Two to Tango, page 18
I lay in bed for a moment, sprawled out, but then I get up and walk around his room. He has a bookshelf along one wall filled with books, and pictures, and some trophies. Medals are displayed on the wall. So many accolades, so many awards. What a wild life.
I look closer at the pictures: one with Gavin, some with Tara or other dancers, and then one in particular high up on the shelf like he holds this one in high regard.
Everything stops when I notice it. Logan, younger, a big bright smile with his arm around an older woman. One with a red lip, and a matching smile. One I know so well, because I’ve looked at it most of my life.
He walks in then holding two glasses of water and finds me frozen in front of the shelf.
“Ah, I love that picture,” he says.
I can’t respond. I can’t do anything. I just keep staring, my heart starting to race.
“She is my favorite tango dancer,” he says, almost triumphantly, showing her off. “Celestina Rossi.”
I think I nod.
“What a name, right? Like she was born to be a powerful tango dancer.” He smiles, like he’s lost in a memory.
“You knew her,” I say, but it’s below a whisper. It’s a miracle I even got the words out. My eyes are starting to burn.
“Yeah. You’ve heard of her, I take it?” He comes in closer, wrapping an arm around my waist, resting his chin on my shoulder. “Yeah, she’s a pretty big deal. Well, was.”
“You knew her,” I repeat, taking a deep breath and leaning into the depth of this new information. I must sound stupid just repeating everything, but soon enough it all comes out. “I mean, it makes sense that you knew her. It makes sense that you would have even known of her, but maybe I didn’t put two and two together. Maybe I didn’t really think about it.”
He turns to face me, a line between his brows. “Slow down.”
“Maybe I didn’t want to think about it,” I continue. “How did you know her?”
“My mentor I always talk about? That was her.”
He reaches up, and I feel him run his thumb along my cheek. Somewhere along the lines of this conversation I must have started crying. Feelings that snuck up on me, like everything else has.
“Are you alright?” he asks softly.
“She was my grandmother,” I let out.
He stills. “What?” Logan looks between the picture and me, probably as confused and shocked as I am. “She was your grandmother?”
“Yeah,” I sigh.
“Like, she was your tango-dancing grandmother?”
I nod, and he steps back, dropping his arms to his sides. Suddenly, I’m cold.
He runs a hand down his face. “Oh my God,” he sounds stunned. “Oh my God. Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t think it was important,” I answer, but maybe it was more than that. Maybe I just wanted to keep this for myself. I’ve been too busy keeping secrets from everybody, burying them down inside, never letting anybody in.
“Didn’t think it was … you didn’t think mentioning one of the greatest tango dancers of the last century was important?” He puts his hands on his hips and starts pacing. Back and forth, back and forth. This wasn’t the reaction I expected.
“Well, arguably. Not that I disagree …”
“Holy shit.” He starts laughing.
“It was complicated.”
“Complicated.” Now he’s the one repeating words. “Your tango classes on a whim?”
I nod again, but the tears are slowly starting to fall. “How did you meet her?” I’m longing for more information, more of anything that will bring me new pieces of her.
“Years ago at a tango workshop. She really helped me. She gave me purpose. She was … wonderful.” He turns to look at me, and his eyes shine.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, in between small sobs.
“Sorry? For what?”
“Seems like we both lost her, then.”
His eyes soften at that, tilting his head to study me. He takes a step closer. “I did another workshop in Buenos Aires about five years ago. With Facundo, too. They were still so lively and electric.”
I jump at the sound of my grandfather’s name. Everything has suddenly become so entwined, and I don’t know how to feel about it.
“She was still so captivating.” He reminisces, and I get caught on that word. That one word that seemed to follow her everywhere.
I just smile as I listen to him talk about her, about the love he shared for her, too.
“I got her shoes.”
His eyebrows lift. “Those were hers?”
“Yeah,” I nod. I take steps to him, closing in the space between us, because now the distance feels like too much. This talk of my grandmother has worked as a bridge to get to him. “Turns out she left them to me.”
“Holy shit.” He looks at me wide-eyed, reaching out to caress my face. “She was so powerful and passionate. Now I see where you get it.”
He wraps his other arm around my waist and pulls me in for a hug. The most comforting hug, something strong and solid, his hand rubbing my back slowly. And all it does is serve as a way to break the dam, letting all the tears flow for the first time in years. I cry loud, messy, embarrassing sobs, while he holds me tight. This is more crying than I’ve done in years, more than I allowed myself at dinner last night. This is months and months of pent-up frustration and sadness and grief. Years of holding everything in to appease those around me, to put others’ feelings first.
Logan keeps his arms wrapped around me, rubbing circles on my back, holding me steady as I fall apart. I don’t know how long we stay like that, but I eventually take a deep breath, the last of the tears subsiding. I feel lighter, but I still feel like I have a long way to go.
“I’m trying,” I whisper into his shoulder, breathing in his scent.
He hugs me tighter, his arms around me like a life raft. Secure, lifesaving.
“This is so wild.” He pulls back to look at me like he might be seeing me for the first time, his eyes roaming every inch of my face. I study him, too, soaking in this incredible moment of kismet.
“I don’t know. I’m the one that’s been parading around town in a dead lady’s pair of shoes, so maybe I’m the crazy one.”
He huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. “I can’t believe I get to be here with you.” And even though she’s been the topic of conversation, I realize that statement has nothing to do with my connection to my grandmother and everything to do with his connection to me. One magnetic pull from the moment I met him. One slow moving train from the second that shoebox was placed on my lap.
“Maybe she set this in place for me to find you,” I say out loud, my heart thudding with the weight of the emotions.
“Seems like something she would do.” He laughs for a moment, his hands cradling my face, but then he quickly turns serious and he kisses me.
This kiss starts slow, delicate, but there’s too much bursting at the seams, and it quickly turns greedy. He cradles the back of my neck as my hands find their way around him. We meet flush, kissing and kissing until we’re out of breath. And then we pull back and do it again. Hands are traveling everywhere in messy chaotic movements. My kisses are uncoordinated in the best way: his neck, his ear, his forehead, his nose. Everywhere I can kiss him right now, I do. Everywhere I can shower him with affection, I do.
He reaches for my dress, unwrapping the knot in a quick move. I reach for his sweatpants, yanking them off. Once we’ve been rid of our clothes, we fall into bed, my legs wrapping around his waist. This feels like a dream: wanting, and wishful.
“Definitely not letting you go now,” he says, as he gently settles over me.
I hold him close as he places the softest kiss on my neck, and reaches over for his drawer again. This time I take the condom from him, gently opening it and rolling it on. He watches me with that small smile as I guide him inside me.
He eases inside, and my legs shake from the sensation, from the desire and the anticipation.
“Julieta,” he says with wonder.
“Say it again.”
He smiles and I trace it lightly with my fingers, wanting to commit this to memory. “Julieta.”
I pull him to me and kiss him. Our bodies start to move and it’s intoxicating how good it feels.
“Look at all of this passion,” he whispers in awe. “Look at you.”
“I don’t want this to stop,” I blurt out.
“It won’t,” he shakes his head. He grabs my wrists, pinning them above my head gently, pushing in slowly, making me crave it.
“You and me, Logan,” I breathe out. “This is the best thing.”
That tenderness is back, the look on his face that is saying too much for me to decipher. He thrusts in harder, and it feels so deliriously good, I don’t want this to ever stop.
“I want all of this,” I beg, in between moans. “I’m selfish for all of you.”
“I’ll give you all of me, sweetheart.” He bites my neck, driving in harder. I wrap my legs around him tighter, crying out.
He lets go of my wrists and sits back on his heels, bringing his fingers between us to bring me over the edge. He watches me with that smug smile, one that’s probably saying, I’m good with my hands, remember? as he keeps his fingers moving in tight circles. I didn’t think I could come again, but now I’m so close I desperately want it.
“Right there,” I gasp, a moan slipping past my lips.
“Yeah?” He keeps the pressure, he keeps thrusting harder, and then I’m pushed right over. He follows, crashing into me, shaking from his own release.
My mouth meets his and my fingers grip his hair and my body pushes against his. All these things that are saying this is where you belong.
I feel dizzy and disoriented in the best way.
“I’m … wrecked,” I say, breathing heavy.
“That good, huh?” He laughs, his own breaths coming in short spurts.
Quietly I realize that a word can take on a whole new meaning here, in the silence, in his arms, in being near him.
“I’m grateful for you,” I tell him.
I don’t expect a response, but he lifts up on his hands to look at me, and says seriously, “I’m never letting you go.”
And maybe I’m wrecked in more ways than one.
Chapter twenty-seven
Logan
Julie is sprawled out on my chest, breathing softly. I’m slowly rubbing her back, my fingers trailing up and down. This feels like a bubble of calm, and everything leading up to it was overwhelmingly perfect.
I want to lay here forever; I want to jump up and dance with her.
“When I first walked into a dance studio,” I say quietly, “I instantly felt like I was where I was meant to be. Like I was absolutely in the right place. You ever feel that?”
“Once,” she answers. “I was eight. I watched her dance for the first time.”
“That must have been wonderful to see.”
“It was life-changing,” she whispers.
“It doesn’t happen often, at least not for me anyway. Life is always a series of too many questions, and never knowing the answer. ‘Am I doing the right thing? Is this what I’m supposed to be doing?’ You know?”
“I know.” She nods.
“I feel it now, though,” I tell her. “I feel it here. With you.”
Her heartbeat speeds up when I say it.
“There was another time,” she swallows, looking at me. “When you blindfolded me. Remember that?”
“I do. Remember the very first time we danced? When I paired you up with Ethan?”
“I do,” she laughs.
“I felt it then.”
“Felt what?” she asks.
“A weird sort of calm. Like all my frustrating thoughts and complicated feelings about the dance sort of settled.”
She doesn’t say anything, just kisses me softly and snuggles closer.
Maybe this is working out just like it was meant to. A piece of my heart that had been healed by Celestina’s mentorship and then broken when she passed has now come back to me.
And it’s come back tenfold.
“Tell me about her,” I say.
“Oh God, where do I even start? You could probably tell me more than I could.”
“Why do you say that?”
“When my family decided to move here, she stayed behind and continued to compete and travel. I didn’t see her much. I would talk to her on the phone occasionally, but a lot of times it was surface level stuff. She loved to dance. She was so good at it, too, you know. It’s hard not to be completely mesmerized watching her.”
Celestina Rossi was an idol when I got into dance, and the magic of her never faded, especially when I was in Buenos Aires in workshops and her name was spoken frequently in adoration.
“I miss her,” she says. “Some days it feels like I let her down, like I didn’t do enough. I didn’t spend enough time or do enough with her. Or see her enough or talk to her enough. I didn’t do enough. Maybe it would have never been enough.”
I tuck her hair behind her ear, holding her close to me, listening.
“I’m just trying to be close to her again. I’m trying to make her proud.”
“I think you’re doing it, Julie. You’re trying your best, and isn’t that all anybody could ask for?”
“You haven’t met my parents.” She cocks an eyebrow.
“Not yet.”
“No, not yet.” She laughs for a moment, snuggling closer to me, then she lets out a sigh. “It was hard for everybody, but she had such a difficult time towards the end. She had severe arthritis; her body had been really struggling. The doctors would want to blame her instead of help her. They’d complain, ‘you dancers mess up your bodies and then expect us to just fix you.’ Nobody knew she struggled in the end, unable to do what she loved.”
“That must have been so hard for her.” I speak quietly, my fingers lightly running up and down her arm.
“It was so, so hard. Tango was such a big part of her life. Imagine not being able to do it ever again, the one thing that was pivotal in your life. That was as necessary as breathing.”
Faced with the thought of it now, I realize it would probably break me, too. Competing is one thing, but quitting dance altogether? Forever? I don’t think I ever could.
“She had your grandfather, though.”
“She did,” she agrees.
“I think about that sometimes. When my body hurts, when I feel lonely. When all of this is gone, what do I have left?”
She reaches out to touch my cheek, and I lean into her palm, turning to kiss it softly.
“Do you know the story of how they met?” she asks.
“Tell me.”
“They met at the tango clubs. She would sneak out to go dance, and when he saw her, it was love at first sight. They would dance together, but eventually he wanted to see her outside of it, too. He used to ride his bike ten miles just to see her.”
“That’s dedication,” I smile.
“That’s love,” she clarifies.
With all this talk of Celestina, her plans make much more sense.
“So … San Diego.” I realize why she said it was personal reasons.
“San Deigo,” she repeats with a sigh.
“You don’t know about what happened, do you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I went to San Diego last year. Tara and I fell apart, and we didn’t even place.”
She looks at me, quiet for a moment. “I had no idea.”
“I figured you didn’t. Anyway, I had been having a hard time. I was starting to look for other things then; I was feeling burnt out. And when we didn’t even place, it definitely humbled me, but it also made me decide that I wasn’t going to be doing it again. I was done competing, I was done with workshops. Tara and I talked it over shortly after—Silas was going to be heading into residency soon anyway—so we decided not to compete together anymore. We would teach locally, maybe host some milongas, but that was it.” I breathe softly. “And then I met you.”
“I feel like I’ve caused more trouble than I meant to.”
“No.” I move a piece of hair from her face, looking at her so she hears me. “You gave me back everything.”
“I don’t know what happens after this, Logan. I don’t know what you want to do, but I want you to know that when all of this is done, you’ll still have me,” she confesses.
It’s a bold promise, one that digs deep. One that tethers her to me, to my life. I want it desperately. “You’ll have me, too,” I say, clearly, definitively.
I grab her and bring her to me, kissing her deeply.
We make it to the kitchen sometime later, late enough that Gavin walks through the door and catches us eating sandwiches out of the box.
“Uh. Hi.”
“Oh,” Julie says, mid chew. “Hi.”
I clear my throat, as we all look like deer in headlights. “This is Julie. You’ve met right?”
“Uh-huh.” He smirks.
Thank God we’re dressed. What time is it anyway?
“Nice to see you again.” She waves, but she’s blushing.
“We were just going back to my room,” I say, grabbing the box of sandwiches.
“Not so fast.” He comes over, reaches in, and pulls out a stack of them. “Thanks.” And with that he walks to his room, some lightness in his step, and I think … whistling?
“Shit, I lost track of time. Roommates.” I roll my eyes.
She just laughs quietly, and says, “Come on. Let’s go back to bed.”
I follow her down the hall, mesmerized by her, and watch her climb into my bed. Comfortably taking up space here again. Stay here forever, I want to beg. Don't ever go.
“So, how long have you and Gavin lived together?” she asks.
“About five years. His previous job included a lot of travel and he felt like he was paying rent for nothing, so we moved in together.”
“Makes sense.”
“Does it? I can’t even have you over without having to sidestep or figure out his schedule.” I might sound frustrated, but maybe I’m just embarrassed.
