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“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, hereally 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.”
