Page 4 of I Wanna Dance

Ithought about Leah—which was a surprise because I didn’t usually spend time thinking about a woman, no matter how attractive and cute. Leah was both, and her scent and face lingered in my mind long after that first salsa class.

I wasn’t celibate and hadn’t been since a year after Camille passed. But sex was easy to find. Pick someone up at a bar, book a hotel room, have a round or two of sex, and say thank you.

I liked sex—and I enjoyed the company of women, though these days, I preferred to have one without too much of the other, which was why I was happy to have a one-night stand a couple of times a month when the itch arose. Sleeping with a woman for the night wasn’t in the cards—that felt like I was cheating on Camille.

I knew it didn’t make much sense, but losing your partner, the love of your life, was complex—because even though you knew they were gone and didn’t care what you did, your heart wasn’t ready to let go of them. I’d seen friends who’d divorced, and even one whose spouse died, move on and marry again—but I wasn’t sure if I could do that. It had been suggested to me thatI sell the home Camille and I built so I could start with a clean slate—but I didn’t want a fucking cleananything. I wanted to see and feel Camille in our home. I wanted that moment between sleep and wakefulness when I could smell her next to me and feel her warmth. I wanted the hurt of missing her to burn through me. No, I wasn’t interested inmoving on.If I didn’t have children, I don’t think I’d get over Camille’s loss. My baby girls were the best things about my life, and my wife would kick my ass if I didn’t take care of them. I saw my wife in both of them, and the pain in my heart eased in their presence.

“Try this, Papi.” Sofia slid a plate of charred octopus my way. She was already halfway through a mocktail—something bright orange in a lowball glass with a sprig of rosemary poking out. “It’s amazing.”

I stabbed a piece of the octopus—new to the menu—with my fork, its smoky, crispy edges gleaming with olive oil, and popped it into my mouth. It was tender, flavorful, and with just a hint of citrus. She was right—itwasamazing.

“Not bad.” I reached for another bite.

We were at The Optimist, one of Atlanta’s most popular seafood spots in West Midtown. The restaurant managed to blend industrial chic with Southern charm. As a food-loving family with a special affection for seafood, we came here often.

The three of us shared a sturdy, worn wooden table that had absorbed thousands of conversations. As we always did, we ordered several small plates and ate them family-style.

“I told you they did octopus well here.” Sofia gave me a triumphant grin when I mentioned my concern that not everyone didpulpowell and I’d had my share of disappointments.

“Don’t let her act like she knows everything,” Isabella chimed, balancing a lobster roll in one hand as she pouredherself another glass of sparkling water with the other. “Last week, she called oysters slimy rocks.”

I gasped, feigning heartbreak. “A child of mine not loving oysters?”

Sofia rolled her eyes. “Theywereslimy rocks at the place we were at—notallthe time. Stop putting words in my mouth, Isa.”

I chuckled, shaking my head. The banter between my daughters had always been one of my favorite things to witness. It reminded me of how close they were and how much they cared about each other, which had been important to Camille.

“When we’re gone, they’ll have each other,” she would say.

And what am I supposed to do now that you’re gone, querida? Who do I have?

But I didn’t let my wife’s thoughts slide me into a bad mood. My kids didn’t deserve that. I wanted to stay joyous when I thought about her. I knew my girls worried about me, which was why they insisted on me taking salsa dance classes. It was something Camille and I had always wanted to do but never got the chance. First, we were busy with our careers and then our babies, and then she got a brain tumor.

Six months, and she was gone. There hadn't been time for tango classes, a trip to Marrakesh, snorkeling in the Great Barrier Reef, or….

“So”—Isabella wiped her hands on her napkin—“how was salsa class?”

I broke off a piece of the golden crusty cornbread that we’d ordered and popped it into my mouth. It was sweet and savory, dense but not heavy. These guys knew how to cook.

I took a sip of my Albariño wine. “It was...interesting.”

“How?” Sofia pressed, narrowing her eyes like a detective closing in on a confession.

“Interesting in the sense that I spent most of the time trying not to fall over,” I teased. “It’s harder than it looks. The footwork is no joke.”

Sofia smirked. “I bet you did just fine and looked fabulous.”

“I looked ridiculous,” I corrected her.

“Who did you dance with?” Isabella wanted to know.

I recalled again the beautiful woman who I’d held in my arms. She fit well. She’d been authentic and open.

“The only other woman who wasn’t part of a couple. We were both terrible. I stepped on her feet more times than I can count, and she nearly tripped over mine. It was a mess.”

“What’s her name?” Isabella persisted.

I knew what my kids were doing. They wanted me to get out, move on, and find a new woman. I’d told them that I’d never get over Camille—but I was only forty-eight years old—and, according to them, had a lifetime ahead of me.

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