quietly says, “I wasn’t allowed to quit dance.”
We’re sitting side by side at this round table, legs hidden underneath the tablecloth, watching the dancers in front of us. Couples get on, some come off to take a break. She continues to talk, both of us looking ahead.
“All the recitals and strict teachers and kids my age who rolled their eyes at my improper form, who were practically offended at how unserious I was about ballet at nine years old … after the pressure of it got to be too much, I told my mom I wanted to quit. I didn’t like it; it wasn’t for me.
“But classes cost money and time, and there were still paid sessions left. And so, I had to keep going because the classes weren’t free, and there were kids who would have loved to be in my shoes, so maybe I should try being grateful for it. I was very ungrateful for even thinking about it. That sounds silly. It was ballet, not torture.”
“But did it feel like torture?”
She lets out a soft chuckle, almost like a realization. “It did.”
“Yeah,” I say with a small smile.
“Maybe they did me a favor, teaching me not to quit everything. I don’t know.” She shrugs.
“Or maybe they didn’t listen to your wants and needs.”
“I was nine. I didn’t know what I wanted.”
I still don’t know what I want most days, I want to tell her. “You were old enough to know you didn’t want to do ballet.”
“Maybe.” She shrugs again. “You didn’t have that issue,” she jokes.
“No, my parents didn’t care enough about me or my activities. They were too busy hating each other after the divorce.”
“That must have been so hard.”
“It wasn’t fun, but dancing sort of became a lifeline for me then. I looked forward to it, I loved being there. It made me feel welcome.”
“I’m glad you had that. And you had Gavin. That must have been comforting, too. Big brother and all that.”
“I want to quit dancing, too,” I blurt out, almost out of nowhere. She looks over at me, probably taken aback by what I said. “Wanted to quit. I’m not sure where I stand right now.”
Her surprised stare becomes soft, watching me, listening. She’s been vulnerable with me, the least I can do is open up, too. “When Tara told me she was leaving, I wanted to jump ship, too. She’s moving on to more exciting things, but when I leave this, what do I have left?”
“Oh, Logan,” she says quietly.
There’s my name again around that voice. There’s that hunger. Like I want to hear her say it again as I kiss her and swallow it up, feel the taste of it in my mouth, too. I grip my cup of water again, like it’s my own anchor, keeping me steady.
“What’s changing your mind?” she asks softly.
“I think you might be,” I confess.
She sits up straighter. “How so?”
“I’m having fun dancing with you, Julie.”
“I’m having fun, too.”
“I haven’t had fun like this in a while. Tango hasn’t been this fulfilling for me in a long time.” It’s the truth, unfiltered. She doesn’t flinch; she just keeps listening, so I’m inclined to keep talking. “You and me. This feels like a good thing.”
But with the way she’s looking at me, this feels a bit like throwing myself into the fire.
“Yeah,” she breathes out. “It does.”
Chapter twenty-two
Julieta
This, right here, feels like the best thing.
His eyes meet mine with a focused look, one I can’t turn away from. His stare envelopes me in a rich warmth, like a big comfortable blanket, and I want to wrap myself around him. Feel his warmth all over.
“One more tanda. What do you say?” he asks then, voice low.
There is no answer but yes. Not now, and probably surprisingly, not ever. “I’d love to.”
He takes my hand and leads me out to the dance floor. I follow every step, every turn. We move together in quick unison, and this feels better than it has ever felt. It’s freer than it has ever been. I lean into him, suddenly unashamed of it, and he mimics it. Soon we find ourselves closer, much closer, temple to temple, my eyes closed. Our moves begin to slow, not quite following the beat of the song, and this feels like we’ve created our own bubble, our own little world in the corner of the dance floor.
The two of us move in tandem, slowly, deliciously, my body fighting every bit of restraint to just press against his. He inches even closer to me, his hand pressing on my back to secure me to him, and I don’t fight it. Our hips meet, our hands are pressed together. I breathe slowly and feel his own breath right on my neck, almost making me lose any willpower I am exerting right here. We are way too close for proper tango dancing. This is about to be dirty dancing at the milonga if we don’t knock it off.
And yet, his hand on my back is still solid, and his heartbeat that I now feel through his shirt is racing. He must feel mine, too, furiously beating with excitement and nerves and a rush of electricity. Something has changed here, and I’m drowning in it. The rigidity, the lists, the constant careful planning I’ve lived within my whole life has started to break, and I want out of it. I want … him.
“What are you thinking about?” I whisper into his ear, suddenly desperate to know, shamelessly breaking a milonga rule.
He breathes in deep, and a pained sigh falls from his mouth. He looks like he’s about to respond, but the song ends, and it takes a second to break away. Once we do, the spell is broken. The trance we were in quickly falls to shards. I inhale through my nose, watching Logan watch me. If he was as affected as I was, he doesn’t show it now.
He applauds the DJ, then smiles at me. “Your first milonga and you shut it down.”
I can’t help but smile back, one big grin overtaking my face with happiness. “This was so much fun,” I tell him genuinely.
“The best milonga I’ve been to,” he admits.
The time is now one in the morning and everybody is gathering their belongings, hugging and kissing goodbye, making their way to the exit. We follow the crowds spilling out onto the sidewalk. Logan’s hand sits on my lower back and, while he’s done this before, I am now even more acutely aware of his gentle fingers, his palm almost flush against it. He moves his hand once we’re outside of the building and I push the disappointment down.
In the end, this was a wonderful experience. This was a wonderful night. This she would have approved of.
At some point, the night turned rainy, a steady rainfall that is not letting up as crowds gather under the awning. Others are running through the parked cars, huddled under jackets, some under plastic bags, some with the foresight to carry an umbrella.
When did we all become so afraid of the rain?
When did I become so afraid of everything?
So, I look back at Logan, who’s watching the sky, and I shrug, running right out into the rainy night. In a matter of seconds, Logan is by my side, laughing with me, following my slow jog.
“God, I love the rain,” I tell him, my dress starting to stick into my skin. Rivets run down my arms and face, tracing the lines of my smile. It’s coming from deep within, directed right at him.
His smile back is almost devious, perusing my soaked skin and my drenched hair. The wet ends are dripping down my back. Everything should feel uncomfortable, like I want to wipe my face and hair and arms, but all it feels is freeing. As freeing as this whole entire night has been.
My mother always used to say the rain was a blessing from the skies. Like when it rained the day of my LSATs, when it stormed the night before my first job interview out of college. The rain always did feel like a blessing in some ways, but right now, under this sky, after this night, it truly feels like the best blessing. Washing me clean, giving me new life.
As I continue to walk, I slip under the wet pavement and Logan immediately reaches his arm out to grab me, pulling me in right to him.
