Page 14 of I Wanna Dance

“Yes.”

We walked back to his car hand-in-hand.

“I made reservations at Desta. It’s an Ethiopian place. Have you been?”

“I’ve never had Ethiopian food.”

“It’s unique.”

So are you, Marco!

“I can’t wait,” I admitted, not just to try a new cuisine but a whole new relationship experience with a man who looked at me like I was enough.

CHAPTER 6

Marco

The drive home after dropping Leah off felt like a dream I didn’t want to wake up from. The streets of Atlanta rolled by, washed in the soft glow of streetlights, but all I could think about was Leah. The way her eyes crinkled when she laughed, the way her voice softened when she talked about her kids, the way she seemed to carry her pain like a quiet, invisible weight.

I pulled into my driveway, cut the engine, and just sat for a moment, staring at the house. It loomed in the darkness, familiar but somehow hollow. I’d lived here for over twenty years, first with Camille, then with our daughters, and now...alone.

Could I bring Leah here?

She’d been on my mind constantly since our first dance class, but tonight was the first time I let myself admit what was happening. I was falling for her.

The realization landed with a heavy blow.

Part of me resisted it, clinging to the memory of Camille, the life we’d built together, the love that had once been. But anotherpart of me—the one that had laughed with Leah tonight, that had listened to her talk about her fears and her struggles—knew I couldn’t stop how I felt, even if I wanted to.

When I picked her up for our second date the following weekend, I couldn’t shake the sense of anticipation that had been building all day. She looked incredible, wearing a flowing navy dress that swayed around her legs as she walked toward my car. She smiled when she saw me, and I felt that same magnetic pull I’d felt the first time we danced.

She had planned this outing.

She took us to Krog Street Market, which surprised me by being both trendy and intimate. The air was filled with the sizzle of food being prepared at the open stalls. The scent of wood-fired pizza mingled with hints of spices from a taco stand and the sweetness of fresh-baked pastries.

“What do you think?” she asked as we wandered past a sushi bar.

“It’s perfect,” I exclaimed, looking around. “I’ve never been here before. Sofia and Isabella have wanted to bring me, but….”

“My paralegal introduced me to this place,” Leah told me. “The same one who bought me the salsa classes as a Christmas present.”

It was as if I was on an adventure with Leah, trying to find new places to go to, ones I hadn’t been with Camille. My wife and I usually went to the places we knew—where we were familiar with the menu. We were creatures of habit.

With Leah, it felt like I was finally making an effort to explore new things. The thought left me unsettled.

We decided on a stall that served artisan sliders—crispy chicken and smoked brisket paired with truffle fries and house-made sauces. We found a small table in the middle of the hubbub and settled in.

“I hope this lives up to the Ethiopian food.” She unwrapped her slider.

“It’s not a contest, Leah.” I didn’t exactly snap at her, but it was close. Was she trying to one-up me or Camille? I regretted my tone and words immediately. She looked like I’d struck her. “I’m just happy to beanywherewith you,” I added as a peace offering.

She looked at me intently as if trying to figure out what was up with me. Then she shrugged and took a sip of her beer. “I love smoked brisket.”

She was letting it go, I thought, surprised. Even Camille, who I now tended to remember with a saintly glow, wouldn’t have let it slide. She’d have nagged me to death over a knee-jerk comment, and I’d be apologizing until the cows came home before she was appeased.

Was Leah really unaffected, or had she been mistreated so much by her ex that she’d grown used to brushing things off? The idea that I might be treating her the way her asshole ex-husband had didn’t sit well with me. Not one bit.

“When it comes to meat, I like mine with lots of spice, Puerto Rican style,” I said, taking a page from her book and shifting the mood, letting go of the weight of harsh words.

---