Two to Tango, page 20
“You know, they say tango skipped a generation,” Javier says. He might be speaking to the table, but he’s looking right at me. “Your grandmother did it, and loved it, but tango bands started to fall off after the fifties. And your parents’ generation got into rock and roll instead. But now tango has come back around, and the younger kids are finding joy in it. I love it. It makes me happy to see it. It makes me happy to see you doing it.”
“Oh, did your grandmother dance?” Tara asks me.
Now the table turns to look at her, a kind of heavy silence that almost feels hilarious.
“You don’t know?” Javier asks. “She doesn’t know?”
“Oh, no—” I start.
“Oh, shit,” T laughs.
“Don’t know what?” She looks around the table, confused.
Logan clears his throat, then says, “Celestina’s granddaughter.”
“What?” she asks in disbelief.
“Well, all of us, actually. But she’s the one that got the shoes,” Delfi adds, pointing at me.
Tara looks at me then to everybody at the table, her mouth agape. “Shut the fuck up.” And then she starts to cry.
“Oh, no, mi amor.” Javier reaches over to hug her.
But then I get up and wrap my arms around to hug her, too. This must be such an overwhelming night for her as it is. Soon enough, everybody at the table joins in for a hug.
“I loved your grandmother so much,” she says through sniffles.
“Oh, Tara,” I tell her. “We did, too.”
And once we part, everybody getting back to dancing, to socializing, Agostina and Delfina stay by my side, looking at me with something that might be pride.
“Wow,” Delfi whispers.
“Everybody still loves her. Everybody still talks so highly of her. I can’t help but think that she wanted me here, too,” I tell them.
“You wanted to create an exciting life for yourself, huh.” T smiles. “You fucking did it, Julie.”
Watching the crowds, the couples that move on the dance floor like synchronized magic, and watching Logan walk back to me with his hand out ready to dance, I think I did it, too.
Delfi spends the night dancing with Javier, and a couple of other regulars. T dances once, and Gavin shows up later and just watches. I can’t deny that I briefly wonder if Ethan will show up to this thing, but he doesn’t. And I spend most of the time on the floor with Logan anyway. He and Tara have one tanda together, and it brings me back to the first time I saw them dance. The magic, the joy. How much I wanted to be her.
The DJ plays the last tanda around two in the morning, and then we wrap everything up. Delfi walks barefoot to her car, carrying shoes in her hand, with T at her side. The jubilation surrounds us, and I'm too happy to feel tired. I gratefully, excitedly, take Logan and my lovestruck heart home.
Everything was such a balancing act growing up, but here nothing needed balance. I wasn’t too much of one thing, less than another. I was just me, and I fit into this space so beautifully. There is a seat at the table for me here, and there always will be.
Chapter thirty
Julieta
The coffee stain on my blouse has somehow gotten bigger since I walked into the office. I never spill my coffee. I’m never without an extra blouse.
I have also learned to manage my time so well that I know the exact time to leave my apartment to avoid any of the early morning downtown traffic. I didn’t manage my time this morning, though. I rushed out of my house, a frazzled mess, having spent the night with Logan instead. More specifically, the whole week. More specifically, in my bed.
The problem is, when you’re living two lives and toeing the line between them, something is bound to slip.
“Julie. In my office, please.” Barbara is at my door, eyeing me over her glasses, perfect posture as always. But this time it looks like she’s about to rip me a new asshole.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I tell her. “Rough morning.” I point to my obvious coffee stain.
“What’s going on with the Lorenzo case?” She cuts me off.
“I’m working on it. Why?”
“Are you?” The question is accusatory. One quick jab to make sure I’m listening. “I have to say, you were always one of my most dedicated employees. I never had to worry about you, but these past couple of months have been concerning. Leaving early, not focused, no urgency in responding to any of my emails. You are not the associate you used to be.”
Everything suddenly feels like quicksand. I’m sinking down, my life slipping out of my grasp, and I don’t know how to pull myself out of it.
“Barbara, I can assure you I am dedicated to this job.” My voice might be shaking.
She slams the file down on her desk and it makes me jump. “There's a request for production here. Did you see that? Did you realize there are thousands of documents to review and the deadline is tomorrow?”
I might be breaking out into a sweat-induced panic. How did I miss that?
“This Lorenzo case is an absolute disaster and not at all the work of somebody who is dedicated to this job. Or to being here.”
I flinch at her words. A lump is forming in my throat. I've never been on the receiving end of her anger like this. I stay uncomfortably silent, a quiet so loud, it's only rivaled by her icy stare.
“This is the kind of work you put into this firm? This is what you have to show for it? This is shameful,” she spits out. “So, if you want to still be here come tomorrow, I suggest you figure it out and fix it.”
Fuck. Fuck!
This cannot be happening. The voice in my head starts screaming louder about how I should be focused on work. I could lose my job. I shouldn’t be out so late on weekends. I shouldn’t be sleeping in and pushing cases aside. I should be responsible.
I should be fucking grateful.
“It won’t happen again,” I tell Barbara, with as much conviction as I can muster.
I’m abruptly dismissed, and walk out of her office on shaky legs, straight to the employee bathroom where I let the tears run.
Once I’ve collected myself enough to make it back to my office, I call out, “Larissa, come to my office please.”
“Of course.” She stands quickly, with a worried look on her face, following me.
Once we’re in my office, I shut the door and let it out.
“I fucked up. Like, royally. And I know that I’m an asshole for asking you to help me fix my mistakes. I shouldn’t be asking for any of this, but I need you to help me figure this out.”
“What do you need?” Larissa asks with no judgement.
“The Lorenzo case,” I say. “There's a request for production. And the deadline is tomorrow.” I run my hand down my face, frustrated.
“Okay.” She nods, writing notes down on a legal pad quickly.
“We have to review so many documents,” I say apologetically, pacing in front of my desk. “Thousands.”
“Okay,” she repeats, wide-eyed. “I can do that.”
“Thank you,” I answer shakily, taking a deep breath.
If she notices my red rimmed eyes and sniffly nose, she doesn’t say anything. She just puts her head down and we get to work.
Larissa and I spend the rest of Thursday working on everything, and then I take the weekend to work some more from morning until night. I tell Logan I’m too busy, I silence my phone, I lock my door.
Now I’m at dinner, practically falling asleep at this table, ready to head to bed.
“Tired?” Cecilia asks.
“Very.”
“Sabes quién me llamó?” my mom asks the table, probably about to get into some anecdote about an old friend that called her. “Javier.”
Suddenly, I’m wide awake. T and Delfina look my way instantly.
“He said he was so proud of you, Julieta. He was so happy to see you out, and he said he’d never seen you look so happy, either.”
Motherfucker. I take a big bite of an empanada.
“He said I must be so proud of you, too, taking after abuela and following in her steps.”
The whole table turns to look at me, wide-eyed. But Cecilia’s face slowly turns into a smile.
“And so I had to tell him that unfortunately my daughter hadn’t told me anything. Guess I didn’t deserve to know what was going on.”
“Maria,” my father says with a sigh.
“She doesn’t have to tell you what she’s doing,” T adds, throwing fuel to the fire as always.
“No, she doesn’t. But I don’t like lies, either,” my mother says, matter of fact.
“Nobody lied, ma,” I say, exasperated.
“You just omitted information?”
“What does it matter?” I throw my hands up.
“Javier said he had never seen her look so happy and you completely bypass that to make it about you? En serio?” T says.
“Agostina,” Ana says in warning.
“No. Honestly, this is so stupid. Who fucking cares what she’s doing? She’s a grown adult woman. But since you are all so interested in how she’s been deceiving you, at least take a look for yourselves.” She pulls out her phone, showing my mother a video she must have taken at the milonga. She watches it with almost no expression, mouth firm.
“Look at your daughter. Look at the joy. And the talent!”
“And what exactly are you going to do with this?” she asks me. She’s referring to the dance, as if it should be some tangible good with a purpose. As if the joy of it alone isn’t enough.
I guess this is the part where Future Julie has to own up to her mess. “I’m taking a weekend away.”
“Dónde?”
“California,” I say.
“You think that’s a good idea?” she asks.
“I think so.”
She shrugs, not saying anything else. But she doesn’t have to, I know it by heart. It’s not a good idea. It’s a bad one, in fact. You’re pushing your responsibilities aside; you’re wasting time on frivolous things. You should be grateful for your job. They’re going to fire you and then what?
“Abuela chose dance over her family. And that’s what you’re doing, too.” And with that, she gets up and walks out of the dining room.
The accusation is a low blow, a real punch. It’s meant to make me feel guilty and ashamed. It’s meant to make me stop whatever I’m doing. And the worst part is that she knows me well enough to know that it would absolutely work.
I can’t make the trip to San Diego. It was laughable to even think I could. To dream enough to actually book it.
I can’t do any of this anymore.
She's right. My job will fire me and then what? I will have thrown away my years of studying and their sacrifices for my tuition on some dance classes?
I am so defeated. I am so full of guilt. An unbearable weight, a suffocating sadness. I feel like I’ve got no strength to even get out of this chair right now. The thought of driving home is overwhelming and exhausting.
This feels like everything is quicksand, slowly swallowing me up, surrounding me so I can’t move. Naively, I never thought it would get to this. I never imagined it would come to a place where I am not allowed to feel joy. Where I am not allowed to do anything outside of the realm of what was decided for me. Not that law school was decided for me, but a solid career path was. And a focus on studies was always drilled into me.
I never let myself divert from any of it. Thirty four years of following a line, how could I possibly stray from it now?
I am so, so sad.
Chapter thirty-one
Julieta
I don’t leave with leftovers. I leave instead with pity looks from T and Delfi. Surprised looks from everybody else. And then a hug from Cecilia.
“Call me later,” she whispers, worried. I nod solemnly, but we both know I probably won't.
I walk out quietly, not saying a word, and I drive to Logan’s.
The thing about holding everything in for so long, for the sake of everybody else, is that sooner or later it’s all going to come charging out.
“Hey, you okay?” he asks, concerned, when he answers the door.
“Can we talk?”
“Of course.” There’s a line between his brows.
I walk into his place and luckily Gavin is at work.
“Busy weekend?” he wonders.
“I had a lot of work to catch up on. I fucked up one of my cases.” I take a deep breath, wounds still fresh. “I never fuck up cases.”
He steps closer to me, and brushes a strand of hair from my face. I desperately want to lean into his palm, savor this before I destroy it.
“Were you able to catch up?” he asks.
I don’t answer his question, I just keep pushing forward. “I’ve been spending too much time dancing. I’ve been too distracted.”
“Okay … should we cut back on some lessons, or …?”
“I’m not going to San Diego.” I come right out and say it.
He just stares for a moment. “What?”
“I can’t go to San Diego.” My heart is in my throat and I feel like I might choke on it.
“What happened at dinner?” His voice is low and calm, but still waters run deep.
I just shake my head. I want a clean break. I don’t want this to get messy, but of course it’s going to. It’s about to be like the rest of the weekend—a disaster.
“Julie, this is your life,” he says, reasoning. “You are allowed to live your life.”
I stand still, unable to even move. His apartment feels familiar and cozy, and I wish I could allow myself the time to linger.
“Sit down. Let's talk about this. Please,” he pleads.
“You don't understand. I can’t just drop everything and do this.”
“I don’t—what is going on right now? What happened?”
“I was going to let you down eventually,” I say quietly.
His arms drop to his sides quickly. “Don’t fucking do that. Do not do that right now.” The anger is starting to come out of him, too. Good.
“I know we had an agreement to do the competition—”
“An agreement?” he asks incredulously. “That’s all this was? An agreement?” He has sucked all the joy out of his laughter. Instead, it sounds angry and strained.
“What else was this? You’re the professional dancer. You can find anybody else you want to partner with.”
“What else was this? Julie, are you listening to yourself right now? What are you even saying?” His voice is getting louder. “I don’t want anybody else to partner with. You asked me to do this with you. And now you’re going to leave me stranded, after everything I told you about San Diego?”
“I can’t be the person you need me to be right now.” I’m already drowning in shame and guilt, might as well dump more on top.
“Because you don’t want to be.”
“That’s not true.” I shake my head back and forth.
“You’re walking away from this. Makes it pretty clear.”
“What am I supposed to do? Quit my job and do this?” I throw back at him.
“I never said that, but I see where you stand.”
“I can’t let go, Logan,” I say.
“Of your fancy lawyer job that you hate?”
“Well, that fancy lawyer job that I hate has been around longer than you or all of this!” My retort is full of spite and anger. It’s full of blame and sadness, too. “I have pushed all my responsibilities aside for this dance, and it has fucked everything up.”
“Nobody asked you to do that,” he says.
“I don’t want to play the blame game.”
“You walked in here playing the blame game!” he yells. “Why are you doing this?”
“I can’t go.” I shake my head. I know it’s not an answer, but I worry it’s the only one I can give.
“Is this about your family?” he presses, seemingly desperate for anything to save this decision. “You’re not responsible for their lives, Julie. And I know this might be hard to shake, but you don’t owe them anything.”
It’s another punch to the gut, one I can’t worry about tending to right now.
“I can’t go,” I repeat, but the words have lost their vigor.
“You can,” he insists.
“Why are you pushing this so hard?” Now it’s my turn to yell.
He looks broken, like he shouldn’t have to tell me why he’s pushing so hard. Like I should know because we used to be on the same team. But he answers me anyway. “Because this was saving me, too.”
And I don’t know how I keep it together.
“I’m so tired.” I start to cry. “It’s not my job to save you.”
“Maybe I thought we were on the same page,” he says softly. “I thought this was something we both wanted. I can see now that I was wrong.”
I know I’ve let him down, and I don’t think I can stand here much longer. I’m about to walk to the door, but he beats me to it: “Please leave.”
And so, I do.
Chapter thirty-two
Logan
Maybe San Diego is just fucking cursed.
Maybe I only have myself to blame. For saying yes to private lessons, for saying yes to what she’d asked. For going back to teaching in the first place.
Come tomorrow morning, I’m going to call the dance studio and tell them I’m done. But in the meantime, I send some texts to other contacts. I get everything ready for the next step, because it sure as shit won’t be dancing.
This time I’m done.
“Hey, can you talk?” I ask Tara when she picks up the phone.
“Yeah, what’s up?” she says on the other line.
“You think San Diego is cursed?”
She huffs out a laugh. “What? What happened?”
“She bailed.”
I can hear her sit up on the other line. “Who?”
“Julie, who else?” My anger is starting to show in my voice.
“What do you mean she bailed?” she asks, confused.
