9. Logan
Chapter nine
Logan
I leave Tara and Silas at the bar and make my way to the bathroom. It’s been a long night; a long week really. And that’s evident on my face when I catch my reflection in the mirror. Tired eyes, shoulders slumped. I feel like a wreck.
As I step out of the bathroom, I run into Julie making her way down the long narrow hallway leading to the restrooms.
“Oh. Hi.” She stops walking when she sees me.
She’s backlit by the dim lights lining the hallway, the outline of her almost elegant as she stands before me. It was a surprise seeing her tonight, but not an unwelcome one. She looked like she had a nice time, for whatever that’s worth.
“Julie,” I say again. Like I don’t tire from saying it.
We stare at each other for a brief moment, unsure of how to continue this exchange. When she asks, “How are you?” it comes out in the most awkward tone, like she’s trying to be professional and friendly all at once. I can’t help but laugh.
“I’m alright. This is a nice place. Looks like you had a nice night.”
“I did. Did you?”
“I did,” I nod.
“Sorry about your date.”
“My date?” I ask in confusion.
“She was kissing another guy?” She points behind her to the bar where Tara and Silas are still sitting, probably all over each other, feeding each other martini olives.
I can’t help but laugh at this again, too. Tara as my date. Though I guess to any other eye it would look like that. That’s the power of good partners, I guess.
“Oh, God no. Tara’s my dance partner and we’re friends. Nothing more.”
She rears back slightly in surprise. “Oh.”
“I don’t date partners.” I don’t know why I say it. It’s not not true, but what does it matter if she knows? And I can’t deny that I’ve slept with enough dancers anyway.
“Oh, right.” She clears her throat and frowns. “Makes sense.”
“So, will I see you next week?”
“Yes, you will,” she says with conviction, standing up even straighter.
“Good.” I tuck my hands into my pockets, now fidgety under her stare.
“Good,” she nods.
“Do you need a ride home?” I peer at her while she stands still in front of me. I don’t know how many drinks she’s had, but I’d like to make sure she makes a safe choice.
“I don’t get into cars with strangers,” she answers succinctly.
“A good rule,” I smile.
“Anyway, I’m fine,” she replies, but then adds in, “Thanks, though.”
“Sure. Well, have a nice night, Julie,” I say, making my way out of the hallway so I, too, can head home.
“Goodnight, Logan,” she says behind me, in a voice that sounds both sweet and strangely seductive. The words float between us, making a space right between my shoulder blades, and then crawl up to ring in my ears the whole way home.
***
When Thursday night comes around again, I see the same crowd trickle in. The couples, the familiar faces. Some new students have hopped in on this session, and they look eager to start, excited for something novel. I’ve seen that look before, too. Women dragging dates, girlfriends aiming for a fun night out, engaged couples looking for a reception dance. And before I realize what I’m waiting for, I see her walk in. A flowery blouse and pants again. Same shoes I happened to notice last week. That bouncy haircut that frames her face.
“Hi, Julie!” Tara calls out to her.
Julie’s smile is apprehensive. Still tight-lipped, but a little brighter this time around. Her limbs are a little looser, her back a little straighter. She sets down her belongings and finds a space in the back again. Ethan slides next to her, saying hello. She offers a hello back, but then immediately looks forward to the mirror, waiting for instruction.
This time we talk about the ocho, the step that involves pivots and a figure eight motion.
We refresh our steps for the eight step and the cross. We continue to work on the basics, Tara and I leading, teaching form. Again, I catch Julie and the concentration on her face, the focus on doing it right. There’s something so passionate about it. It’s making me feel a little bit off balance.
After Tara and I dance the steps, everybody pairs up and I find myself going back to Julie. But this time I want to get in right before Ethan can extend his hand out.
“May I?” I offer my hand.
“You want to be my partner?” she asks, surprised.
“Well, it does take two to tango.”
“Clever,” she smirks.
She gives Ethan a small shrug in apology and takes my hand.
We come together slowly, still in a practice embrace, her hands gripping my upper shoulders. And then we begin to move even slower while I let her adjust to the moves, to our bodies moving in rhythm. It doesn’t take very long, our adjusting, because the weird feeling that’s reemerging is now a little more recognizable: this feels familiar.
This feels like we’ve done this dance before, like our feet have met in rhythm before. Like my body settles into a place it has known for a long time. She welcomes what we’re doing. She trusts it, I quickly notice, and that’s a very big thing.
“You’re doing great,” I say.
“Oh. Thank you.”
“What’s your dance history?” I ask.
“My what?” She’s trying to keep her focus on the steps, but that question might have taken her out of it.
“What else have you danced?”
“Oh. Well, I did ballet when I was nine. And then jazz when I was eleven. And then I quit and never looked back.”
“Really? That’s all?”
“Yes?” She makes a figure eight as I lead and watch her body pivot from side to side.
“Keep your chest forward toward me,” I remind her. “You know tango.” It's not a question, but an observation.
“I was exposed to it at a young age,” she says between steps.
Her legs move along in a mesmerizing pattern. Her chest stays forward, her hips face the side and pivot. She might be counting the steps in her head, but like clockwork she’s hitting every single one. I step side to side, shifting weight as I need to, allowing her space and time to hit every move. My hands twitch as I grip her upper arms in a practice hold, unknowingly squeezing to bring her closer.
“But you never danced it?”
“Kind of complicated.” She keeps moving in rhythm as we’re talking comfortably. This close I can’t help but smell hints of perfume on her skin. “What about you?” she asks.
“I got into ballroom dancing in my teens.”
“That’s interesting.”
I shrug. “I needed the structure of it. I liked that I could channel my focus into it.”
“I can relate,” she says softly.
“I have a feeling you can,” I tell her.
She stills briefly, and I know she wants to look at me, but she keeps her head down, her feet in tempo. “No offense, but I kind of expected somebody older to teach this class.”
Maybe she expected somebody older, or somebody different. This community is full of wonderful dancers from so many parts of the world. Dancers and mentors that I am lucky to call friends—Argentinians, Chileans, Romanians, even Americans like me taking to dance and competition.
I huff out a laugh. “I get that sometimes. I’m thirty-three, but some days I feel ancient.”
Argentine tango was always my favorite, so I decided to focus on it the most when I started really dancing. The love for it fueled me through my teen years when I needed the focus, to later in life where it continued to be a lifeline. Right now, it’s teetering on the edge of exhaustion. I’ve been giving my all for so many years, some days all I feel is my body breaking down. My alarm clock reminding me to get out of bed, but my body fighting it every step of the way. My heart saying, you loved this, remember? and my brain saying, what does it matter anymore?
“I’m a year older than you so if you’re ancient, what does that make me?”
“Prehistoric, probably,” I joke.
She lets out a surprised gasp, something close to a snort, and her smile starts to unfurl. My eyes track the movement, my own smile mirroring hers, my heart speeding up as I watch.
The song ends, and we part. I give her a bow in thank you, wondering why, right now, my body is saying, bring her back, do it again.
I head back up to the front of the class where Tara and I discuss next week’s steps and agenda.
“Once the twelve-week course is up, we host a fun milonga night with students and other regulars in the tango community. Tara and I have been doing this for several years now, and it’s always a great time. A night of social dancing, drinks, usually some locally made empanadas. A great time all around.”
The class breaks out in scattered applause and cheers.
“That being said, we’ve got some news to share,” I start.
“As some of you may know, my boyfriend, Silas, is in medical school,” Tara cuts in. “He just got matched for residency and …” she pauses to take a breath. “We’ll be moving to Arizona in ten weeks.”
This news is met with gasps and congratulations, surprised ohs and sad aws. I even see Tara wipe her eye as she thanks them, taking one more breath. I happen to notice Julie, eyes wide like in shock, clapping along with everybody else.
“I will be here till the end of the session. And not to get too ahead of myself, but I do want to thank you all for being such a wonderful community.”
“This milonga will be a goodbye party, too. Let’s make this a big send off for Tara,” I add in. “Thank you for a great class. See you next week.”
The crowd disperses, most of them coming up to Tara to give hugs and chat. Shortly after, they grab their belongings and walk out the door. Julie grabs her bag and checks her phone, frowning once more, then says goodbye as she follows the other students out.
“You okay?” Tara asks behind me as I’m looking at the door.
“Yeah. Good.” My response is almost robotic.
“Uh-huh,” she says like she doesn’t quite believe me.
“What?”
“Maybe your future is in Pro-Am,” she laughs.
“Oh yeah? You pawning me off on amateur dancers now?”
“Just one,” she says pointedly, laughing again.
“Oh, shut up.” I move and start gathering my own belongings. We fall into silence as we both pack up together. There’s been something else on my mind, and I don’t know how to bring it up, but with that ProAm comment now may be a good a time as any. “I’ve been looking for some jobs.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Really?”
“Just looking.”
“For what?” She stops packing up to face me.
“I don’t know,” I sigh, frustrated. “Something normal? Something that doesn’t involve so much travel.”
She eyes me thoughtfully for a beat. “You’re really having a hard time, huh?” Her voice is tender, but we both know that question is rhetorical. And after the last competition, maybe I just need to let myself know when it’s time to quit, too. “You’ve got to take care of you, Logan. I get it.”
“I don’t know what I’m doing yet, anyway. Like I said, just looking.” My statement sounds non-committal, because it is . Frustratingly so. When I take one step forward, steadfast on making a change, something brings me back. Something else makes me waver.
“How’s Gavin doing, by the way?”
She knows about his layoff. Maybe she notices the similarities in the two of us now looking for new jobs. Or maybe she just wants to let me off the hook for now.
“I … don’t know,” I say. “The other night, I came home and we sat down and watched TV together.”
“Huh,” she mumbles curiously.
“I know.” I nod in agreement. “And it was nice.”
“Is he job searching, too?”
“Not sure.” He might not be, but I’m not going to pressure him into any of it. If it’s evident that I’m having a hard time, it’s sure as hell evident that he is, too. “Are you okay?”
Tara sighs loudly. “I know it’s the right thing, but it still sucks,” she says.
“I know. They all love you. They’re going to miss you.”
“I’m going to miss it here, too,” she says quietly.
We’ve been partners for six years, but we’ve known each other close to ten. Tara and I met at a tango festival, and then kept running into each other after that. It’s a small community that way, always running in the same circles. I always trusted her; we always had fun. When her longtime partner decided to retire from competing, we decided to partner up. And there was no stopping us from there.
But everything comes to an end, especially in this business. We’ve seen many retire or move away. We’ve witnessed divorces and petty arguments break up partnerships. We’ve been privy to too many messes, so we always opted to stay truthful, to keep it professional, to stay friends. And to go out there and kick ass. We spent years competing, teaching, traveling to festivals, hosting our own weekend workshops. Now here we are.
I always thought this would be part of my life forever, but that’s not the reality.
“We’ve had a good run,” I say, lightly teasing.
“You’re not getting rid of me that easy, asshole.”
“Unfortunately.”
“You’ll find my replacement soon enough anyway.”
I laugh. “I’m not looking for a replacement. I’m looking for another job, remember?”
“Whatever you say,” she shrugs, as we both walk out of the studio and head home.