Chapter 10 #3
I press my lips together to keep from smiling. I’m wearing dark jeans and a crisp white shirt. And the way she says it makes me believe she likes this version of me.
I gesture to the hallway on our right. “The class is in the studio down this way.”
Cecily nods, gathers her hair, and twists it into a loose bun. When she turns around, the movement reveals the back of her dress. Open almost entirely, exposing the line of her spine, the delicate curve of her waist, the subtle dip where the fabric parts...
I exhale calmly and follow her.
We walk into the studio where the class will be held; a few people are already here. We greet them with a polite nod.
The instructor doesn’t take long to begin the class, and I notice Cecilia has already adjusted the skirt of her dress at least three times.
I move a little closer and lean down to whisper in her ear. “You don’t need to be nervous. If you’re not comfortable, just say the word and we’ll leave.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t want to leave, I’m just... a little nervous.”
I place my hand at the small of her back, and the moment my fingers touch her skin, my heart kicks hard in my chest. She lets out a soft gasp, and when she doesn’t pull away from my touch, with my mouth close to her ear I murmur,
“You can lean on me. I’m here with you. We’ll learn every step together.”
Cecily closes her eyes for a moment and nods.
The instructor claps her hands, her cheerful voice ringing across the studio.
“Okay, everyone! Let’s start with connection. Gentle hands, soft posture. No tension. To feel salsa, you need to listen to your partner with your body, not just your ears.”
Cecilia adjusts her skirt again. I watch the small motion, the graceful way her fingers gather the fabric, and how she keeps straightening her posture.
I step a little closer, catching the faint scent of her perfume. It goes straight to my head.
“Relax your shoulders,” the instructor says. “And remember, you’re a team.”
I touch the small of Cecilia’s back again, guiding her gently, and she inhales as if that exact spot on her skin had just woken up. My heart answers with a beat far too strong.
The music begins.
A soft tum-tum, followed by the smooth slide of brass weaving its way in. The instructor demonstrates the basic step, loose hips, the shift of each foot. I try to pay attention, but Cecilia is too close and she smells too damn good.
“Step... together... step,” the instructor calls out, motioning with her hands.
I follow the rhythm, a bit awkward at first, focusing on keeping my lead light so I don’t overwhelm her. She follows every cue from my body, hesitant, but determined.
“Good! Now shift your balance. Left... right... yes, just like that.”
Her small hand finds mine, fitting perfectly and trusting me to keep leading us. Gradually the tremor in her fingers fades as her body finds its own flow, her movements smoothing out with each beat.
“Look at your partner,” the instructor says.
Cecilia lifts her face and something in my chest just caves—my heart doesn’t care that we are surrounded by strangers. And the boundaries in my brain begin to blur.
The music swells, the cadence opening and we follow the count:
“Forward... back... side... together...”
Soon the instructor’s voice fades away and all I can see is her. Cecilia.
All I can feel is the way her breath grazes my neck whenever she steps just a little too close on the side pass.
My hands already know where to be. One on her waist, bringing her closer to me. Firm enough to guide her, never crossing any line. The other holding her hand. She lets out a small laugh when she stumbles. A nervous sound that hits the bottom of my stomach like a spark.
“Sorry,” she murmurs.
“Don’t apologize,” I say. “Just... feel the rhythm. I’ve got you.”
And I lead her. But her body also leads me places I shouldn’t be going.
The heat of her body brushes my chest when the instructor calls for a simple turn. I guide her through it taking my time, making it last, just so I can watch her come back to me at the end, as if the entire room stops moving for a beat.
I don’t hear anything except the pulse of the music and the soft rhythm of her breathing. And at some point, I don’t know when, we’re no longer following the class. We’re just dancing. Alone. In the middle of a crowded room, our gazes locked.
The end of the class comes too fast. The music fades and people around us start clapping. The instructor is cheerfully saying something, but for the life of me I can’t hear in a single word.
Cecilia’s eyes are still on mine and neither of us moves. She’s in my arms. Looking at me as if she didn’t notice the class had ended either, as if waiting for the next move.
The clapping softens, the room shifting back into focus as people start passing beside us, and only then does Cecilia inhale deeply.
Even then, our hands stay joined for a second too long. And when we finally let go, we drag it out. Reluctant. As if the dance has stopped... but whatever it stirred in us hasn’t.
We step out of the studio into the crisp night.
Cecilia is wearing the same dress; she chose not to change, only slipping on a light cardigan she had in her bag.
“So,” I say after a few minutes of walking in a comfortable silence, “can you cross this one off your list now?”
She laughs under her breath. “Yes. And thank you for giving me the courage to do it.”
I shake my head. “The courage was all yours. I only made the opportunity appear.” Curious, I add, “Was it anything like what you imagined? Or like what you saw in the movie?”
That makes her glance away.
“It’s definitely an... intense style.” She laughs shyly. “But I’m terrible at it. Just count how many times I stepped on your foot.” Then she turns toward me with a suspicious look. “You, on the other hand, seemed strangely comfortable with the rhythm.”
I run a hand along the back of my neck.
“I may or may not have danced salsa once or twice before, but I didn’t lie. This was my first actual class. The instructor’s tips did most of the work.”
“Sure,” she says, smiling. “Well, at least now we know salsa isn’t for me.”
Her tone is light, a little self-deprecating. I stop walking and gently place my hand on her arm.
“You were beautiful when you danced,” I murmur. “Free and alive in a way that... captivated me. Absolutely beautiful, Cecilia.”
She stares at me for a few seconds before her brows knit together.
“Ce–Cecilia?”
I close my eyes for two seconds. “I said the last part out loud, didn’t I?”
A loose strand slips from her bun, and I reach up to tuck it behind her ear.
“In Italian—and in a few other languages, I believe—your name is pronounced Cecilia,” I tell her, drawing out the vowels, my accent thickening around the syllables. My hand lingers along her cheekbone. “And I’ll admit... since the day I met you, that’s the version I hear in my mind. Cecilia.”
She watches me, her eyes locked on mine. We’re standing on the sidewalk, the city moving around us, and it feels like the world has narrowed to just the two of us.
“I like it,” she says finally. “It sounds beautiful.”
Then, as if waking from a trance, she breaks our gaze before looking back at me. “Well... I’ve done one of the four things I told you. Now you have to tell me at least three things you want to do.”
I grin, because I know precisely what she’s doing, even as my heartbeat refuses to fall back into its normal rhythm.
I let my hand drop to my side, and I’m just about to answer when someone calls out right beside us.
“Mom?”
I turn and see a redheaded girl in jeans and a band T-shirt, holding a small pint of ice cream. I recognize her instantly. Alicia, Cecilia’s daughter.
And standing just behind her is him.
Il coglione[XXXV]. Colin Montgomery.