Two to Tango, page 5
I love to watch tango. It’s wildly romantic, sensual, passionate—all the things that I’m not. It’s a little like watching something you shouldn’t: intimate moments between two lovers. And on top of that, Tara and Logan make a beautiful couple. Their moves are fluid and graceful. Her turns are elegant, his steps are in perfect rhythm. I could watch this all day, this mesmerizing dance I’ve somehow been tied to all my life.
Once they finish, we applaud them, and they break away to let us practice. Ethan comes back to me, and we move in our practice embrace, the same steps over and over again.
Soon enough, class is over. And I breathe a sigh of relief that I made it through my very first one.
“That’s all for today,” Logan calls out. “But we’ve got more weeks ahead of us, and it’s going to be a great time. See you all next week.”
The students recite their goodbyes as they gather their belongings and head out the door. I practically lunge for my bag, reaching for my phone that I’m not used to being without for longer than mere minutes. And there I notice three missed calls from Barbara, six new messages from work, and two messages from Agostina and my mom. I quickly look at them, but none of them seem important. Nothing from work that couldn’t have waited.
The wind has been taken out of my sails with a force. I couldn’t even get an hour to myself. Not one hour to myself without the world needing me for something. Maybe I could just cut my losses now.
These classes are frivolous. More reason to admit it.
I glance up and find Logan and Tara looking at me, standing side by side, both of them smiling as they say, “See you next week.”
“Oh. Yes. Next week.” I nod, picking up my bag.
No, probably not.
Chapter six
Logan
I’m still watching the door long after the class has filed out. Why does it feel so stuffy in here?
“Has she danced before?” Tara breaks my trance with the question.
“What?”
“Julie?”
“I don’t know. I think so.” I shrug.
“She did good,” Tara says.
“She wasn’t bad,” I say dismissively.
I’d rather not think about it. She was good. She needs to polish up the basics, but that comes with practice. What she has is a fire within her. Something I saw in her eyes when she looked at herself in the mirror, when she focused on her feet, looked on with determination.
“Ethan could still use some work,” I tell her.
I paired her up with another student, wanting to keep a distance and watch from afar. He needed a bit more help than she did, but when I stepped in to show technique and offer guidance, I wasn’t expecting to feel … that.
Tara huffs out a laugh. “He was fine.”
“Anyway.” I wave it away, packing up my belongings and getting ready to head out of the studio. “We need to let them know you’re leaving.”
“We will. Let’s tell everybody next week.”
“We should plan something. Maybe a goodbye milonga.”
She lights up at that. “Oh, that would be fun.”
“Your last one before you leave us to do way better things,” I tease.
“You are dramatic as fuck, Logan,” she laughs.
“But am I wrong?”
She just pins me with a look. One that says shut up. Or you’re not wrong, but I’d rather not admit it. Or I’m going to miss this place, too.
“You alright?” she asks.
“Me? Yeah, why?”
She shrugs. “Just checking in.”
“I’m good,” I answer, but I know she knows I’m not being honest. She won’t push either, which is a relief right now.
“Call me if you want to chat.”
“I will.” I nod, not making eye contact with her.
“See you tomorrow, then.” She gives me a quick hug before heading out to her car.
***
Gavin and I moved in together five years ago. I don’t know how much he likes it, but when he was traveling for work, he was away enough to probably not care.
Our two-bedroom suits us fine. I made the move out here first when I was twenty, finding a better tango community and better opportunities for dance. Gavin found a way to transfer within his company and followed. Soon enough, he was asking if we should just live together, since he was hardly home anyway so why was he bothering to pay so damn much in rent? Rent prices are ridiculous, I won’t argue that. Our so-called luxury apartment is hardly luxurious for what we pay, but we’ve been here too long to want to move anywhere else. Besides, the location is great.
Our parents divorced when we were much younger and it was so messy, so rage-filled, that I think we both saw no choice but to get out.
I park my car and shuffle to the door, unlocking it and stepping in. Gavin’s on the couch again, something I haven’t quite gotten used to yet. There were so many times I would come home to an empty apartment, or to Gavin in his room working, or at the dining table on his laptop until late at night, not talking to anybody. Not giving me a second glance.
We’re back to Netflix, apparently.
“What’s up?” I ask as I step out of my shoes.
“Remember Woodstock 99? There’s a wild documentary on it right now.” There’s some semblance of excitement in his voice, but it might sound forced.
“Oh. Cool.” I don’t know what else to say.
“Also, did you know that otters love to play in toilets? I watched that documentary earlier.”
“Are you drunk?”
“Unfortunately, no.” He keeps his eyes on the TV.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he looks … sad. He looks lost.
“How was your day?” he asks.
I walk over to sit on the couch with him. “It was good. Started up a new session.”
“And Tara’s still leaving?”
“Yeah, she is.” I nod.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine.” Too many people are asking at this point. “Just going to figure out what I’m doing next.”
“You’re going to stop teaching?”
This question from him feels more accusatory than he probably means for it to, and I never quite know how to answer it.
“Yeah, I think so,” I say, sighing. “I don’t know, maybe not.” My response is a jumble of words that make no sense to me, let alone him.
I don’t know why I say it, or why I’m fighting any of it. Maybe I am just having a minute like I told Tara that night at Waffle House. I need to get over my shit, get over this hump of whatever and keep moving forward.
The truth is the last competition we were in, we didn’t even place. Tara and I had worked on that routine the bare minimum. She decided to head back to school for her master’s and I had picked up another job as a choreographer for a local dance group production. We’d both struggled with finding the time and energy. And when we competed, it was clear that the want was not there like it once was. Some critics had things to say. They always do. Like how our routine had become derivative and stale, how the spark seemed to be dwindling.
“Where were the champion dancers tonight? This is not the Logan Beck and Tara O’Byrne we once knew. This is not good.”
Those words still play on in my mind every so often, reminding me of the failure. Pushing on it like a fresh bruise, recklessly wanting to feel the pain. I was embarrassed by that result. Angry. I had let myself down, and I had let Tara down. I had, indirectly, let Gavin down, too. I told myself I was done with it, and I wasn’t going back. I wasn’t going to throw myself into that again, bruising my ego for whatever I was chasing. That was the last one.
“Want to watch this show with me?” he offers.
I can’t remember the last time we just hung out. I can’t remember the last time we’ve talked this much. “Yeah, sounds good. I’ll grab some beers.” I head to the fridge, pull out two bottles, and bring them back over to the couch.
Gavin and I sit on opposite ends, and he presses play.
Tara’s leaving, so I don’t have a partner. A new session just started, and Gavin is home, sitting on the couch with me, while we drink beers and watch some bullshit on TV.
Maybe it’s time to really move along and find something new. I’ve been doing this since I was thirteen. I can’t do it forever. But even as I think it, I feel a lump in my throat start to form. That’s a long time to do something. To be attached to it. To have it define me.
After my part time stint last year, the local production said they would gladly offer me something full time. The same theater would eagerly take me as their production manager. The options are there. I just have to take them.
Chapter seven
Julieta
Every six weeks, I show up at the salon for my regularly scheduled hair appointment. A trim, an upkeep. It’s a comforting routine. One that I can always count on, one that is safe and predictable.
“Hi Jenny.” I greet the girl at the front desk. “I have a ten o’clock with Cristina.”
She checks me in, but Cristina walks by, waving.
“Hey Julie. Go ahead and take a seat. I’ll be right there,” she says.
But when I comfortably walk through the salon I’ve been to a million times and sit down in the same salon chair—the fourth one in, the mirror decorated with colors as vibrant as her hair—I start to feel antsy.
I start to feel … uncomfortable.
All around me stylists are chatting freely with their clients who know the routine. This is a classic Saturday morning. The salon smells faintly like hair products and lotions. The blow dryer is always on somewhere, white noise that lingers in the background. I look at Cristina’s station, the combs she always uses, the hair dryer set in its holder. The stylist cart, the clips. I feel a crippling desire to take those sharp scissors, shiny and glinting with the reflection of the lights, and chop all this hair off in an instant. To get up and run out of here.
So maybe the classes were a bad idea. I knew it from the beginning anyway. My job can’t handle my absence, and my family would ask too many questions about this and never let me live it down. I was worried and with good reason.
Doesn’t matter that I felt an inkling of something finally. Or that I spent an hour not worried about anybody or anything but myself. None of it matters when I’ve got responsibilities to tend to, other priorities to address.
Maybe that was too much too soon. Too impulsive, too rash. Maybe I should aim to make a different kind of change.
“Hey girl. How are you?” Cristina says just then, coming up behind my chair, probably saving me from myself. She grabs the apron and ties it around my neck, securing the clips at the back.
“Good, good.” I swallow.
She brushes my hair back; this routine is a familiar one with her, too. She knows what to do. She does the same damn thing every six weeks. But even then, every six weeks, she always checks.
“Just the trim, right?” She pumps the chair up with her foot, looking at my reflection in the mirror.
Maybe this time, I need to break the routine.
“I’m not sure.”
She pauses, hands on the back of the chair.
“I need a change, I think.”
“A change? What kind of change?” Her eyes widen. She’s excited now, chewing her gum with more vigor. She loves change in the form of a drastic haircut.
“I was thinking a cut.” I answer slowly, unsurely. I actually don’t know what I’m thinking cause I wasn’t thinking anything until about two minutes ago.
“Okay!” She bobs her head up and down and runs her manicured nails through my long hair. It’s down past my shoulder blades right now, a length that I usually tie back or up for work. Long hair that at times is more of an inconvenience than a pleasantry. “How short were you thinking then?”
Well. How short was I thinking? I look in the mirror, hair fanned around my shoulders hiding parts of my face. How long have I hidden myself? How long have I lived in the solace of a safe haircut? Of a safe life? Perhaps too long. So, I lift my hand up and point, channeling the strength I use in work. One clear cut decision, delivered with a confidence I certainly don’t feel but am trying my best to convey.
“Like … about here,” I say. And when she sees my hand pointing to right above my shoulders, signaling for a fresh cut bob, her face breaks out into the most excited grin like a kid on Christmas.
I take a deep breath as she begins. It’s just hair. This isn’t me getting up and moving to Alaska or something. This is just a haircut. If it’s terrible, it will just grow back. I could even have her put in extensions.
But no. I want this.
I want a change. I need a change.
I am so tired of this mundane, repetitive life. I am so tired of safe and simple and six-week maintenance appointments. I want the spontaneity that Agostina so proudly wears. I want the happy-go-lucky life that Delfina has created for herself. Even my younger brother who got the easygoing parents without any of the guilt trips to do well in school, go to college, make money. I want my own life to be one that I’m proud of, because I’m starting to realize how not proud of it I feel.
The snip of the scissors sounds harsh against my ears as the wet clumps of my hair slide down to the floor. Like something symbolic in the pieces that are falling around me.
This isn’t about the hair. I just think it was the easiest target. Maybe the one closest to me at the moment. So, this could be a start. Tango might have been the first step, but perhaps that was the misstep. This could be the do-over.
The tango classes were a nice thought, though. I guess I didn’t expect to feel so much. I didn’t expect to leave so … full of life.
In my thought spiral, I don’t notice that she’s done. She spins me around, my back to the mirror.
“Are you ready to see it?”
“Not really,” I blurt out. This may have been a bad idea.
Cristina just laughs, taking it all in stride. “I would never steer you wrong, girl.” She spins my chair around and when I look in the mirror, I know that she’s right, and I can’t help but smile, too.
A choppy bob cut right above my shoulders. My natural rich brown hair color accentuated with some beachy waves.
“Do you love it?” she asks in her ever-present excited tone.
That girl in the mirror, she looks like she’s ready for something new.
“I love it.”
Chapter eight
Julieta
I’m still getting used to my new hair. The ends that used to touch halfway down my back now tickle the sides of my neck, but I can’t deny it’s been a welcome addition to this end-of-summer heat.
I walk briskly down the sidewalk to the entrance of The Ivy, a trendy restaurant downtown in the financial district where Agostina works. I like to stop in every so often to say hi and chat, usually meeting Delfi here to spend some time together outside of family dinners. Once I step in, I wave to the hostess and signal that I’m headed to the bar.
Agostina has worked here for seven years now serving and occasionally bartending. She’s hoping to make it to head bartender, but for now she just fills in when she’s asked to. I’m nervous about what her reaction to my hair will be, my heart beating in my chest as I make my way to a barstool. She looks up then, just as I adjust in my seat.
“Oh shit!” She gasps in surprise, reaching out to touch my hair.
I roll my eyes, but secretly want the praise. The validation that I made the right decision. So much for wanting to live my own life.
“Midlife crisis looks good on you, Julie.”
“Hi to you too, asshole.”
She laughs at that, leaning over to give me a kiss on the cheek. She eyes my hair again, a smile still gracing her face. “It looks really good.”
“Thanks.” I blush. “How’s work?”
“Not too bad. About to get busy. We’ve got some bigger parties coming in in about fifteen minutes.”
The bar is a large rectangle, with the top made of polished dark wood and seating on either side. There are glass shelves of liquor suspended in the middle, twinkling lights wrapped around to add a cozy feel. The lights reflect off the bottles, making everything glow. I’m sure she’s tired of looking at it, but for me, it’s always been a little bit magical.
Bar patrons are scattered about, drinking and chatting, picking at food. Trevor, another bartender, is mixing drinks for guests. Everything is still relatively calm and quiet. My eyes scan the crowd, people watching, and along the other side of the bar they snag on a familiar face. Messy dark hair, lush lips. And when we make eye contact, the furrowed brows give him right away.
I notice a drink in Logan’s hand as he’s lifting it to his lips to take a sip, and that’s possibly the reason for the smile he gives me now: a small one, tucked into a corner of his mouth, but showing a lot of restraint.
“Julie,” he says with purpose.
The bar area between us is maybe a generous twelve feet, and I can hear him clearly. I’m almost taken aback by the fact that he remembers my name. It was only two days ago, I know, but still.
“You cut your hair,” he adds.
My hands fly to my ends, and I’m suddenly self-conscious. This was too short. Shit.
“It looks nice,” he tells me reassuringly, eyes sparkling.
Agostina is busy making drinks for a bar that is quickly filling up so she doesn’t hear him say this, and I’d like to keep it that way. I’d like to keep this my secret for now.
“Thanks,” I manage quietly, then as discreetly as I can shake my head to get the message across that we should act like strangers. But in that moment, his date, the beautiful Tara sits down next to him and smiles right at me.
“Julie!” she says by way of greeting, in a joyous voice like she’s so happy to see me.
Agostina’s ears perk up as she walks over to our side of the bar, dropping off my usual glass of wine, and I refrain from slamming my head onto it.
