The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club (22 page)

A few rounds of the dance floor, and I’ve mastered the first two steps. For the other fourteen, I kind of wing it. I suspect a step or two from high school square dancing has made it in there somewhere (nothing wrong with a little cross-cultural exchange). Meanwhile, Jamie, in the hands of a cute young Argentine with a scruffy mullet, is shuffling, turning, and heel-toeing in perfect sync with him. She talks to her partner while she dances. She doesn’t count to herself, scrunch her forehead, or bite her lip. The instructor passes Jamie and nods approvingly. When the instructor sees me plodding along, she smiles weakly and moves on to someone she can help improve: an octogenarian with a limp. Ah, it was nice while it lasted.

The music stops and we all switch partners. Jamie gets another cute Argentine. “Isn’t this a blast?” she shouts to me over the teacher’s introductions. I get the impression that Jamie would have fun whatever she was doing. Brash or not, it’s hard not to like her. Dan, glancing apologetically in my direction, has landed in the arms of a giggly teenager. I have no one. There are too many women in the class. I turn to join the wallflowers along the edge of the dance floor—grade-ten high school dance all over again—when I feel someone’s hand on my wrist. Please, I pray, don’t let it be that greasy-looking guy with the unbuttoned shirt and chest hair who was eying me earlier. Please, oh, please.

It’s not the greasy guy. It’s Mateo. He’s dressed sharply in black, his hair smoothed back from his face, which wears a subtle stubble. For a second I think I must be dreaming. His voice snaps me out of it.

“Cassie. I wasn’t sure that was you.”

“Well, it is.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Am I not allowed to be here?”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Of course.” I look over his shoulder and see Anna watching us intently. I find Dan in the crowd and wave, but he is too busy watching his footwork to see me.

“It’s just . . .” His eyes move down my outfit and back up to my eyes, looking almost pleased. He smiles wickedly. His hand, I realize, is still on my arm. Oh, no. I’m not falling for that again.

Anna’s eyes are still trained on us, yet she looks more amused than jealous. I guess I wouldn’t be much of a threat to her, would I? Mateo leans in as though to whisper a secret. I can feel his breath against my bare neck. “I see you don’t have a partner,” he says.

Rub it in, I think. “I’m fine,” I say, looking for Dan. The music has started again, and I can see his head across the room, bent in deep concentration. His poor partner. “I was getting tired, anyway.” I’m not going to be his charity case. That, and there’s no way Mateo is going to see me dance. Oh, God, I think, maybe he already has. I reprimand myself once more. So what if he has? Good. Great. Perfect.

“Scared of me?” That devil’s smile again, unnervingly sexy and slightly infuriating.

“Yeah, right.” I chortle. “Sure. Okay. Why not?”

“Why not,” he repeats.

On the dance floor, Mateo draws me in close to him, much closer than demonstrated by the instructor, his hand pressing against the arch in my back. He starts to move, falling effortlessly into the music, and I attempt to follow. I can tell he is very good, far beyond our beginner group, and I hope he can’t tell that I am very bad. The crowd is my only salvation. We trip over other couples, they trip over us.

Mateo never falters. He holds his head tilted up, his neck elongated, jaw firm. There’s no denying it: Tango looks good on him. Women young and old misstep, craning their necks to get a good look. Men clumsily sweep their partners away from the distracting view. He is oblivious to the attention—oblivious, it seems, to everything but our small sphere of dance floor—until a large man’s protruding bum almost knocks him to the ground.

Mateo recovers with a laugh and suggests we move to the outside of the circle. I hesitate, thinking of my embarrassing feet, and of Dan, who is buried somewhere on the other side of the room, but Mateo doesn’t wait for an answer. He pulls me after him, his arm warm around my waist. The women around us sigh visibly with disappointment.

Finding a clear spot on the floor, Mateo waits for the right point to enter the music, looks at me intently, and steps forward. Right on my foot.

“Sorry,” I offer weakly.

“No, my fault. You weren’t ready. Here we go.” He steps forward again, and this time I step back with him. The next few steps, I’m okay, but then we get to the side-shuffle thing and I’m lost. No matter how hard I stare at my feet, I can’t will them to get it right.

“What are you looking at down there?” Mateo asks jokingly. “Did you lose something?”

“Yeah, my dignity.” I stop and drop his hand from mine. “I’m sorry, Mateo, I should have warned you. I can’t dance. At all. Unless they start playing the Funky Chicken, you might as well give up on me as a partner.” Just saying the words is a huge relief. My name’s Cassie, and I’m a bad dancer. Hi, Cassie.

“What’s the Funky Chicken?” he asks, his smile so soft and sweet.

“Never mind,” I say. “Thanks for trying.” Thanks for taking pity on me.

“Come, Cassandra.” He holds out his hand. “Everyone can dance.”

“That’s like saying everyone can do brain surgery. Nice thought but not true.”

“Well,
you
can dance. I’m sure of it. I’ve seen you.”

“You’ve seen me?”

“At Andrea’s, when there’s music on that you like, and you think no one’s watching, you do this little step.” He demonstrates, his feet gliding front and back in a slow salsa waltz.

“I do not.” I shake my head, laughing.

“You do.” He laughs back.

“So you’ve been watching me, have you?” I cock my head and smile. Mateo blushes. He’s blushing! I scream in my head. I’ve actually made Mateo blush!

“Well, when you’re dancing, it’s hard not to look.”

“Because it’s so funny.”

“No, not funny. Not funny at all.” He looks down at the floor for a second and then straight into my eyes. We stand there looking at each other until the music stops. Everyone is switching partners again. I see the greasy, unbuttoned guy coming my way.

“Oh, well, I guess we’re supposed to—”

“How about one more try,” Mateo says, taking my hand again and wrapping his other arm around my waist. The music starts and my body goes rigid in anticipation. I look down at my feet to prepare. Back, front, side, side, I think. “No watching the feet this time,” Mateo says, lifting my chin so we are eye-to-eye.

“Then how will I know if I’m doing it right?”

He laughs. “Don’t think so hard. You can’t anticipate the steps with your head. Trust your body. It knows what to do.” He sweeps me even closer, too close for me to see my feet, and I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. Or is that his heart? I look up at him. He blushes again and pulls back an inch.

And then we dance.

With our bodies this close, I can feel his every movement. There is nothing to think about, nothing to anticipate or analyze or complicate. The shift in his hips tells me when to glide to the side. The pressure of his thigh on mine means it’s time to step back. The weight of his hand against the small of my back brings me forward again.

“Perfect.” He beams. “You’ve got it.” I don’t step on his foot once.

“Ready for something more?” he whispers into my ear. I pull back enough to look at him. “I can teach you another step.”

“Yeah. Why not?”

But the music stops, and this time Dan has found me.

“Having fun?” he asks, not quite smiling, not looking at Mateo.

“Yes, lots.” We stand in silence for a few seconds. “Dan, have you met Mateo?”

“Not officially.” He turns ceremoniously and holds out his hand. They shake. “Well, shall we?” I take Dan’s arm.

Over his shoulder, he says, “Nice meeting you, Matthew.” I look back, apologetic, but Mateo, surrounded by a flock of women, is already walking toward Anna on the other side of the hall.

Dan and Jamie are full of energy and want to go for drinks. Tired, I head home and leave them to find their way to large bottles of cheap beer.

“Are you sure you trust me alone with your man?” Jamie says with a huge smile. Dan blushes.

“I’ll take my chances,” I say with a smile, playing along.

It’s only ten-thirty, but the house is dark and still. Andrea and Jorge must be out—no one goes to sleep before midnight around here. It isn’t until I’m ready for bed that I realize I’m not that tired after all. It’s cool enough to make a cup of tea. I turn on the radio and curl up on the couch by the window with my steaming mug. With all the lights off, the courtyard flora sparkles in the moonlight.

Someone’s knocking on my door. It must be Andrea wanting to hear about my tango adventures. She hits her stride after dark. Some nights she keeps me up until the sun rises, talking and drinking maté.

I open the door, the sliver of hall light stretching across my feet, and see Mateo.

Did I fall asleep on the couch? I must be dreaming.

“What are you doing here?” I whisper.

“We didn’t get to finish our dance,” he says and steps toward me.

Before I can put down my mug of tea, his hands are on my face, his lips against mine. His tongue pushes softly into my mouth and finds mine. I taste red wine, I taste tango. I throw my arms around him. Warm tea sloshes out of the cup and against his back, but he doesn’t stop. A slow song comes on the radio, and Mateo pulls me to him, his hips pushing against mine. I step back and to the side. His right hand moves down my cheek, throat, breast. My left hand strums the side of his torso. I am vaguely aware of music in the background. Mostly, I hear the sound of us breathing into each other, our hearts beating out their own rhythm against our chests. There is no thought, no anticipation, no plan. Every part of us, feet, hands, fingers, lips, tongues, breath, just dances. It’s everything and nothing like I’d imagined it would be. I don’t want this to stop.

“I could kiss you forever,” he whispers.

Forever.
From him, the word rocks me out of reverie. Does he mean it? I remember that night after the party.
Life isn’t a Tom Hanks movie. Happily ever after is a fairy tale.
I’m reluctant to let anything ruin this moment, but now this is the only thing running through my mind, trampling all in its path. Everything I want—things I didn’t even know I wanted—pushes to the surface. There is no stopping it.

“I don’t understand you,” I whisper back, frightened of the words as they come out of my mouth, frightened of what I want them to convey, frightened of their potential to end this moment, this kiss, this dance.

“What don’t you understand?” He kisses my shoulder.

“What do you want from me?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” He laughs lightly, nuzzling my neck.

I pull back. “Is that all?”

“No, no, that isn’t all.” He pulls back enough to look me in the eye. “Of course that isn’t all.” He shakes his head. “Is that what you think of me?”

“How would I know what to think?”

“I let you stomp all over my feet for half an hour. That should tell you something.” He laughs but stops when he sees I don’t get the joke. “And I’m here right now, aren’t I?”

“And what about tomorrow?” Even as I say it, I know I’ve ruined everything, but I can’t stop myself. “What happens tomorrow, Mateo?” I can see in his eyes, in the disappointment pooling there, that the moment is over.

I’ve looked at my feet again. For good or bad, it’s the only way I know how to dance.

“I don’t know, Cassie. I don’t know what happens tomorrow,” he says quietly, cautiously, adding, “I know you’ve been hurt . . .”

He’s right. I have been. Which is why I’ve got to stick to The Plan. Spontaneous decision-making isn’t my strong point. “Look, I’m going home soon, and I just don’t see the point of us . . . I don’t see the point of us wasting our time pretending.”

“I didn’t realize this was wasting your time,” he says sharply, straightening up.

“Well, it is,” I force myself to respond. “Maybe you should go find Anna.” I don’t even recognize my own voice.

“Anna?” He looks at me with a question mark. “Maybe I should leave,” he says at last. We stand apart, arms rigid at our sides. Our swollen lips are all that remain of our kiss.

“Maybe you should.”

As I shut the door after him, it makes a sucking sound, and I feel that sound inside of me, that sucking of air until there’s nothing left to breathe. I open my mouth wide, placing my shaking hands against the door to steady myself, and catch my breath. When I can breathe again, I have nowhere to go but mad. Any residual passion from that one kiss twists into a rage. How dare he! How dare he come up here and kiss me like that! How dare he walk out on me! Mostly, I’m angry that he can get to me like this. So I am determined not to let him. He is of no consequence in my life. Mateo de la Vega can take his “forever” and stick it where the sun don’t shine.

Wide awake with anger, I notice that my apartment is a mess. While I stomp around picking up papers, tossing food wrappers, and slamming cupboard doors, “You May Be Right” comes on the radio. I used to love Billy Joel. Before my father left us, he played this song all the time. He’d turn it up loud, and he and I would boogie around the living room, limbs flailing, not caring how stupid we looked or that we didn’t know the right moves. Once my mother came in from the kitchen, yellow dish gloves dripping with suds, and started singing along into the spatula she’d been scrubbing. Even her. Even me. I walk over to the radio and turn it off.