Page 27 of Every Time We Touch

“Let’s repeat what we learned last week. Left. Side. Together. Very slowly. Okay?”

“Yeah.” When I look her in the eye, all thoughts of my dad dissipate. It’s the only way I can bring my hand to her shoulder and—fuck, why does this suddenly feel so intimate?—put my other hand in hers.

There’s no music. Just the sound of our breath and the tap of our heels on the floor as we move together. How I manage the steps is a mystery to me because all I can think of is how her shoulder shifts under my right hand and the tight grip of her fingers around my left.

As though they have a life of their own, my fingers dig a little deeper into her shoulder. I’m only a novice at the tango, but I do know it’s not required to hold onto your partner’s shoulder like this. What I don’t know is if I’m doing it for support in order not to lose control or if it’s a clear sign that I’ve lost control already. Probably the latter. I might as well be honest with myself—it’s the only person I can be honest with about this.

I can’t look her in the eye. It’s too much. When I try, just for a split second, I get a glimpse of Clancy’s tango game face. Her expression is all control and focus. Like she’s competing instead of teaching. I look away, to a spot beyond her shoulder. Predictably, I mess up the next step. We let go.

“You’re holding a lot of tension.” Clancy rubs her palm over the spot on her shoulder where I was clinging onto for dear life. “Everything okay?”

Everything okay? Really?

“I need some time to get into it.”

Her face is one big smile again. “I have an idea.”

She walks over to the table where her phone is lying. She fiddles with it until a song plays over the speakers.

“Let’s just dance for a bit. Loosen those hips.”

“Is that The Other Women?” I ask.

“Their new song,” Clancy says. “Very retro but also highly danceable.” She lifts her hands above her head and sways her hips. “We hold so much tension in our hips. Dancing is one of the best ways to let go of that.”

Her tank top rides up, revealing a sliver of belly. What the fuck is happening? Seeing Clancy dance like this a mere foot away is not helping with my tension levels at all. I’m about to go into the red zone. All systems overloaded.

“Come on, Jen.” She reaches for my hand. “Shake it all out.”

Of my two options—dancing or sulking—dancing makes the most sense. So I join her.

Clancy dances like the music flows through her. Even though it looks effortless, I see her muscles flex—again, not helping matters at all. For the few minutes that the song lasts, I follow her advice. I do seem to have a knack for that. And I just dance. Clancy’s right. Even though her bare skin is too close and her natural dance floor confidence makes me go a little crazy on the inside, her sense of rhythm pulls me along. Instead of comparing myself to her, I watch her and follow her lead. She’s even more beautiful in a state of complete abandon. Not trying for anything. Not performing. Unless…

Clancy turns to me and my body reacts before I can stop it. I inch closer to her, like I would do with a friend at a club. We’re not touching, but we’re standing so close we might as well be. The joy on Clancy’s face is infectious and my lips mirror her smile. This is exactly what I needed—but also the exact opposite.

I shake my hips to Cleo Palmer’s sexy voice. What is it with Clancy and all her lesbian music choices, anyway? Or is it just me, reading too much into it? Looking for hidden meaning where there isn’t any.

The song fades out and our bodies still.

“See,” Clancy says. “Sometimes, you just need to dance it out.” She takes a step away from me.

I hope she’s not expecting more as a reply than the smile I send her. I don’t have one. That sheen of sweat that catches the light along her collarbone isn’t helping, nor the way her chest rises and falls as she catches her breath.

“I need to use the restroom.” I rush to the changing rooms, where I splash some cold water on my face. I try to give myself a stern look in the mirror—as if that would help. I lean against the wall for a few seconds, wondering if I can even go back in there.

“Jen?” Clancy must have followed me. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” I sound as though I just ran a marathon instead of dancing to one song.

“Can I come in?” she asks.

“Yeah.” I inhale deeply, then let the air escape slowly.

Clancy walks toward me and it’s like a slow-motion scene from an eighties softcore movie. The way the light clings to her and bounces off her impossible biceps. How it makes her look as though she’s floating on air.

“Hey,” she says, her voice much softer than before. “Um…” She leans against the wall in front of me. She’s too close again. “Jen—I,” she says. “I feel it too.”

Fuck.