28. Julieta
Chapter twenty-eight
Julieta
“You look … different,” Larissa tells me during our lunch hour. It’s finally cool enough to truly enjoy the outdoor picnic tables.
“The hair cut?”
“That thing is old news. No, this is something else.” She regards me.
I think about how I’ve kept her at arm’s length, and how I don’t know if I want to anymore. How hard it is when you’re doing things alone, keeping secrets to keep the peace.
What peace is there when you’re hiding everything?
“I’ve been doing … something,” I start.
“Something or someone ?” she asks, eyebrows raised.
I’m sure my answering laugh gives me away, a sort of embarrassed chuckle that leads to a blush. “I guess both.”
“Ah! Tell. Me. Everything,” she squeals. Her smile is a mile wide as she dips a carrot stick in her ranch and takes a bite. I can’t help but wince.
“Oh. Well. Remember that ballroom date you had?”
“Mr. Dancing with the Stars? Yeah.”
“So, I sort of took that advice and decided to try my hand at tango.”
Her jaw drops. “That is so great!”
“Is it?”
“What do you mean ‘is it?’ Of course, it is!” she says enthusiastically.
Of course, it is. She’s right. It has been great. “Yeah, it’s been fun.” I smile.
“So, you met a guy in the class, and now you’re doing the horizontal tango?” She leans in, waggling her eyebrows.
“You know, I knew there was a horizontal tango joke in there somewhere.”
She cackles, picking at some cheese and crackers.
“Except, it’s my instructor,” I add in, almost apprehensively.
“Holy shit,” she says with a gasp. “You go, Julie Martí. You fucking go.”
“Yeah?” I can’t help but smile.
“Yes,” she says absolutely.
“Thanks, Larissa.”
It’s one thing for perpetually happy Larissa to notice something, it’s another for Barbara to notice, too.
She hasn’t said anything, but she’s been asking for more from me, keeping an eye out over her reading glasses. She’s sent some office-wide passive aggressive emails, her favorite thing to do. I’ve been focusing on my caseload just enough but opting not to stay too late at the office. Giving myself a break like the other associates give themselves, too.
And this evening after work, I’ve got plans to go shopping with Tara.
***
“So how are the lessons going?” Tara asks as she browses through different dresses.
“Great. They’ve been great.”
Tara has taken me to Dancing Designs, a retail store for dancers. It’s a large space filled with racks upon racks of dazzling, glittery dresses and matching suits. Salespeople are milling about, helping some customers with fittings.
“Uh-huh. I’m telling you, I wouldn’t be surprised if he likes dancing with you more.” She smiles. “It shows.”
“Oh, no. That’s—”
“It’s okay, Julie. I promise. This is so good, I swear.” She emphasizes those words with such genuine enthusiasm and kindness she’s shown me from the very beginning, and it almost heals something in me. “I always caught him looking at that door like he was willing you to come through it. And then you would appear, and I swear to God, it was like watching one of those wilted flowers come back to life after you water it.”
I don’t know what to say to that, but I think of Logan waiting for me to walk into the dance studio and there’s something about that visual that is so heartwarming.
“So, how did you get started in dance?”
“Irish parents,” she laughs, but I’m not quite sure what she means. “They wanted me in dance since I could walk. I started with traditional Irish dances, believe it or not, but gravitated toward ballroom and then tango. I met Logan at another competition, and I kept running into him. We were friends at first, then we decided to partner up. Just friends by the way. Nothing between us.”
“Oh, I didn’t think …” I trail off, shaking my head.
“People always wondered, which I guess is a sign of a good partnership. But, no, nothing there.”
“You do look great together, though,” I say.
“Yeah, but you two look better,” she counters, smiling. “And what about you? Fancy lawyer. That’s wonderful.”
“Just pushy parents.” I huff out a laugh, looking through a rack of blue dresses.
“Oh, I get that.”
“Work is always hectic. I wanted something fun in my life, so I decided to sign up for dancing.”
“Seems like you’ve been having fun.”
“It’s been amazing.” I might be gushing, but Tara can see through all of it anyway. “How do you feel about leaving?”
“I’m ready,” she nods. “Dancing will always be a part of my life, but my competing and teaching days are behind me. I’m ready to get back to the fun of dancing, too.”
She walks me over to a different section of the store.
“Alright, so for San Diego, you’re going to want something that feels comfortable, that you can move with. But it needs to be presentable, too. Let’s start over here.”
“So, what happened in San Diego?”
“Oof. Did he tell you?”
“He said you didn’t place.”
“We didn’t. When you get to be a bigger name in competitions, you’re going to be looked at more. The judges are going to focus on you more. Logan had taken up a part time job with a theater, and he really loved it. Silas was going through med school, and I was itching to get back into school, too. And so, we were just losing the love for it. Losing the focus. It’s hard, you know? We’ve been dancing since we were kids. It takes a toll.”
“I’m sure.”
“So, the judges panned us. Said not-so-nice things about our dancing and our routine. It wasn’t fun, but it really hit Logan hard. He never took any of that to heart, but with that one, he really did. He felt like a failure, like he just needed to quit and forget about it.”
“That must have been so hard,” I say. I think about Logan’s decades of dancing, tapering off with a bad competition. Little Logan finding solace in tango, and then losing that comforting feeling years later. That must have been heartbreaking.
“It was. It was a tough time. But we decided to keep teaching part time and slowly move away from it. No more competing, no more workshops. The travel is hard. Competing is hard, too. We were okay with our decision, but …”
“But?”
“But now here we are, buying dresses.” She laughs. It’s not unkind, the statement or the laugh. There’s almost an underlying joyful tone.
“I seem to have caused a bit of a shakeup.”
“Only the best kind.” She winks. “Ooh, this one is great.” She pulls a dress from a rack and places it on a pile. “Hey, Marta. Can we get fitting rooms started, please?”
Marta gets two fitting rooms set up for us, placing our dresses inside.
Once we’ve made enough selections—enough being at least ten, according to Tara—we head to the dressing rooms to try everything on.
I opted for more jewel-toned colors, not too many sparkles, and plenty of sway. Tara went with everything bright and glittery.
I step out of the dressing room, hands in front of me like I don’t know where to place them. I can’t decide if I feel silly, or if I’m just nervous. Could be both.
But then I take a peek in the mirror, and it feels like that first milonga all over again. It feels like that black dress, but ten times better.
It’s sleeveless, deep purple, with an open back. Form fitting mesh around the bodice, with a glittery flower design, one that’s strategically placed around the chest. The dress drapes loosely around my hips, hitting below my knee, with a slit that goes up to my upper thigh. There’s a smaller slit in the back, too, to allow for more leg movement.
This one makes me feel powerful.
Tara gasps behind me, jaw practically to the floor. “This is the one.”
She’s emerged from her own dressing room where she’s tried on a red dress. Flowy and sparkly and bright. It really suits her.
“Yeah?” I ask.
“Oh yes. You look amazing.”
“I feel amazing,” I admit.
“And that’s what it’s all about.” She grins, standing next to me in the mirror, eyes meeting mine in solidarity, in friendship. I can’t help but smile back.
I sneak back into the dressing room and try on another one—one shoulder, rouged, deep wine red with some sparkles. This one has a slit up the back, too.
“Perfection,” Tara calls out, now standing next to Marta who is nodding in agreement.
This feels like shopping for prom dresses, giddy and hopeful, with friends cheering you on. This feels like another piece of this new life is sliding into place.
“Take it,” she commands. “And this one.” She holds up the purple one with flowers triumphantly, “is for San Diego.”