Ani laughed. “Raffi, we were all kids. It seems silly to still be mad at a fifteen-year-old. Besides, I think she has, like, triplet babies and lives in North Carolina or somewhere out there.”
“Still…” Raffi breathed, feeling gruff and fiercely loyal to this beauty by his side.
Then the band began to play a slow Greek ballad Raffi was not familiar with. It was pretty, though, with its use of the bouzouki, the Greek guitar. His uncle was an instrument aficionado and occasionally played it, along with the guitar, the duduk, the saz, and sometimes the sitar.
Raffi had been to Santorini on one occasion, to visit his mother when she refused to come home for Christmas, and they had something that resembled an almost good time. He remembered one sweet moment, when they sat at a restaurant with some live music in the evening, eating fresh fish, overlooking the caldera. He wanted to go back there with Ani. And to Hayastan, the motherland. To Beirut, where his parents had immigrated from. If she would have him.
As the music played, he felt something larger than himself, pushing him to take a chance. A risk. Whispering in his ear that it would be worth it if he just let himself try. A voice that had been dormant so many years reawakening because of Ani, for Ani, about Ani.
He’d be a fool not to listen.
Raffi put his glass down and his hand out. “May I have this dance, Ani Avakian?”
She stared at him, incredulous. “Are you being serious?”
“Dead serious. I would love nothing more than to dance with you right now.”
“You’re not doing this just because of the story—”
“Partly, but I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t mean it. Nothing would make me happier.”
He kept his hand out, hoping he’d feel hers in it soon. ThenAni rested her flute upon the table and took his hand. When she touched him and he felt her softness in his palm and against his fingers, he knew he’d made the right decision. Ten years away from the dance floor, from depriving himself of moving his body to music. But today, right now, with Ani, he’d begin again.
He squeezed her velvety hand and led her to a corner of the floor. The band members played their mix of traditional and nontraditional instruments, and the lead singer crooned a sad, sweet melody that was clearly about love. And then Raffi ushered Ani into his arms, one hand on her waist, one holding her hand. Waltz style for tonight. Nothing fancy. He didn’t want to show off at a place he wasn’t even technically invited to.
In position, it was like new life was breathed into him. His hand, his muscles, they were ready to bend and sway with the music. Called off duty too soon, ready to return at a moment’s notice.
Raffi leaned into Ani’s ear and whispered, “Follow me.”
Her face flushed sugary pink. “Gladly,” she breathed.
Then he took off, slowly at first, with an inch of room between their bodies. He moved simply, rotating with calm, left-right taps, to which Ani followed along beautifully, no instruction needed. He caught her eye, and she looked away quickly with that private smile. He loved it, he loved catching it, he loved being the reason for her mirth.
And oh, how he’d missed this, the rhythm of his feet, the bending of his core, the filling of his whole body with music and letting it fly. He’d starved himself from this joy of his, and why? Suddenly it seemed so stupid to self-flagellate by takingaway one of his life’s greatest pleasures. He could have been feelingthisall along. Then again, maybe he was just waiting for the right partner to bring him back.
The song grew in power during the chorus and Raffi followed suit, extending the length of his steps, taking Ani for a ride all along the edge of the dance floor. Her eyes lit up in surprise. He threw her out for a spin, and goddamn, the woman followed all his cues, turning and then pressing back into him. Closer now, much closer. Their bodies touched, torsos end to end. Raffi kept the pressure of his hand tight on her lower back.
“Okay, Fred Astaire,” Ani said, so close against him he could feel her vocal chords reverberating against his chest. “So you can dance.”
“That don’t impress you much?” he asked, mirroring Shania Twain’s accent.
Ani let out a loud laugh, then quickly buried her face in his chest.
“You, Raffi jan, are hilarious. And continue to surprise me in all the best ways—nineties pop-country references, ballroom dancing?”
He’d say it now. He’d tell her. She shared with him; he’d share with her.
He slowed their clip and then spoke. “I used to dance, you know. I stopped after Sev.”
Ani looked horrified. “Oh God, I didn’t realize. I would have never told my silly little story.”
“No, no, yours is legit, are you kidding? I’m happy you told me.”
She gave a small nod. “So, you took classes?”
“Yes, and competed.”
She blinked, her lips parting slightly, like she was seeing him in a new light. “Wow, okay. Surprise after surprise. Were you good?”
