Page 14 of Every Time We Touch

To my surprise, Jen looks confident in heels. She has an excellent natural posture and, as intended, the high heels make her legs look more defined.

“First,” I say, “we walk.” I send her an encouraging smile. “Watch me first. Then wait for my cue.”

As I do what I’ve done a million times before on this floor, walk from one side to the other, I have to remind myself that Jennifer is Eric’s daughter. I turn around and watch her walk toward me.

She’s graceful, albeit a touch self-conscious. Her steps are too precise, as though she edits herself mid-stride. Her shoulders stay a fraction too still, like she’s afraid of getting it wrong. She doesn’t wobble once, which tells me she’s more comfortable in those heels than she’d probably admit. There’s a deliberateness to her movement I recognize instantly. Jen prefers to lead rather than follow. That might be an issue. But I’ve taught many students how to follow.

“Are you okay with me touching you?” Even though it’s a silly question in the circumstances, it’s always better to ask than to assume.

“Of course.” Jen gives me a funny look that could mean a million things.

I step closer and rest my fingertips lightly on her upper arm. “Try to relax a bit more.” I move behind her and place a hand between her shoulder blades. “Soften this.” My fingers brush lightly along her side. “Breathe here.”

Instead of loosening up, I feel her stiffen against my hand—perfectly normal behavior for a first-timer. Aside from teaching her the steps, it’s also my job to help her relax into it. With a brand-new student—especially in a one-on-one lesson—that’s always the hardest part. But I have my ways.

“Let’s breathe together for a moment.” I stand in front of her. Jen’s not shy about looking me in the eye. She’s taking this very seriously. Eric did tell me she’s the most earnest of his four kids. But still, there’s a kindness to her face that’s easy to get lost in. Unlike my own, her clothes cover every inch of her limbs. I rest my hands on my stomach and breathe in exaggeratedly so that my belly expands. “Feel your breath fill you all the way up.”

I watch Jen inhale and exhale. Her gaze shifts from my face to somewhere decidedly lower on my body.

After we’ve both expelled a slow, long breath, Jen asks, “Those kids you taught before I arrived, are all the guys gay?”

“Sorry. What?”

“For boys that age to have a teacher like you.” She puffs out some air. “There must be physical consequences.”

I burst out laughing. “Like what?” I play along.

“I’m by no means an expert on the male anatomy, but, you know.”

“Are you saying that I’m the kind of teacher that gives all the guys unwanted boners?” This was not a conversation I was expecting to have with Jennifer St James.

“I wouldn’t dream of saying something so obscene.” She chuckles. “My parents raised me better than that.”

Either Jennifer’s the kind of student who sublimates her awkwardness into getting a bit rowdy or she’s just messing with me for the fun of it. I don’t know her well enough yet to tell the difference, although it doesn’t really matter.

“Did you come here to learn how to tango or to slut-shame the teacher?”

“To tango, obviously.” She cocks her head. “We were just discussing high heels and the patriarchy. I would never slut-shame anyone.”

“Time to tango, then.” I step closer. Maybe I was taking things a bit too slowly. Maybe Jen is someone who likes to go hard and fast. I’m about to put that to the test. Instead of asking her to walk for me again, I’ll teach her how to hold herself—and me.

It’s past eleven when I glance at the clock. Teaching Jen has had me so absorbed, I lost track of time. Luckily, I don’t have any more classes today.

“Do you have time for one more twirl around the floor?” I ask.

“Sure.” Jen’s smile is wide and warm and couldn’t be more genuine. It’s the kind of smile that made me become a teacher. “Who knew I’d love the tango so much?”

I did, but I’m biased because I think the world would be a much better place if everyone could experience the joy of dance—the unique delight of movement to music.

Her hand is still on my shoulder, like it’s glued to my skin after only an hour of dancing together. Earlier, I didn’t assess her accurately, because Jennifer is very good at following my lead—like she prides herself on it. A lot of people do. Following is often much harder than leading, because you not only have to trust yourself, but your dance partner equally. All while moving backward.

I settle my hand in the middle of her back again. We raise our other hands, still joined, into position, and slowly apply what I’ve been teaching her for the past hour.

Left. Side. Together. And again.

Even with a beginner like Jen, there’s something addictive about moving in sync with another person—and we haven’t even added any music yet. All we did today, basically, was some fancy walking together.

Because I’m in hold with her, I can’t actually see what she’s doing, so I have to feel it. I have to be ultra-aware of her breath and how her weight shifts as we move across the floor. I sneak a glance at her face once in a while—this is a beginner’s class, not a competition—and I love that look of concentration.