26. Julieta
Chapter twenty-six
Julieta
“Do you want something to drink? I’ll go grab it.” I’m standing by the bed, hair disheveled and haphazardly dressed, having just come from the bathroom.
“Sit down.” He grins, grabbing my waist and pulling me back down into bed. “You don’t need to do a thing.” He says the words against my neck before he lightly bites it. “What would you like?”
“That seems like a loaded question.”
He laughs in response, rolling me over to kiss me. My arms wrap around his back to bring him closer.
“I would love some water.”
“Want some sandwiches, too? I’ve got a bunch.”
I laugh. “No, I’m okay.”
“I’ll be right back,” he says against my mouth, kissing me once more before he gets up and heads to the kitchen.
This feels indulgent. A warm bed, messy sheets, somebody else getting me water. In the realm of guilt, I should probably be right in the middle of it. I wait for it to hit me, but it doesn’t. It just feels good for once.
I lay in bed for a moment, sprawled out, but then I get up and walk around his room. He has a bookshelf along one wall filled with books, and pictures, and some trophies. Medals are displayed on the wall. So many accolades, so many awards. What a wild life.
I look closer at the pictures: one with Gavin, some with Tara or other dancers, and then one in particular high up on the shelf like he holds this one in high regard.
Everything stops when I notice it. Logan, younger, a big bright smile with his arm around an older woman. One with a red lip, and a matching smile. One I know so well, because I’ve looked at it most of my life.
He walks in then holding two glasses of water and finds me frozen in front of the shelf.
“Ah, I love that picture,” he says.
I can’t respond. I can’t do anything. I just keep staring, my heart starting to race.
“She is my favorite tango dancer,” he says, almost triumphantly, showing her off. “Celestina Rossi.”
I think I nod.
“What a name, right? Like she was born to be a powerful tango dancer.” He smiles, like he’s lost in a memory.
“You knew her,” I say, but it’s below a whisper. It’s a miracle I even got the words out. My eyes are starting to burn.
“Yeah. You’ve heard of her, I take it?” He comes in closer, wrapping an arm around my waist, resting his chin on my shoulder. “Yeah, she’s a pretty big deal. Well, was.”
“You knew her,” I repeat, taking a deep breath and leaning into the depth of this new information. I must sound stupid just repeating everything, but soon enough it all comes out. “I mean, it makes sense that you knew her. It makes sense that you would have even known of her, but maybe I didn’t put two and two together. Maybe I didn’t really think about it.”
He turns to face me, a line between his brows. “Slow down.”
“Maybe I didn’t want to think about it,” I continue. “How did you know her?”
“My mentor I always talk about? That was her.”
He reaches up, and I feel him run his thumb along my cheek. Somewhere along the lines of this conversation I must have started crying. Feelings that snuck up on me, like everything else has.
“Are you alright?” he asks softly.
“She was my grandmother,” I let out.
He stills. “What?” Logan looks between the picture and me, probably as confused and shocked as I am. “She was your grandmother?”
“Yeah,” I sigh.
“Like, she was your tango-dancing grandmother?”
I nod, and he steps back, dropping his arms to his sides. Suddenly, I’m cold.
He runs a hand down his face. “Oh my God,” he sounds stunned. “Oh my God . Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t think it was important,” I answer, but maybe it was more than that. Maybe I just wanted to keep this for myself. I’ve been too busy keeping secrets from everybody, burying them down inside, never letting anybody in.
“Didn’t think it was … you didn’t think mentioning one of the greatest tango dancers of the last century was important?” He puts his hands on his hips and starts pacing. Back and forth, back and forth. This wasn’t the reaction I expected.
“Well, arguably. Not that I disagree …”
“Holy shit.” He starts laughing.
“It was complicated.”
“Complicated.” Now he’s the one repeating words. “Your tango classes on a whim?”
I nod again, but the tears are slowly starting to fall. “How did you meet her?” I’m longing for more information, more of anything that will bring me new pieces of her.
“Years ago at a tango workshop. She really helped me. She gave me purpose. She was … wonderful.” He turns to look at me, and his eyes shine.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, in between small sobs.
“Sorry? For what?”
“Seems like we both lost her, then.”
His eyes soften at that, tilting his head to study me. He takes a step closer. “I did another workshop in Buenos Aires about five years ago. With Facundo, too. They were still so lively and electric.”
I jump at the sound of my grandfather’s name. Everything has suddenly become so entwined, and I don’t know how to feel about it.
“She was still so captivating.” He reminisces, and I get caught on that word. That one word that seemed to follow her everywhere.
I just smile as I listen to him talk about her, about the love he shared for her, too.
“I got her shoes.”
His eyebrows lift. “Those were hers ?”
“Yeah,” I nod. I take steps to him, closing in the space between us, because now the distance feels like too much. This talk of my grandmother has worked as a bridge to get to him. “Turns out she left them to me.”
“Holy shit.” He looks at me wide-eyed, reaching out to caress my face. “She was so powerful and passionate. Now I see where you get it.”
He wraps his other arm around my waist and pulls me in for a hug. The most comforting hug, something strong and solid, his hand rubbing my back slowly. And all it does is serve as a way to break the dam, letting all the tears flow for the first time in years. I cry loud, messy, embarrassing sobs, while he holds me tight. This is more crying than I’ve done in years, more than I allowed myself at dinner last night. This is months and months of pent-up frustration and sadness and grief. Years of holding everything in to appease those around me, to put others’ feelings first.
Logan keeps his arms wrapped around me, rubbing circles on my back, holding me steady as I fall apart. I don’t know how long we stay like that, but I eventually take a deep breath, the last of the tears subsiding. I feel lighter, but I still feel like I have a long way to go.
“I’m trying,” I whisper into his shoulder, breathing in his scent.
He hugs me tighter, his arms around me like a life raft. Secure, lifesaving.
“This is so wild.” He pulls back to look at me like he might be seeing me for the first time, his eyes roaming every inch of my face. I study him, too, soaking in this incredible moment of kismet.
“I don’t know. I’m the one that’s been parading around town in a dead lady’s pair of shoes, so maybe I’m the crazy one.”
He huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. “I can’t believe I get to be here with you.” And even though she’s been the topic of conversation, I realize that statement has nothing to do with my connection to my grandmother and everything to do with his connection to me. One magnetic pull from the moment I met him. One slow moving train from the second that shoebox was placed on my lap.
“Maybe she set this in place for me to find you,” I say out loud, my heart thudding with the weight of the emotions.
“Seems like something she would do.” He laughs for a moment, his hands cradling my face, but then he quickly turns serious and he kisses me.
This kiss starts slow, delicate, but there’s too much bursting at the seams, and it quickly turns greedy. He cradles the back of my neck as my hands find their way around him. We meet flush, kissing and kissing until we’re out of breath. And then we pull back and do it again. Hands are traveling everywhere in messy chaotic movements. My kisses are uncoordinated in the best way: his neck, his ear, his forehead, his nose. Everywhere I can kiss him right now, I do. Everywhere I can shower him with affection, I do.
He reaches for my dress, unwrapping the knot in a quick move. I reach for his sweatpants, yanking them off. Once we’ve been rid of our clothes, we fall into bed, my legs wrapping around his waist. This feels like a dream: wanting, and wishful.
“Definitely not letting you go now,” he says, as he gently settles over me.
I hold him close as he places the softest kiss on my neck, and reaches over for his drawer again. This time I take the condom from him, gently opening it and rolling it on. He watches me with that small smile as I guide him inside me.
He eases inside, and my legs shake from the sensation, from the desire and the anticipation.
“Julieta,” he says with wonder.
“Say it again.”
He smiles and I trace it lightly with my fingers, wanting to commit this to memory. “Julieta.”
I pull him to me and kiss him. Our bodies start to move and it’s intoxicating how good it feels.
“Look at all of this passion,” he whispers in awe. “Look at you.”
“I don’t want this to stop,” I blurt out.
“It won’t,” he shakes his head. He grabs my wrists, pinning them above my head gently, pushing in slowly, making me crave it.
“You and me, Logan,” I breathe out. “This is the best thing.”
That tenderness is back, the look on his face that is saying too much for me to decipher. He thrusts in harder, and it feels so deliriously good, I don’t want this to ever stop.
“I want all of this,” I beg, in between moans. “I’m selfish for all of you.”
“I’ll give you all of me, sweetheart.” He bites my neck, driving in harder. I wrap my legs around him tighter, crying out.
He lets go of my wrists and sits back on his heels, bringing his fingers between us to bring me over the edge. He watches me with that smug smile, one that’s probably saying , I’m good with my hands, remember? as he keeps his fingers moving in tight circles. I didn’t think I could come again, but now I’m so close I desperately want it.
“Right there,” I gasp, a moan slipping past my lips.
“Yeah?” He keeps the pressure, he keeps thrusting harder, and then I’m pushed right over. He follows, crashing into me, shaking from his own release.
My mouth meets his and my fingers grip his hair and my body pushes against his. All these things that are saying this is where you belong .
I feel dizzy and disoriented in the best way.
“I’m … wrecked ,” I say, breathing heavy.
“That good, huh?” He laughs, his own breaths coming in short spurts.
Quietly I realize that a word can take on a whole new meaning here, in the silence, in his arms, in being near him.
“I’m grateful for you,” I tell him.
I don’t expect a response, but he lifts up on his hands to look at me, and says seriously, “I’m never letting you go.”
And maybe I’m wrecked in more ways than one.