21. Logan
Chapter twenty-one
Logan
The milonga style can take a minute to pick up, but I have no doubt that she can do it. The improvisation will do her good, the social dancing could be what she needs.
She’s dancing with Roberto right now, an older gentleman who is gentle and accommodating. The look on her face could be one of concern, but her moves are fluid, her feet are in rhythm. He’s no Ethan , I think to myself.
I try to keep her in my sights as much as I can, watching from afar, but somebody else pulls me into conversation. It’s been a while since I’ve been to a milonga, and I’ve missed it more than I realized. This place has always felt like home.
“We’ve missed you,” Susana says with feeling.
“I know. It’s been a while.”
“Heard about Tara,” Victor adds.
“Yeah,” I respond, but the commentary is getting old. Even Tara would think so.
“Is that the replacement?” Martina lifts their chin in the direction of Julie. “You work fast, Logan,” she says, as they all laugh.
“Oh, not quite,” I chuckle nervously, but I’m itching to end this conversation and find my way back to her. I don’t like that they’re calling her a replacement, likening her to something disposable. It feels disrespectful. It makes me surprisingly upset. And, even then, I don’t want to get into the tricky chats about what’s happening next, where I’ll be, what I’m going to do.
“We’re going to dance. Nice seeing you, Logan.” Susana squeezes my hand and walks away.
I stay put, leaning against the makeshift bar with a cup of water in hand. I spot Julie dancing with somebody new, somebody younger. I don’t recognize him, but I haven’t been here in a while, and he may well be a regular in this crowd. His hand is flush against her back, and I watch it slowly inch its way downward. My chest suddenly goes tight as my hand grips the cup of water, my eyes burning a hole into his hand.
Julie looks happy as she dances, her gorgeous red lips stretched into a grin, her body pivoting side to side. I knew she would dance with different partners tonight. I knew . But right now, face to face with it, my stomach is in fucking knots.
His feet move in rhythm, matching hers, and for the first time in a long time, I feel a strong desire to take this back. To hold my ground instead of calling it quits. To keep this dance as mine.
Just as the tanda ends, Julie thanks him, but he doesn’t budge. Yet, she looks around and when she sees me, staring right back at her, she holds eye contact. When I told her about the etiquette, I just wanted to prepare her for it, but I didn’t expect to have such fun playing along. Like right now, where I can’t do anything but hold her gaze. And when she gives me a nod and a smile, I know I’m done for.
“I think I’m having a hard time keeping up.” She winces as I walk over to her. “Nobody wants to dance with me.”
“That’s not true.” I offer her my hand. “Roberto seemed to have a great time dancing with you. And whoever that guy was.” I jerk my head in the direction of the person that was previously dancing with her, now on the outskirts looking annoyed.
“He was nice,” she says. “Roberto was, too.”
“Truth is, you will run into some who prefer more experienced dancers, who can’t leave their ego at the door, but those aren’t the ones you want. At the end of the day, tango should always be about surrendering to the music, and the joy of having a beautiful woman in your arms.” With that, I wrap my arm around her, getting into position to dance.
“That’s it, huh?”
“That’s it. So, if it wasn’t clear,” I say in her ear, “I want to dance with you.”
She smiles as her arm finds space around my shoulders.
“Much better,” I say, when we're in position.
“Did you miss me?” she jokes.
“I did,” I reply. But how do I tell her that watching her dance with a new partner was like a kick in the ribs. How do I explain it when I don't understand it myself? Luckily I don't have to as the tanda begins.
We’re in a close embrace, arms wrapped around. I made do with quick improvisation, and she follows along, humming as she does. We’re temple to temple, so if I wanted to lean over and tell her all my secrets I could. I could turn and whisper them right in her ear as we dance.
“Lean into me,” I say softly.
“You’re breaking one of the forty-seven commandments,” she whispers back.
Dancing hasn’t felt this personal in a long time. Everything feels that much better: the softness of her skin, the glide of her feet. The joy I feel again.
“You want to know why I invited you here?” I ask, in her ear.
“You told me it was to get comfortable.”
“Well, yeah, that.”
“And?”
“And I didn’t want to wait until Thursday to see you,” I admit.
She pulls back a little to look at me. “Bold move,” she grins.
“You command my attention,” I tell her again.
“Do I?”
I sigh, a breath pulled from deep within. “I can’t help it. I want to give you all my attention.” I want to give you everything.
When the tanda ends, I don’t part. She doesn’t move either. Instead, we smile during the transition period between the music, and when another tanda starts, I bring her in to dance again.
Breaking yet another rule.
***
Julie and I head back to our table, sitting quietly watching other couples dance. I happen to catch the time—almost midnight—and watch her stifle a yawn.
“Late night for you?” I tease.
“This is way past my bedtime.”
“Wild streak.” I waggle my eyebrows while she gives a quiet laugh.
“Yeah, something like that.” She takes a small sip of water, then quietly says, “I wasn’t allowed to quit dance.”
We’re sitting side by side at this round table, legs hidden underneath the tablecloth, watching the dancers in front of us. Couples get on, some come off to take a break. She continues to talk, both of us looking ahead.
“All the recitals and strict teachers and kids my age who rolled their eyes at my improper form, who were practically offended at how unserious I was about ballet at nine years old … after the pressure of it got to be too much, I told my mom I wanted to quit. I didn’t like it; it wasn’t for me.
“But classes cost money and time, and there were still paid sessions left. And so, I had to keep going because the classes weren’t free, and there were kids who would have loved to be in my shoes, so maybe I should try being grateful for it. I was very ungrateful for even thinking about it. That sounds silly. It was ballet, not torture.”
“But did it feel like torture?”
She lets out a soft chuckle, almost like a realization. “It did.”
“Yeah,” I say with a small smile.
“Maybe they did me a favor, teaching me not to quit everything. I don’t know.” She shrugs.
“Or maybe they didn’t listen to your wants and needs.”
“I was nine. I didn’t know what I wanted.”
I still don’t know what I want most days, I want to tell her. “You were old enough to know you didn’t want to do ballet.”
“Maybe.” She shrugs again. “You didn’t have that issue,” she jokes.
“No, my parents didn’t care enough about me or my activities. They were too busy hating each other after the divorce.”
“That must have been so hard.”
“It wasn’t fun, but dancing sort of became a lifeline for me then. I looked forward to it, I loved being there. It made me feel welcome.”
“I’m glad you had that. And you had Gavin. That must have been comforting, too. Big brother and all that.”
“I want to quit dancing, too,” I blurt out, almost out of nowhere. She looks over at me, probably taken aback by what I said. “ Wanted to quit. I’m not sure where I stand right now.”
Her surprised stare becomes soft, watching me, listening. She’s been vulnerable with me, the least I can do is open up, too. “When Tara told me she was leaving, I wanted to jump ship, too. She’s moving on to more exciting things, but when I leave this, what do I have left?”
“Oh, Logan,” she says quietly.
There’s my name again around that voice. There’s that hunger. Like I want to hear her say it again as I kiss her and swallow it up, feel the taste of it in my mouth, too. I grip my cup of water again, like it’s my own anchor, keeping me steady.
“What’s changing your mind?” she asks softly.
“I think you might be,” I confess.
She sits up straighter. “How so?”
“I’m having fun dancing with you, Julie.”
“I’m having fun, too.”
“I haven’t had fun like this in a while. Tango hasn’t been this fulfilling for me in a long time.” It’s the truth, unfiltered. She doesn’t flinch; she just keeps listening, so I’m inclined to keep talking. “You and me. This feels like a good thing.”
But with the way she’s looking at me, this feels a bit like throwing myself into the fire.
“Yeah,” she breathes out. “It does.”