Page 7 of Two to Tango

And yet, I’m clutching them close to me. I couldn’t bear to give them away to anybody else. Not now, probably not ever.

“Gracias, abuelo,” I whisper and feel the sudden urge to cry.

I excuse myself to the bathroom to get it together.

I hear the murmurs as I walk out of the dining room and into the guest bathroom. My mother askswhat was that all aboutand Agostina answers back just as abrasively,you know exactly what. All I can do is splash water on my face and take a deep breath to hold back the tears. To hold back the nausea. To help calm the nerves that are causing my hands to shake.

I head back to the dining room, all eyes on me as I settle into my seat. The box of alfajores sits in the middle of the table, but now I’m too uneasy to even eat one.

“Bueno.” My mother sighs, defeated, as she stands up to start packing leftovers for everybody to take home.

Delfi and Agostina start to busy themselves, clearing the table. The men sit and chat with my grandfather, loudly, vivaciously. Not a care in the world. I stand to help, still uneasy, still confused.

We clean up the dining room and the kitchen, leaving everything as clean as we found it. This is part of dinner, too—always chipping in to help. My mother hands me a plastic grocery bag filled with containers of leftovers. I stuff an alfajor inside, and Cecilia throws in an extra one, giving me a wink.

“Chau,” I say, giving her a kiss on the cheek. I make my rounds to say goodbye to everybody else. My brother and other cousins are starting to pack up as well. I make sure to grab my purse, leftovers, and the box, avoiding too much eye contact, desperately sidestepping the elephant in the room.

And when I walk out to my car,Ifeel strangely defeated. I think about the new weight that has settled onto my shoulders, the cross I’m bearing in these hand-me-down shoes, and I can’t help but think that something heavy has just been added to my never-ending to-do list.

Chapter three

Logan

The airport is surprisinglybusy at this time of night as Tara and I walk down to baggage claim in silence. We’re both tired from the weekend, and the long flight that included an even longer layover, even if we couldn’t beat the price.

We spent the weekend in San Francisco at an intensive tango workshop teaching basics, fundamentals, advanced steps, and even hosting a milonga for the final night. It was a good time, as it always is, but my feet are tired and I’m sore.

“So, that was it,” I say.

“That was it,” Tara agrees.

Before we booked this weekend, we decided it would be our last workshop together. Silas, Tara’s long-term boyfriend who’s been crawling his way through medical school, is awaiting match results that will either keep him here or take them both to another state. Tara and I chose to keep teaching our local classes until that news came, but as for travel and competitions, we’re done.

Our bags come down the conveyor and we grab them before walking outside to the curb.

“God, I was just getting used to that gorgeous San Francisco weather," she says. "This humidity sucks."

We’re back home in Florida, greeted with humidity in late August.

“Didn’t Silas sign up for Arizona?”

“It’s dry!”

“I’ll get a car,” I say, laughing.

Her long sigh could be mistaken for exhaustion, compounded from a long travel day, but her shuffling feet as we stand on the curb are saying otherwise.

“You okay?” I ask.

“I’m tired.”

I should probably go to bed, but all the travel has just left me wired and restless and hungry. I don’t want to go home just yet. “Want to go to Waffle House?”

She gives me a small smile.

“Come on.” I jerk my head in the direction of the car that’s just pulled up. “Let me buy you some hash browns.”

“I could go for a waffle,” she reasons.

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