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“You alright?”
“Just nervous, I guess.” Just dragging up memories. Just remembering why I’m here.
“Hey.” He stops walking. “You know you can say no to me, right?”
“What?”
“You can say no.”
“I know that,” I respond, but the answer falls flat. Do I know that? Of course, I do, why is he saying this?
“I just want to make sure you know. Fun, remember? If it starts to feel like a chore, or like pressure, then you can step away. I won’t be upset about it.”
But what happens when I can’t let myself step away?I think. “Okay,” I nod.
“Okay,” he replies with a deep breath, and he opens the door to the ballroom. Logan takes my hand, my very own lifeline, and we walk in. “Vamos a bailar.”
Chapter twenty
Julieta
“I found us atable over here if that works?” He points to a small round one. It’s close enough to the dance floor to watch other couples dance, but not so close that we’re in it.
We spent the hour before doing the practica, standard practice where I worked on getting used to a quicker, more improvisational technique.
“This is great, thanks.”
“Would you like some wine?” he asks. “Or are you trying to take it easy, party animal?”
This makes me chuckle, something looser, as I answer, “I’ll just take a cup of water.”
“You got it. I’ll be right back,” he smiles.
He walks through the crowd easily, like he’s familiar with all of this. People call his name, and he stops to give each person a greeting: a kiss on the cheek, a handshake, a hug. They look so happy to see him. He gets caught up in animated conversation, and there’s something so comforting about it. About how embedded he is in it, how he knows the language and the customs, how they’ve welcomed him, too.
Older couples are standing around the dance floor, and the tango DJ is setting things up. The house lights are dim, and spotlights in muted red light up the space, making for something more intimate. Long tablecloths cover tables around the dance floor, streamers of fabric are loosely draped and hanging from the ceiling.
The music begins and the dance floor immediately fills like a flood. I’ve got a close seat, and the view is nostalgic. It’s incredible, wondrous that I get to be here, too. My eyes don’t leave the floor, or the dancers’ feet. Everybody has their own style, I notice. Everybody has their own version of magic.
This feels like home. A home I didn’t know I’d ever feel again.
Logan returns with a glass of wine and a cup of water, setting them on the table gently.
“Sorry it took me a bit. I got sidetracked by some regulars.”
“That’s okay. They looked happy to see you.”
“It’s been a while,” he admits, then takes a sip of his wine. “Let me know when you want to go out on the floor.”
“Soon. Let me get my bearings first.”
An older man walks past our table, doing a double take, and I recognize him immediately as Javier, an old family friend.
“Julieta! Que haces acá?” he asks in a playful tone. It must come as a shock to see me here.
I can only laugh in response, as he leans down to give me kisses on my cheeks in greeting. “Vine a bailar,” I tell him casually.Of course, I’m here to dance tango at the milonga on a Saturday night.
“Que bueno!” He turns to look at who he must assume is my date and stills.
