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“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 myGod. 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 wasimportant?”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 werehers?”
“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 tobreak 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.
