17. Julieta
Chapter seventeen
Julieta
I’ve always loved to dance, but never did it enough. Well, until recently I didn’t do it enough. Didn’t go out enough. Didn’t do anything enough. The constant theme.
Logan is watching me now. I catch his eyes, and it’s certainly enough to warm me right the hell up. I might be reading into this too much, but when is the last time somebody looked at me that way? When’s the last time I spent time out with these people I love, dancing the night away?
So, I let myself be a little free again. I let myself grip onto the wild abandon I do nothing but chase. And I let everything get just a little bit looser.
“Yes, bitch. Dance with me!” T yells over the music and I lean into it a little bit more, move and sway.
“Are you okay? Sorry, I saw your arms flailing around and thought you were calling out for help,” Gavin says to T as he hops over to us on the dance floor.
“Get fucked, Gavin!” She smiles, as she shimmies away, dancing to the beat of whatever drum.
I just shrug, continuing to dance to the song as I follow her.
“Making friends?” I ask.
“I could ask you the same thing,” she counters.
“It’s nothing,” I’m quick to say, but I catch Logan’s eyes once more as I spin and land on them, and it feels like hitting a brick wall. Sudden and jolting. Shaking me up, bringing me to my senses. What am I seeing in them? What destruction am I barreling into?
I might be too many drinks in.
But the drinks keep coming, showing up in my hands, and I sip out of habit. Sip to quell the guilt and anxiety of being out. Sip for the fun of it.
The music gets louder, the beat thumping throughout this space. The lights are just dim enough that it makes everybody look mysterious and enticing. But the only one I’m drawn to here is keeping his eyes on me as I move.
Once I’m drenched in sweat, I head back to the table for a break, greedily taking the cup of ice water Logan offers me.
“Having fun out there?” He smirks, leaning closer to me.
I give a shy laugh in response. “This was a good idea.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”
“Are you too refined to dance to pop hits in an alley bar on a weeknight?”
He laughs out loud. “No. It’s just been fun watching you.”
I’m definitely too many drinks in for these comments.
We fall into a safe silence, people watching. The DJ plays a slower-paced song, something popular, something … rather sexual. It’s late, and it’s loud, and there’s a whole lot of grinding happening on the dance floor. I find myself lost in the rhythm of it, swaying along with the crowd.
“You know what I love about tango?” I start. “The passion, the sensuality. How the woman holds so much power.” I take a breath. “I long for that kind of power.”
He doesn’t hide his surprise in hearing what I just said. I don’t know why I said it. I’m running my mouth.
“You’re a lawyer, Julie. You’re powerful,” he says, like it should be so obvious.
“I’m not powerful. I’m just doing my job.”
“You’re passionate.”
“That’s laughable. My ex told me when he broke up with me that I had no passion, that there was no passion here.” Now I’m really running my mouth.
His mouth might be a snarl. “That’s fucking awful.”
“He’s a prick!” T screams, seemingly out of nowhere.
“Sounds like it.”
I shrug. “I mean, I don’t think he was wrong.”
“Julie,” he chides. “Jesus Christ.”
“I don’t know. There was certainly much left to be desired,” I say, considering. “Maybe I haven’t had good enough sex to indulge in passionate tango. Maybe that’s my problem.”
Logan almost chokes on a sip, coughing as he does.
I just look at him, wondering how the hell I allow all this shit to slip from my mouth whenever he’s around. All of this has been looking for a way out for so long, dancing on the tip of my tongue. The alcohol has let everything fall out. Or the sincerity of him, whichever. Which is probably why the next thing I blurt out is the most truthful one by far.
“I hate my job!” I tell him, words probably slurred. “I mean, I love that I can help people. I love that I have the ability to do that. But the rest of it? I hate all the paperwork, the politics. I hate my boss.” I’m just going for it now. “I hate that I want everything to be done right so I sacrifice my time every single day for it. That I’m the one making sure everything is okay. I’m pulling the weight. Nobody is asking me to. At this point, they all just expect it. Like T doesn’t expect me to show up for stuff, or Delfi always expects me to have some miserable story about my job. It’s all expected—for me to stay late and work on cases.”
My phone chimes with a new message from Barbara, as if I summoned her. Maybe she’s in a corner watching me.
“And to respond to messages at 10 pm.” I hold my phone up.
“Shit.”
“Yeah.” I take the last gulp of my drink, setting the glass down a little too hard, rattling the already shaky table.
“I’m organized. And efficient. And I can handle everybody else’s things, while never allowing the space for myself. I’m the perfect employee.”
Logan just looks at me, his mouth a firm line. His eyes are sad, and it’s breaking my heart to see it. I want to fix that, too, but instead I just stare back, lost in them.
“I spent so much of my life being told to not waste time on frivolous things,” I say.
“And dancing is frivolous?” he asks.
“Dancing is very frivolous.”
“Do you believe that?”
I shake my head and give him another truthful answer. “I don’t know what I believe anymore.”
“You deserve so much more than you’ve allowed yourself.”
I just nod. Sure, I might think I deserve things, but then I also think I’m asking for too much in simply asking for anything . Like when I told him I hadn’t prioritized my happiness. The realization of that statement is an overwhelming weight to carry, leaving me wanting to crumble underneath it.
He swallows before saying quietly, “You deserve to prioritize your happiness and your joy. And if nothing else, you deserve somebody that’s going to prioritize you , Julie. That wouldn’t leave anything to be desired.” The words almost get lost under the loud music.
Maybe he’s had too much to drink, too, though all I’ve seen him with is water. But still, I certainly have, and that’s what I blame it on when the vision of Logan on his knees, at my feet, suddenly appears. And how the craving for it quickly grows into an almost desperate longing.
“You shouldn’t have to ask for permission for any of that,” he tells me adamantly.
Suddenly, the boisterous bar around us is quiet, and everything is frozen, and all I see is him looking back at me.
He also wasn’t part of the plan.
When did these feelings emerge? When did this change?
I can’t deny something has always been there, simmering just below the surface. It feels like tonight is breaking me free, and who knows what else will come of it then.
“Panty Dropper!”
“What?” I’m harshly pulled out of the spell, looking in the direction of where that voice came from.
A tray of more shots is ceremoniously placed on the table by T.
“Seriously? How is your liver okay?”
She shrugs. “Better not to ask. Besides we’re celebrating.”
Gavin and Manny appear at the table now, too, grabbing shots from the tray.
“Celebrating what?”
“You leaving your house for once.” She reaches for a shot.
“You’re fucking hilarious.”
“I know,” she winks. “To being hilarious.” She raises the glass up.
“And panty droppers,” Manny adds, not referring to the drink.
“And panty droppers!” T repeats.
As I lift my own glass, I watch her eyes briefly meet mine, smiling. And then my eyes meet Logan’s, who must have been watching me the whole time. I tap my glass with his, all the others following in a cheer.
“To joy,” I mouth to him, and catch his answering smile, brighter than the neon lights in this place, and then we both down our shots.
“Okay, this one was better,” I tell T.
“Much. Now, back to dancing.”
“No. I need to go home,” I say, but who knows what came out.
“Aw, really? But I was having so much fun with you.”
“You were? Imagine that.”
“Logan, could you take her home?” T asks.
“I’m fine,” I tell him, dragging out the word fine . “Don’t worry about it. Stay and enjoy the night with your brother. I’ll get a car.”
She laughs like I just said something hilarious.
“I’ve got her.” He nods to T. He says his goodbye to Gavin who wants to stay a little bit longer. He says his goodbyes to Manny and T, too, and then places his hand on my back guiding me as we walk out.
“You don’t have to do this,” I tell him, standing in the middle of the parking lot.
“I know I don’t. I want to, remember?”
“Fine,” I huff, defeated.
He chuckles. “Just get in. Tell me your address. You do know your address right now, right?”
“Funny,” I say, squinting to look at the street signs. But they’re all moving. And the trees are moving. And the buildings are moving. And suddenly, the cold gravelly asphalt is on my back and the sky, inky blank, is above me.
I hear a scuffle of shoes and feel an arm come around me. “Shit, you okay?”
“Mmm. This is nice.” Logan’s arm is tucked underneath me, and it’s soft and strong. It feels supportive. I could just lay here for a while. I could take a nice nap here, under this arm.
I think I hear T then, her laugh and her straightforward communication. A couple of words like fifth street and stop sign and seventh floor.
“I’m going to pick you up now, okay?” Logan says. He hooks his other arm underneath my legs, moving me to the car.
“I can walk.” I try to fight off, swatting at hands.
“Don’t think you can, party animal.” His voice is deep, but playful.
“This is ridiculous. How did I even get here?” I groan.
“Might have been the Panty Dropper.”
A laugh bubbles out of me as I cover my face with my hand. Logan gently sets me down in the car seat, an impressive show of his strength, and checks to make sure I’m alright.
“Good?” he asks softly, close to me, eyes studying my face. I nod as he reaches over to buckle my seatbelt, hands quickly moving over my lap when I’d really rather they linger. Has car safety ever been this hot?
I need to go to bed.
***
“Seventh floor?” he asks, heading to the elevators.
We walk slowly, side by side. My steps are crooked and he’s hovering in case I take a nosedive on to the tile.
“I feel pretty stupid right now, by the way,” I say sloppily. Not sure if he understood me, though.
“I’m having fun.” He laughs, and it sounds so sweet.
I always ride this elevator alone. It’s funny to think about now. I leave early in the mornings; I get home late. I very rarely find myself talking to people in this building, let alone any stuck in elevators. But here I am riding this elevator with somebody for once, and I’m barely holding it together with my stomach full of booze and my head swimming.
The ride up is painfully slow, and we stand across from each other watching the numbers go up. He’s got his hands tucked into his pockets, effortlessly cool Logan, breathing evenly. A steady rise and fall of his chest, that same chest I met on the very first day of tango class. My eyes move downward to his feet, crossed at the ankles, and then up to his face, that smile tucked into the corner of his mouth like he’s got a secret. Like he’s caught me. One that might be screaming, see anything you like?
The elevator comes to an abrupt stop, a rude interruption, and the doors open to my floor.
“Apartment 712.”
He walks me to my door, and I turn to lean against the wall. Suddenly all my senses are awake. I see how he keeps his body close to mine for safety, I feel how his hand lightly touches my arm for stability. I notice how he checks in to make sure I’m alright.
Except maybe I’m not fully awake, because I don’t catch how I’m leaning into him, moth to his flame, until I realize he’s still and I have to pull back, embarrassed.
“My keys are in my bag,” I mumble, looking through my overstuffed purse for them. Now I’ve become antsy, ready to get in the house and die of embarrassment, and when I can’t find my damn keys, I flip the purse upside down, dropping all its contents onto the hallway floor.
“Hang on, Julie,” he says gently, leaning down to grab the keys that he’s spotted in the pile. He calmly puts everything back into the bag and hands it over to me. Why do I feel like crying right now?
I really need to get into my house and get the fuck into bed.
“Which key?” he asks, holding them in his palm.
“I’ve got it.”
“Let me,” he says softly, with such kindness, that I can’t do anything else but just let him.
“That one.” I point to the silver key on the ring.
Once he opens the door, we walk in, and I find I can breathe a little easier.
“Thanks for bringing me home, Logan. Good night.” I say it in a hurry, a mess of words, hoping to get him out of here quickly. I don’t know what’s going on tonight, but this can’t be a thing.
“Hold on,” he laughs quietly. “Let me just make sure you find your way to bed and don’t end up face down on the floor somewhere.”
I turn around to argue and quickly lose my balance, everything spinning.
“Whoa.” He reaches out to grab my upper arms.
I can’t help but laugh, catching his eyes which are also full of humor. Full of something else I can’t quite place. “This is how we met,” I say.
He smiles back, his hands squeezing my arms just slightly. But the smile falters as he swallows and simply agrees, “Yeah.” An acknowledgement, an understanding. That’s all any of this is.
“The uptight, boring lawyer whose personality matches her job and the fun-loving dance instructor,” I keep going, laughing to make a joke out of it, but all I probably did was reveal how I’ve kept our conversations in my head.
He furrows his brow in response. “You downed a shot called the Panty Dropper while dancing all night in a crowd of sweaty people. I’d hardly call you uptight or boring.”
I chuckle, opening my mouth to tell him I was just kidding, but he keeps going.
“So, you’ve got some hang ups with your job, but I remember that conversation, too. And I saw you take my words the wrong way. It makes sense that you’re a lawyer not because you’re uptight or boring . It’s because you command attention. You don’t even see it. You walk into a room with your head held high and your shoulders back.” He pauses to look at me. “You command my attention.”
I stare into his eyes, lost in this wonder of a person, and see the fire in them. God, what would it be like to have all his attention? What must that feel like? I want to know. I really want to know.
“Thought you didn’t date partners,” I blurt out and he goes still. I shut my eyes, wincing at the nonsense I’m spewing. “Shit. Sorry. I thought I was doing myself a favor by finally going out and enjoying myself, but right now, I’m really regretting drinking so much.”
His body loosens up as he chuckles, soft around the edges, wholesome. Something I wish I could feel against my skin. His lips are parted slightly, and I feel possessed in how I’m staring at them, willing them to come closer. I watch his tongue dart out and lick his bottom lip. I could melt right here. This man is clearly so damn passionate and professional and warm and welcoming, it’s doing nothing to quell my rapidly growing emotions.
His hands quickly squeeze my upper arms again, like he’s talking to me in this way, too. But I don’t know what any of it means. All I did was show my hand and right now my head is swimming with too much alcohol to even make sense of it.
“I don’t know what the rules are anymore, Julie.”
Am I drunk or does that sound like some sort of confession?
“I don’t know, either,” is the only response I can manage, and I say it out loud.
He lets go of my arms and drops his hands to his sides. Am I drunk or does he seem defeated?
“I should go to bed,” I whisper.
“I should go, too,” he whispers back.
“Thanks Logan.” Everything is catching up to me. I’m exhausted; I’m a mess.
“Always,” he responds, that small grin tucked into the corner of his mouth. I want to press it with my thumb.
“Okay, goodnight.” I shuffle my way to my bedroom, and once I spot my bed, I feel my body sag with relief. I kick my shoes off into a corner, throw my blazer onto my upholstered bench. I pull my clothes off and throw them across the room in record time as I fall face first into bed. Finally.
***
The alarm blaring in my ear right now is frankly offensive.
When I move to turn it off, everything else moves too. My head is pounding, a constant dull ache that feels like somebody is squeezing it like a stress ball. My limbs are Jello.
I am hungover as hell.
God, what other nonsense did I do last night?
I text Agostina: Did I do anything stupid last night?
She might not even be awake yet.
Morning, sunshine! Oh, you had a great time.
I groan as I read her text. I can’t be doing these things, I’m not fucking twenty-two. I need to be more responsible. I need to use my time wisely, as I hear my parents’ voices in my head.
Last night was … well, it was fun. And different. A reminder of what I’ve always wanted to be: the carefree one that doesn’t have to carry the weight of everything.
I grumble, rolling over to get out of bed, figuring out how the hell I’m going to make it through the workday, when I remember I left my car at the bar. “ Shiiit.”
Right on cue, my phone lights up again with a message from T: Manny and I got your car this morning.
me: You did? How?
t: We did it before yoga.
me: You were downing shots called the Panty Dropper last night but this morning you were awake for yoga?
t: I contain multitudes.
me: Thanks.
t: It wasn’t a big deal. Logan told Gavin to tell us and we just made a plan, whatever. Gotta go cat cow.
I almost want to fight that nobody needed to get my car, that I could have figured it out on my own, but they did and now I don’t have to. Now I have one less thing to worry about.
In bed, with my Jello limbs and my dull aches and my churning stomach, I think about how I have so much paid time off. Would the world really end if I just took it for once?
Before I can think too much about it and lose my nerve, I call Barbara. I take a deep breath, this act making me even more nauseous.
“Barbara Prescott.”
“Hey Barbara,” I clear my throat. “Good morning. I’m so sorry to have to do this, but I am not feeling well. I can’t make it in today.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” I push forward. “Must have been something I ate. Not sure.”
“Fine. Can you work on your cases at home then?”
Can I? Probably. But do I want to? I feel my stomach churn some more as we have this conversation. “I’m actually going to take the day.”
Her huff on the other line is loud. “Fine. See you next week.” She hangs up, and the phone call is done. I feel the lingering guilt for a minute, but then it slowly starts to evaporate. Lifting and lifting until I feel free of it. Well, I feel like shit—my own fault— but I have banked sick leave and I’m going to take it. I’m finally going to take it.
As I crawl back into bed, the night comes back in pieces. Little ones, like dancing and loud music, laughing with Logan. Then bigger ones, like the elevator ride up, my purse spilling onto the floor, the feel of Logan’s grip on my arm. How it all still feels so potent.
I pull up my messages and type out another one.