Page 51 of Breaking Away

“What is?”

“You’re using me.”

Before I can process whatever the bossy-fuck that means, I’m being steered to move. He takes my hand and puts it on his shoulder.

“But you can’t dance,” I protest.

“I never said that, Princess. Only that I don’t. Put your hands back on my shoulders.”

They had lifted off, fluttering in the space between us, which slowly shrinks. Placing them back on the defenseman’s shoulders, I’m glad I don’t have to go on my toes for this to work, for then I’d be even more unsteady. My heels, while not sky-high, give me a lift. His stubble is eye-level.

“T-this isn’t dancing,” I claim when Lokhov moves.

“Isn’t it?”

“People are staring.”

“Don’t look at them.” When he spins me, my breath catches. The man commandeering my waist has golden eyes. Different hues coalescing under ceiling strobe lights. And he smells so damn good. Smokiness and something sharper. More enveloping.

The next steps are more cautious, as if he’s slowly teaching me. The way he’s leading makes a memory tumble loose from the past. Young Kavi practicing for her debutante ball. My dad’s opinion was that before you could impress important people,you had to pretend to be important people. It didn’t matter if the other girls at the club didn’t look like me. He pushed and pushed until I finally made them accept me.

Such a hard-gained, short-lived, and quickly lost victory.

Country club fees were expensive for the whole family. Before I could make my ballroom entrance, Dad prioritized keeping his membership over mine. My debut was canceled.

Even so, some of the lessons have stuck. That’s why I realize now… We’re waltzing.

A modified version. There’s not enough space, so Lokhov adjusted the steps. When he raises his arm, I’m pulled away like a thread unspooling, and then I’m brought back with a flick of his wrist into his arms.

My heart beat runs away. I blame it on the booming techno music—until I can’t. Suddenly, the music goes softer. Morewaltzy.Looking across the floor, I see Pink Headband passing a wad of cash to the DJ. When he sees me looking, he flashes a peace sign.

Around us, people stop dancing, bamboozled that the music has gone from club bangers to….violins?But then a bridal party storms the dance floor. There’s exaggerated, drunk bowing. Single men tentatively participate, wondering if their chances shoot up when the stakes are less bums grinding against crotches and more romantic twirling.

The DJ adapts again, trying to get more people involved, I assume. Classical music transitions to slow-songs kids have danced to at their proms since forever. More bodies rush to the dance floor.

Through it all, Lokhov stays irritatingly in control. He’s not even doing it on purpose, I think, or trying to be special or romantic. Regardless of whatever anyone else is doing around him or whatever music is playing, this is his world.

That nothing fazes him is aggravating and inspires jealousy in a person like me who thinks too much about everything. If I’m not scrutinizing context with a tweezer, I’m procrastinating until it’s too late and all important decisions have sailed me by.

“Where did you learn this?” I ask in a quieter moment, when my mouth can reach the edge of his ear.

His grip tightens, then relaxes. “My dad.”

“Was it a bonding thing?”

“One of his techniques to improve my footwork.” There’s a subtle stiffening of his body. Something nobody would notice, but in his arms like this, I feel it.

“One of the better ones,” he adds.

“I can’t imagine.”

“What?”

“In high school, the outcast everyone had a crush on was secretly taking waltz lessons at home.”

That corner of his mouth twitches. My heart buoys at the sight of hisslightamusement.

“You had a crush on me?”

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