20. Fiery Flamenco
Fiery Flamenco
HAYES
T he sun beats down, but I force a smile and adjust my collar as the sound of guitar strings being tuned fills the air.
All around me, the ancient stones seem to pulse with centuries of rhythm, oblivious to my mounting anxiety about whatever dance disaster is about to unfold.
Flamenco. Why did it have to be flamenco?
The only dancing I’ve mastered in my thirty years involves awkward swaying at wedding receptions and that one move August calls “Dad’s embarrassing robot. ”
I scan the courtyard, taking in the terra-cotta pots spilling over with red flowers, the tiled fountain in the center, and the small raised wooden platform where our instructor waits.
Four women stand in a loose semicircle, chatting nervously: Annabelle fidgeting with her hair, Serena standing perfectly still like she’s mentally calculating dance trajectories, Luna radiating easy confidence, and Chloe looking like she’d rather be anywhere else.
No Brielle. The knowledge sits like a stone in my stomach.
After last night in the SUV—her skin under my hands, her breath mingling with mine—it’s probably a good thing that she’s not here because I’m not sure I could maintain impartialness.
But her absence hopefully means she’s getting to recover from injuries and avoiding questions about our late-night return.
And I’m trying to guess who lied to her about being intimate with me. Gabby? Kavita? It has to be one of them, and I realize it doesn’t matter because I’m not going to pick any of them for hometowns. So I’ll just let it go.
“Senor Hayes!” The instructor’s voice cuts through my thoughts. She’s a compact woman with flashing dark eyes and the posture of someone who could kill a man with a well-placed stomp. “We begin now, yes? You are here to dance, not to daydream.”
“Yes, sorry.” I step forward.
“I am Marisol. Today I teach you the passion of flamenco. The fire in the blood.” She demonstrates with a sudden, explosive movement—her spine arching, hands twisting above her head like sinuous flames. “Flamenco is not just steps. It is life itself!”
Great. Just what I need—more performative passion while my actual feelings are a tangled mess.
“We begin with basic positions.” Marisol places her feet in an unnecessarily aggressive stance. “Copy!”
I follow her lead, acutely aware of the cameras tracking every awkward movement. My face flushes as I attempt to mimic her proud posture, feeling more like a confused flamingo than a flamenco dancer. The women follow along with varying degrees of success.
“Now, partners!” Marisol claps her hands. “Senor Hayes, you will practice with each woman. We start with—” She points at Annabelle, whose eyes widen.
“Me?” Annabelle squeaks. “I don’t—I’m not—”
“Come!” Marisol doesn’t accept refusal. “The dance waits for no one.”
Annabelle steps forward, her freckled face flushed, red hair falling from its messy bun. “I’m really not good at this,” she whispers as we take position. “I have two left feet and neither one listens to my brain.”
“That’s okay,” I say, taking her hands. “I have two right feet, so between us, we have a complete set.”
Her laugh—spontaneous and genuine—catches me off guard. As Marisol counts out the rhythm and we attempt to follow, Annabelle steps on my foot, I nearly elbow her in the ribs, and we both dissolve into helpless laughter.
“Sorry!” She wipes tears of laughter from her eyes. “It’s just—your face when you realized we were turning the wrong way!”
“Like a confused puppy.” I’m surprised by how much I’m enjoying this disaster. There’s something freeing about failing spectacularly with someone who’s equally terrible.
Marisol sighs dramatically. “Enough! You dance like floppy kittens, not passionate lovers. Next!”
As Annabelle steps away with a giggle and bow, I feel a rush of affection for her. I can’t believe how much my appreciation of her keeps growing, especially after that first night where all she did was cry. First impressions definitely aren’t everything.
Serena approaches next, her movements precise as she takes a position before me. Her face bears the concentrated look I recognize from the chess match with August—analytical, methodical, problem-solving.
“I’ve been observing the foot patterns,” she says. “It’s essentially a mathematical sequence with minor variations. If we count together, we can make it work.”
“Spoken like a true romantic,” I say, and she laughs.
“Yeah, we’re just in survival mode here.”
Dancing with Serena is like following an instruction manual.
Her steps are technically correct, her timing right, but there’s no spontaneity, no joy in the discovery, no connection beyond the mechanical placement of limbs.
I find myself counting silently, focusing more on not messing up than on feeling anything resembling passion.
But I’ve been with Serena in other settings, and I’ve truly enjoyed our time together.
She’s really the total package in every way that matters.
When Marisol finally calls for the next partner, Serena steps back with a small nod of satisfaction. “Not the worst ever.”
I laugh. “You did great.”
Luna glides forward before Marisol even calls her name, her silent confidence filling the space between us. Unlike the others, she seems perfectly at home in this courtyard.
“Ready to actually dance?” Her brown eyes hold mine with an understanding that surprises me. “This can be enjoyable, you know.”
Before I can respond, she takes my hands, placing them correctly on her waist and in her palm with gentle firmness. The guitar begins a faster rhythm, and Luna moves with such natural fluidity that I find myself following without thinking.
“There you go,” she murmurs as we turn, her body somehow both soft and strong against mine. “Don’t overthink it.”
And for a few moments, I don’t. The constant awareness of cameras fades. The guilt about what happened with Brielle recedes. There’s just movement, music, and the unexpected ease of dancing with someone who knows exactly how to lead while appearing to follow.
“You’re good at this.” I’m genuinely impressed as she executes a perfect turn without breaking eye contact.
“Dance is my language.”
Marisol claps her hands. “Yes! Now there is some fire! For the final test, each couple will perform twenty seconds. Show me what you have learned!”
Luna’s eyes spark with competitive spirit. “Let’s give them something worth watching.”
When our turn comes, Luna transforms before my eyes.
Gone is the graceful guide, replaced by a passionate performer who moves with such intensity that I can only try to keep up.
As the guitar reaches a crescendo, she spins into my arms, throws her head back in a move Marisol definitely didn’t teach us, and then—with the cameras positioned to capture it—she leans in and presses her lips to mine.
I reciprocate automatically, part of me still in performance mode while another part screams about last night.
Today’s kiss is technically perfect—right pressure, right duration, camera-ready passion—but utterly hollow compared to what I shared with Brielle.
No electricity, no desperate need, just two actors hitting their mark.
But really, how could there be anything more right now? This is public and scripted.
When we break apart, Luna’s eyes search mine with a question I can’t quite decipher. Did she feel the emptiness, too? Or is she simply gauging my reaction for the next strategic move?
Marisol declares the exercise complete, asking me to name a winner. Despite the conflict churning in my gut, I award the victory to Luna. It’s justifiable—she genuinely danced circles around the others.
When it’s all over, Chloe pulls me aside with her face twisted. After a long hesitation, she says, “A PA just came and told me that my grandfather’s in the hospital. I need to go home.”
“I’m so sorry, Chloe.” I touch her shoulder.
“It’s okay—he’s stable. But I think it’s pretty clear by now I’m not your top choice, so I’d rather be home with my family.”
I nod. “Of course. I understand, absolutely.” And she’s not wrong.
After I walk her to the production SUV and give her a hug goodbye, she’s off, and I return to the other women still on the dance floor, announcing Chloe’s situation and departure.
As the women are led away to practice more steps, I step off the platform, my mind racing ahead to tonight’s private date with Luna, excited to see what it’s like with her unscripted.
Another performance, another test of my ability to compartmentalize feelings that are becoming increasingly impossible to contain.
I leave the sun-drenched courtyard behind, but my contradictory feelings follow me like a shadow.
Evening in Pamplona feels like a painting—colors bleeding into one another as streetlamps flicker.
The murmur of dinner conversations spills from open doorways as Luna and I navigate cobblestone streets that have witnessed centuries of couples, families, and friendships. I say, “This city is incredible.”
“It really is.” Luna’s smile glows.
Guitar music drifts from an open window above us. The scent of garlic and saffron hangs in the air. Locals and tourists fill outdoor tables, their laughter a soundtrack.
“Look.” She points ahead, where the cathedral’s towers rise above surrounding buildings, illuminated against the indigo sky. “That’s our destination.”
It looms larger as we approach, its stone glowing in the strategic lighting. Centuries of faith and history captured in soaring arches and intricate carvings that make my photographer’s eye itch for my camera.
“Beautiful,” I murmur, genuinely moved.
“The Catedral de Santa María la Real,” Luna says, surprising me with her knowledge. “Built over several centuries. They say the stones remember every prayer whispered inside.”
“You’ve done your research.”