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“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, orDelfi 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 foranything. 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 prioritizeyou, 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.
