13. Julieta
Chapter thirteen
Julieta
“I Googled you the other day,” I tell him, standing in the middle of this dance studio facing the mirror. This place seems much bigger with fewer people in it. The mirror feels much more intimidating when it’s just me staring at it, waiting for direction.
I still can’t believe I’m doing this. I still can’t believe I asked. I figured I could run it by Ethan during the private class if it went well, but it clearly didn’t. In the middle of that mess, I realized maybe it could be Logan instead. I was prepared for a no; there was no way he would agree to it. Except that he did, and now we’re here.
It seems like one impulsive decision has led to a plethora of them. One after the other, like this is who I’ve been all along. The rush of signing up for lessons in the first place was the beginning of a whole mountain of them: classes and a haircut and a plan to go to San Diego. Who am I right now? I’m still not sure how I’m going to get that news past everyone, but maybe that’s a problem for Future Julie.
“Oh yeah? Find anything fun?” he asks.
“Some videos.”
“Do tell.” He narrows his eyes.
“You were incredible.” I sigh.
“Just lots of practice,” he says casually, unbothered.
“Don’t be so humble,” I call out. “You’re a wonderful dancer. You’re good with your feet.” I point to his. “There was one video where you did a giro and ocho. I loved how you did it, how your feet stepped in line. Tara is fantastic, too. She’s so beautiful, so graceful. What a great partnership you two have. Or, had.” I wince.
He doesn’t say anything in response, just smiles as he listens to me ramble on. And at this point, I am absolutely rambling.
“You’ve traveled all over the world, it seems like. You’ve won championships.”
“Tell me more about your research,” he grins.
I have the decency to blush at least. “It’s very admirable, your success.”
“Mm. Success is relative.” He comes to stand next to me, looking at me in the mirror as he speaks. “You’re very successful, too.”
My parents think so , I want to tell him.
“We'll start with a warmup and then some basic moves,” he says, redirecting the conversation to why we're here.
We go through the moves slowly, Logan detailing every step and proper form. We’re starting from the beginning again, but I don’t mind. I like this thorough exploration of the dance. I like it with him.
“Let’s do a proper tango hold,” he suggests.
His arm comes around behind my back, and mine finds a home along his upper arm. He’s attentive as he touches my spine gently to adjust my posture, and the heat radiates throughout my body. I look up to meet his eyes, silently asking for validation that I'm doing this right. He looks at me, and quickly nods, like almost encouraging me to keep going. I step closer, leaning into his space, and I find that I really like it here. This feels intimate. This feels … special.
I’m looking over his shoulder, our faces almost cheek to cheek, when he gives the next direction.
“Basic step,” he says.
We move together on the basic eight count as he leads. Such a different experience from what I’ve danced so far. Maybe he was right to have me forget about Ethan.
“Remember, slow and quick,” he adds, leaning into my ear. “Every slow is two beats, every quick is one. Think of that as you walk.”
We refresh the steps for the basic cross, the ocho, and the giros briefly. I revel in this dance with a proper tango instructor, one who leads like he means it. One who meets me where I’m at.
Towards the end of our time, he grabs his laptop and sits down on the floor, pulling something up. I sit with him, drinking some water, and catch myself staring at his long limbs, his loosely defined muscles, his body moving fluidly.
“Does anybody else in your family dance?” I ask.
“Nah, not really. Gavin can do some basic steps, but he’s not big on ballroom. More of a silent supporter.” He chuckles. “What about you?”
The question inexplicably catches me off guard, and I almost choke on my sip of water. “Oh, um. My grandmother.”
“That’s nice. Yeah, it was very popular with that generation. Is she an avid dancer?”
I smile now—a small one, close-lipped—and nod. “She was.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t be,” I wave off. I don’t usually talk about her, but in this scenario, it almost feels sacrilegious not to.
“When did you move here?” he asks, and I’m grateful for the subject change.
“I was five.”
“Wow, you were practically raised here.”
I can only nod in agreement, this statement so common, then drink some more water as he continues doing whatever else on his laptop.
“Truthfully, I haven’t done private classes in a very long time,” he says.
This surprises me. “Why did you agree to do these then? You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.” He looks at me for a moment before turning back to his computer screen. “So. Homework.”
“Homework?” I ask, surprised and maybe slightly appalled.
“Work on the steps we learned today at home. Practice, practice, practice,” he recites. “And, if you feel so inclined, Google some more videos,” he smirks. “Maybe look at some other dancers. I could give you a list of some favorites?”
“No, no,” I smile. “Thank you, but I’ve got it.”
“Great.” He gives me a grin in return. “We’re going to work on the basics, get them very polished, and then little by little work on improvisation, and then eventually, a routine.”
“Wow,” I say, almost tentatively. Maybe I’m in over my head.
“You can do it. One step at a time. That might be a tango pun.”
I laugh. “This was good. Thank you.”
“It’s only gonna get better.” It sounds like a promise, and I shouldn’t love how good it sounds. There's a sudden swoop low in my belly like I'm sitting at the very top of the rollercoaster, ready to fall.
“Right. See you next week, then?” I grab my bag.
“Wouldn’t miss it.”