Chapter Eleven
Whether it’s the chat with the grannies who’ve thrust this date upon us, my blinding outfit, or the false lashes Rita applied coming loose on one side, Dr. Dimples doesn’t say much on the drive.
He doesn’t wait in lines, either, simply greases the bouncer’s palm on the way in, which I have to admit ups his hotness factor—there’s just something about a man who takes charge.
I don’t realize I was holding out hope until I’ve visually confirmed everyone else is wearing modern club gear, not like they’re about to compete on Dancing with the Stars.
Although several hemlines land at a similar length, from dresses to hotpants, and a few even rival mine in shimmer, which also helps me feel less self-conscious.
Flashiness abounds, clubgoers not paying much attention to anyone besides the person or people they’re pressed up against, and Tia Rita should’ve joined us because the dancing is absolutely filthy.
Sweaty bodies gyrate to the inescapable beat—it vibrates through my bones and coaxes my heart to beat along with the rhythm. My hips sway, my breaths quicken, and I stare in awe at the display of no inhibitions.
Sensual and raw, no one is thinking about reports or occupancy rates or anything besides the hypnotic pulse of the music. I’m supercharged just from watching, my skin already buzzing, and a tingle races up my spine as Carlos presses his hand to the small of my back and lingers.
Every ounce of my blood races there, and fine, I admit it—Rita might’ve been on to something. I don’t remember the last time my body hummed like this, the frantic beats of my heart from exhilaration rather than distress.
Applying gentle pressure, the doctor leads me toward the long, stainless-steel counter. He snags a pair of high-top stools and lifts a hand in the air, signaling the nearest bartender.
“Drinks, yes,” I say, abandoning my useless attempts to sit without exposing more thigh and hooking my heel on the bottom rung of the stool. “This is an excellent place to start.”
“Glad you agree.” That delectable dimple pops in his cheek, and a bartender with neon green hair and a septum ring takes our order.
Once we’re left to ourselves, my nerves do jumping jacks in my gut, and how do I do this whole dating thing again? “So…”
Great start, Mia. Why don’t you throw out a “Do you come here often?” and call it a day.
“So,” Carlos says with a mischievous grin, propping his elbow on the bar to create a more intimate bubble.
“Okay, let’s start with the obvious…” I go to twirl my hair, but that hairspray Wanda used is bulletproof, so I switch to fiddling with a cardboard coaster instead. “My grandmas asked you out on my behalf, and they also told you when and where to take me out on this date.”
“They were very insistent,” he says, clearly enjoying this joke at my expense, and my cheeks flame.
“As I told Ms. Ramirez when she cornered me, my mom made me take dancing lessons from the time I was young. Salsa, Bachata, Cumbia—I was the outnumbered boy in a family full of bossy women, which meant I didn’t get to sit out a single song.
Not until I’d danced with my mom, aunts, and cousins, not to mention whatever other neighbor or relative my mom pointed my way. ”
I grin, going slightly melty inside. “That’s very sweet.”
“Nah, it was ninety percent fear and obligation.” He says it lightly, not a hint of fear in his features. “It wasn’t until college, when women found out I could twirl them around the dance floor, that I learned to appreciate what I’d been taught.”
Our drinks arrive, and Carlos thanks our bartender—something I watch for on dates—and passes my mojito to me.
He wraps long fingers around his whiskey glass and pivots toward me, his knee knocking lightly into mine. “Now that I’m an adult, I have a strict rule: no dancing until I’ve had alcohol.”
“That’s a rule I’ll happily toast.” We clink glasses and sip, and I figure now’s as good a time as any to address my outfit.
“Speaking of Rita and how persistent she can be, this dress is from her glory days, back when she used to perform competitively. She always wished she’d gone to a salsa club to do some dir—dancing,” I correct my slip halfway through, even though my grannies were less than subtle when we left for our date.
“But her fiancé was a possessive asshole and forbade it, so all these years later, she’s decided I need to experience the carefree night of salsa dancing she missed out on in her twenties.
“When I agreed, I never dreamed she’d insist on this.” I lift a few beaded tassels, mesmerized by the glittery cascade as it falls to my thighs.
The fingertips of his free hand graze my knee, and I’m feeling that same breathlessness I experienced while watching the sea of gyrating bodies get lost in the beat. “That’s very sweet,” he says, parroting back what I told him earlier with an extra charming grin.
I bite my drink straw, my heart going pitter-patter. “I guess you could say I also have a family of bossy women.”
Carlos gives a low laugh that leaves me slightly dizzy.
“Hey, these old folks are tougher than ever, especially all grouped together like they are in Lakeview. They’re challenging, and every day is different, and I love that they keep me on my toes.
But sometimes I want to tell them to stop being so damn stubborn—to just listen to my medical advice and let me help them. ”
His exasperation echoes what I’ve felt working in the community. “Yeah, I thought I was a big shot until I went head-to-head with my grandma and her friends. By the end of week one, I was begging for mercy.”
As we laugh and sip our drinks, my muscles relax. We have more in common than I realized, and he’s so easy to talk to that I find myself feeling understood for the first time since I was ousted from my job in Miami.
“They think I work too much,” I vent, spilling enough it eases the knot permanently lodged in my chest. “Yes, I give a lot to my career, and it’s true that I got a little burned out at my last job, but I thrive under pressure. My work-life balance might be shit, but I really enjoy what I do.”
“And there’s nothing wrong with that. I specialized in Geriatric Medicine so I could make a difference, and I still have so much left to accomplish. In addition to publishing my research on the five pillars of healthy aging and Alzheimer’s, I have my eye on chief of medicine.”
Carlos sets his drink on a cocktail napkin, fingertips still gripping the rim, and then I’m thinking about how he saves lives with those hands, and how admirable his life’s work is.
“The majority of my relationships didn’t survive how many hours I put in.
If you ask me, ambition isn’t a flaw, it’s a bonus. ”
Everything that’s been churning within me for weeks is soothed by the words.
Maybe that’s what men I’ve dated in the past were missing.
Not that they were flawed or wrong, and neither was I.
They just weren’t as driven, which led to arguments about my hours at the office and the texts and calls that came in from sunrise to sundown and occasionally that witching hour, three a.m.
Which reminds me, King EZ had called me around that time last night or this morning or whatever, but he didn’t leave a message and, given I didn’t reply to any of his texts from last weekend, I’d be afraid to listen to it if he did.
I didn’t even have to pull out my phone to recall the maddening lines sent in a five-minute burst around midnight last Saturday night.
Ezekial: Hey, what happened to that crisis plan you always talked about? Can you email it to the office so my new publicist can use it? My statement last week had zero vibe.
Ezekial: I think my posts are being shadowbanned again. Can you check?
Ezekial: btw did u put those D&G shades back in the glovebox? my girl thinks u kept em on purpose
Yeah, his girl—who I never once borrowed sunglasses from—had remained by his side.
Though I tried not to check the articles about him or the team too often because it was bad for me, I saw the statement he released about struggling with emotional detachment and compulsive behaviors that make it hard to form real connections.
But don’t worry, he’s seeking help to understand the root of it.
It’d made my blood boil because I had compulsive behaviors that belonged to a disorder that made my life harder every single day, whereas he didn’t think he should have to use any impulse control. How dare he use it as an excuse to cheat!
But it was the final text, sent the next evening, that made me conjure a dozen angry replies I never sent.
Ezekial: u still mad or just allergic to greatness?
I shake my head in an attempt to clear the words that’ve imprinted themselves on my brain and return my attention to Carlos and his goal-oriented attitude.
I lift my drink and cast him a smile over the rim.
“Thank you for saying that. Most people don’t understand, so it’s nice to talk to someone who really gets it. ”
“Just don’t go spreading that around the community—I have a rep to maintain. Same goes for the Latin dancing, as it requires a certain level of…” Don Juan rolls his tongue, the purr causing me to squeeze my thighs together. “Recklessness.”
He’s so close when I twist my neck that my lips almost leave a crimson smear on his cheek. Regardless of what my grandmas think, I know how to flirt—it’s the delivery I struggle with.
I swallow past the tightness in my throat and go for it anyway. “Reckless happens to be the perfect description for my dance moves.”
My joke gets the laugh I intended, but I also hope he gets that I’m not completely kidding.
“For reals, though, this dress makes promises I can’t keep, so…” I glance at the dance floor and mangle my straw a bit more with my teeth. “How about you keep your eyes closed the entire time?”
“Don’t worry, you have nothing to be nervous about.” He downs the contents of his glass and leans even closer, his warm breath hitting my ear. “Wearing that dress and looking like you do, all you have to do is follow my lead.”
He threads his fingers through mine, and I can’t decide if he’s too smooth or if he just has his life together.
Then again, none of that matters if I stay focused on my mission of spending a steamy night of dancing in a salsa club.
As fixated as Rita and the biddies were on getting me to live out their “what-ifs” and regrets, they failed to factor in my apprehension over what might happen when you ran into the man you’d grinded up against the next Monday at the office.
But it certainly doesn’t stop me from giving in to his pull when he stands, tightens his hold on my hand, and leads me into the undulating throng.
Lights flash, tingeing us in pink, purple, and blue. The hues dapple Carlos’s skin and mine as he glides his hands from my hips to low on my back. I loop my arms around his neck, bringing our bodies flush together.
A few steps into following his lead, he shows off those moves he mentioned earlier, snagging my hand and spinning me around, his palm dragging across my middle to keep me from pirouetting out into the other dancers.
“One, two, cha-cha-cha,” Carlos says, demonstrating the step, step, sway of hips I desperately try to follow.
Within no time, I’m breathless and giggly, and a hint euphoric, honestly. I forgot how much I love to dance. The contained waterfall I’m wearing steals the spotlight, glittering and forgiving my sloppy performance.
Firm fingers dig into my hip, Carlos slips his thigh between mine, and this is it, the exact move that guy with a mullet performed on what’s-her-face in Dirty Dancing—Grandma Helen, Wanda, and Rita would be appalled I’ve forgotten.
No offense to them, but I get antsy and can’t sit through a long movie, not since I had summers off for fun.
“You ready to be dipped?” Carlos asks out of nowhere, and I just tense up and freeze. His arm’s sliding around my lower back anyway, so I do my best to prepare for an inevitable crash.
“I’ve got you,” he says, his voice low in my ear, and with a shake of my arm, he manages to loosen my other muscles. Then down I go, the entire club going topsy-turvy, my foot kicking up enough I worry I nicked somebody’s elbow…
But then I’m back in Carlos’s arms, the rise and fall of our chests syncing to the same rhythm.
Strands of my hair obscure his smile, but it’s stretched wide, and a laugh spills out of me. I’ve never been the sort of gal to step to any dude’s beat, but I stop fighting the experience so hard and transfer more of my weight to him.
Then we’re whirling and twirling across the floor, and I’m thanking his mom, aunties, and cousins for those extra dance lessons they’d thrust upon him.
I’ve never been so thoroughly flung and spun, and I didn’t expect to be such a fan.
It takes away that pressure of what I should do and say, and I haven’t felt so in-the-moment in a long, long time.
As the song comes to a close and I end up tucked against him, the top of my head secured in that comfy little spot between his shoulder and neck, I fully comprehend what Rita meant when she said never before had a man made her feel like such a woman.
With his large hand secured low on my back, my body automatically swaying along with his, I feel petite and taken care of in a way I rarely do on dates.
It’s true that I didn’t know what I was missing, so I request another drink and a few more dances before I’m ready to call it a night.
I’m still bubbly and floaty as I quietly creep inside Grandma Helen’s house at the end of the evening, my muscles pleasantly sore and my shoes hooked in my fingers so they won’t clack against the floor of the entryway.
Fifi pads over, and I bend to greet her and then yelp as lights flip on and flood my vision.
Grandma Helen’s not the only one in the living room, either.
She’s wearing her long nightdress that’s slightly see-through in the light, and I catch sight of Wanda sprawled out on the couch while Rita’s covered with an afghan in the recliner.
I get that sleepovers are fun, but their bedrooms are mere steps away, although Rita would have to walk a whole street over.
“It’s after midnight,” Wanda mumbles in a sleep-roughened voice. “That’s what I’m talking about, baby girl. We knew you had it in you.”