Page 73 of Two to Tango

“Are you taking over?” They look at me expectantly.

“No, no. Nothing like that. He wants to quit anyway, I think.” At least he mentioned that last night. Where that takes us, I don’t really know.

“Where is it?” T asks.

I roll my eyes.

“Where!” Delfina pushes.

“Can I …” I search for the words. “Can I just have this?”

They both soften at that. “Of course you can.” Delfi nods. But their disappointment is visible, palpable. Or maybe that’s my guilt I’m feeling. It’s been such a companion in my life, of course I should know what it feels like by now.

“Midnight Ballroom on Tenth. At seven,” I concede. They would have found out anyway. T would have hounded Javier or probably even Gavin; Delfi would have scoured social media posts for any information.

“Oh. I think I’ve got work that night,” T says.

“Oh, yeah,” Delfi adds. “I think I’ve got another thing going on that night.”

They’re lying to give me this one thing. I want to thank them; I want to change my mind.

I take a deep breath in gratitude and pick up the knives to keep setting the table. But I should know better than to think they’re going to let this go. Because that’s what happens—once news gets out in this group, it doesn’t float away. It ferments, it keeps growing, it takes on a life of its own.

“There’s more,” T says. She’s watching me with a curious look, and I know better than to put anything past her.

“Dammit. Why are you so astute?”

“Don’t deflect with fancy words.”

I look to the kitchen again, making sure nobody can hear. “I signed up to do a competition in San Diego.”

They both meet me with shock, dumbstruck until T just says, “Ho-ly shit.”

“It’s not a big deal.” I wave it off, trying to calm my own nerves.

“The San Diego Tango Festival?” T presses. “I saw Abuela there.”

“God, of course you did.”

“Julieta!This is amazing,” Delfi squeals, squeezing my arm, while T just unfurls a smile like this is the best thing she’s heard all week.

I open my mouth to say more—whether it’s to shrug it off or tell them to keep their mouths shut again—but tía Silvia makes her way in with a platter of food, and we quickly fall silent, getting back to our role of setting the table.

“Hola chicas,” she says.

This time are some crispy milanesas, sprinkled with a squeeze of lemon juice, and potato salad Ana made. There’s a platter of the sandwiches de miga that Dario was miraculously able to pick up. And there's the salad I quickly put together before setting the table.

The men walk in, making their way to their seats.

“Hola pa,” I call out, kissing him on the cheek.

We take our usual seats, and I wait for most to fill their plates before I reach over and dig in.

“Bueno,” my mother says, like this phrase is the equivalent of a green light, “a comer.”

***

“Y cómo vatodo?” Cecilia asks me. She’s trying to sound casual, but she’s curious. I wouldn’t be surprised if she ran intoJavier, too. The night is winding down, and I’m sitting with her at the end of the table. She’s nursing her glass of wine; my mother went to the kitchen to grab mate.

---