Even then, our hands stay joined for a second too long. And when we finally let go, we drag it out. Reluctant. As if the dance has stopped... but whatever it stirred in us hasn’t.
We step out of the studio into the crisp night.
Cecilia is wearing the same dress; she chose not to change, only slipping on a light cardigan she had in her bag.
“So,” I say after a few minutes of walking in a comfortable silence, “can you cross this one off your list now?”
She laughs under her breath. “Yes. And thank you for giving me the courage to do it.”
I shake my head. “The courage was all yours. I only made the opportunity appear.” Curious, I add, “Was it anything like what you imagined? Or like what you saw in the movie?”
That makes her glance away.
“It’s definitely an... intense style.” She laughs shyly. “But I’m terrible at it. Just count how many times I stepped on your foot.”Then she turns toward me with a suspicious look. “You, on the other hand, seemed strangely comfortable with the rhythm.”
I run a hand along the back of my neck.
“I may or may not have danced salsa once or twice before, but I didn’t lie. This was my first actual class. The instructor’s tips did most of the work.”
“Sure,” she says, smiling. “Well, at least now we know salsa isn’t for me.”
Her tone is light, a little self-deprecating. I stop walking and gently place my hand on her arm.
“You were beautiful when you danced,” I murmur. “Free and alive in a way that... captivated me. Absolutely beautiful, Cecilia.”
She stares at me for a few seconds before her brows knit together.
“Ce–Cecilia?”
I close my eyes for two seconds. “I said the last part out loud, didn’t I?”
A loose strand slips from her bun, and I reach up to tuck it behind her ear.
“In Italian—and in a few other languages, I believe—your name is pronounced Cecilia,” I tell her, drawing out the vowels, my accent thickening around the syllables. My hand lingers along her cheekbone. “And I’ll admit... since the day I met you, that’s the version I hear in my mind. Cecilia.”
She watches me, her eyes locked on mine. We’re standing on the sidewalk, the city moving around us, and it feels like the world has narrowed to just the two of us.
“I like it,” she says finally. “It sounds beautiful.”
Then, as if waking from a trance, she breaks our gaze before looking back at me. “Well... I’ve done one of the four things I told you. Now you have to tell me at least three things you want to do.”
I grin, because I know precisely what she’s doing, even as my heartbeat refuses to fall back into its normal rhythm.
I let my hand drop to my side, and I’m just about to answer when someone calls out right beside us.
“Mom?”
I turn and see a redheaded girl in jeans and a band T-shirt, holding a small pint of ice cream. I recognize her instantly. Alicia, Cecilia’s daughter.
And standing just behind her is him.
Il coglione[XXXV]. Colin Montgomery.
Chapter 11
In a way only you can be
Alexander
