Page 45 of Two to Tango

“Yeah.” My voice cracks. I rub the back of my neck, clearing my throat. “Actually, she asked me to compete with her in San Diego.”

She meets me with stunned silence.

“I don’t know,” I groan. “I don’tknow. This is so different from everything I’ve been feeling.” I run my hands through my dark hair, pulling at the ends in frustration, making it even messier. “This seemed important to her. I can help her.”

“You can,” she says then, her voice firm, her eyes soft. Before I can say anything else, she adds in, “I’ve got to get going. Meeting Silas. But keep me posted on this. Please.”

She gives me a hug goodbye and slips out quickly.

I have always liked the stability and precision of this dance. During separate houses and holidays, alternating weekends, and parents bad-mouthing one another, this dance kept me grounded and centered. But Julie’s making me feel off balance now. She’s starting to chip away at this numbness. Making me a little more reckless.

“Alright, what are we doing today?” Julie throws her bag down as she walks in, a night and day difference from when she first walked into this studio, looking for a way out.

She slips out of her blazer and there’s something about the act, the jacket sliding off her shoulders in slow motion and exposing her soft arms, and me watching, that is making me feel …starved. Desperately hungry as my eyes study every curve of her. I turn to look away, busying myself with the music selection.

I clear my throat. “We’re going to work on boleos, ganchos, and enganches today.”

“Sounds like a lot,” she says.

“You can do it.” I stand to walk over to her and can’t help but smile. “So, I’m going to lead with an ocho, and then quickly whip you around. You’ll twist your body, kicking your leg up.”

I show her the steps in the mirror, first solo, and then in position, leading her and guiding her through them.

“The gancho is a hook, so your leg is meant to hook around mine,” I state. “I’ll lead you in an ocho, but on one step you’ll swivel a bit farther, and my leg will step into place behind you, and it will allow for you to kick up between my legs.”

Again, I walk her through the steps slowly, repeating them over and over.

“Make sense?”

The first time we try together, she kicks me right in the calf.

“Oh shit, sorry!” she says.

“I’m alright,” I wince. “Let’s try again.”

And so we do. Again and again. She’s agitated, and she seems off.

“Dammit,” she hisses, looking at her feet in the mirror.

“Just take your time,” I remind her calmly.

But her steps are stilted, just a beat off. She’s trying to rush through it like she’s trying to get this lesson over with. None of the confidence she walked in with is showing now. It seems like this sudden addition of new steps has thrown a wrench in it.

“Hey, let’s take a water break,” I offer.

“No, I’m fine.” Her voice is clipped.

“Julie, come on,” I push.

“No. I have to get this right.”

“You don’t have to do anything right now,” I say softly, a contrast to her firm tone.

“Yes, I do.” She’s adamant. “This competition is in eight weeks. I don’t even know what the hell I’m doing.”

She stares at her feet in the mirror, working on the moves over and over. Her body seems tired, lacking energy. There’s something in her face: maybe anger, but deep down, disappointment.

“Who are you trying to please?”

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