by R. Cooper
“A slow waltz, for now anyway.” The teacher carefully picked up Chico’s hand, where Chico had obediently left it poised in midair, and placed it on his shoulder. The skin there was bare, hot, either from the weather or all the dancing the man had done already. He pulled Chico’s other hand up a little higher while Chico blinked at him in stunned surprise, then opened his hand so Chico’s fingers curled around his palm.
Chico was dancing the girl’s part, but no one was laughing or saying shit about it. They were all taking similar positions, as if this was a cue.
“Wait.” Chico’s word caught in his throat when hazel eyes focused on him. They were mostly brown with flecks of dark green, yet somehow clear. “Uh. This isn’t… I don’t know how.”
That got him a curved smile and a whispered answer, just for him. “No one else here does either. They’re learning right now. You’ll be fine.”
He was so certain. Chico nodded before he remembered himself. “What do I do?”
“Aren’t you a brave one?” No one should be able to put that much encouragement and confidence in their voice and still sound gentle. The dance teacher was some kind of sexy dancer whisperer. “You’re going to move backward without looking behind you, which might make you nervous, but I’ve got you. I promise I won’t let you fall or bump into anything. Okay?”
His smile was like cinnamon coffee. People probably took these classes just to see that smile. In another life, Chico might have been one of them. Before John, maybe, or sometime in the future, when Chico wasn’t a wreck who could barely dress himself for work.
The teacher gripped Chico’s hand tighter for one brief moment and then raised his voice.
“Everyone, remember what we talked about. This is a simple box step. Traditionally men are the top of the box, but if you want to mix that up, feel free.” Some people let out a small laugh at that, especially the two women dancing together. Chico wanted to laugh too, but he knew it would come out too loud, too desperate, like any kind of top and bottom joke he could have made. Innuendo-laden flirting had never been his style, and he didn’t know what he was thinking to even vaguely contemplate flirting with anyone.
He stared up without saying a word, wishing he knew the right thing to say or do, and the instructor inclined his head toward him. He acted as if he was still addressing the class, but Chico felt like this instruction was for his benefit. “It’s called the box step because we’re moving our feet in a square. I’m going to show you the movements one more time, and then you get to practice for a while.”
He pulled their clasped hands up higher, a move that brought him closer to Chico by barely an inch but felt like much more than that. Maybe it was the way it forced Chico to stand up straight, with his shoulders back. Their chests were nearly touching. He took a deep breath, and his other hand fell from the instructor’s shoulder to his bicep.
“That’s it.” The man had the gentle, patient teacher tone down perfectly. The words should have been impersonal, professional, but Chico shivered all over again and lowered his gaze to the man’s collarbone. Then he looked right back up to his face in disbelief when his teacher moved forward and nudged Chico’s shoe with his.
“This is ridiculous.” Chico managed a full sentence, but moved his foot in response to the hint, and for a moment they were close again, closer than before. He dragged in a breath and then stepped to the side when led that way. He was a second behind, but he went, following when they came forward again and then to the side once more before stopping. That was when he stumbled, surprised they were no longer moving.
“He’s a natural.” The teacher angled his head up to tell the crowd. He said it easily too, like he meant it. Unlike everyone else in the room, he wasn’t looking at his feet or thinking about what his body was doing. He was staring at Chico and complimenting him.
Chico unexpectedly felt himself warming up and was grateful a blush would hardly show in his features.
“No, no, no,” he argued earnestly. “I’m really not. Not a natural at this or anything.” He tugged on their joined hands, then skittered back a step when that only brought their bodies closer to together, as if he’d been leading that time. He glanced around in total embarrassment, but the others seemed to be focused on their own foot placement and hand positions. “What am I doing? Oh my God. I’m sorry.” He tugged on his hand again, and this time it was released. “I didn’t actually come here to dance.”
“But you’re here now.” The reasonable answer was the most confusing sentence Chico had ever heard in his life. It was so simple and logical his brain wouldn’t process it for a moment.
He tossed his head. “The last thing I need right now is….” Chico wisely stopped there, and took a moment to swallow and wet his mouth. “I have to go. I was supposed to find—” He decided against asking this man for directions yet again, considering the way the last time had turned out. “Uh, thank you for the lesson,” he finished, stilted and impossible and kind of hating the person he’d turned into for the few seconds it took him to take his other hand from that warm skin and hurry to the door.
He closed it behind him, with classical music still humming in his blood and his face hot. He rubbed a hand over the warmth at his side as he left the office, and he only stopped once he was safely back out in the foyer. Davi would see how flustered he was, so he took a moment to straighten his clothes and pat his cheeks while he stared at the articles and photographs on one of the walls.
Chico was and always had been a small and fragile creature. He caught a glimpse of his wrist and wondered how it had felt when the dance instructor had held it to carefully pull Chico’s hand to his skin. No one should be that gentle in real life unless they were handling a newborn or trying to catch a ladybug.
Chico stared hard at a black-and-white photo for a long time before he realized he was looking at an early picture of this building. The studio must have added a wing sometime in the past few decades, probably when the town had become more than a hidden vacation spot for beatniks and the rich.
He moved on to study a framed magazine spread with several ballerinas in it, one of whom was identified as Elisabet Winters. Her tightly bound hair looked dark, and her features were vaguely Slavic, which made her appear like a fierce model. In the picture, she seemed slender and tall, but he was willing to bet she was his height or shorter. Next to her, with her arm at her waist, was another dancer, with lighter hair and softer features. Teodora Winters had a slightly thicker body than her sister. The small stub article next to the picture mentioned their family legacy of dancing and talked about their grandparents.
He walked down the aisle until he found a picture of these grandparents, a professionally made display of black-and-white photos, drawings, and newsprint articles about an American dancer who married a Russian immigrant.
There were some amazing photographs of that Russian dancer in the sort of fabulous beaded costumes Chico associated with black-and-white movies. The costumes couldn’t possibly be as heavy as they looked if someone had to dance in them, but Chico nearly smudged the glass as he traced a finger over the costumes in an attempt to determine their construction.
Ballet costumes had changed over the years. Chico turned to a new wall to study the varieties of tutus and skirts, and the sheer, revealing tights barely containing all the male strength on display. When that made him uncomfortably aware of his body all over again, he made himself look at more innocent things.
The Winterses had posted pictures of their students who had gone on to professional acclaim, as well as awards they’d won. Chico had expected that, if the studio was as prestigious as he was beginning to think it was. But the Winterses weren’t only proud of the ballet classes. The tap students had photos up too—glossy pictures of smiling children holding ribbons or trophies. There were no professional write-ups of tap dancers, although he noticed a few stray ribbons for ballroom dancing contests. But they weren’t the focus.
It was almost as if the Winterses loved
dance and wanted others, especially children, to love it too, and didn’t have any snobbery about it. Chico had thought ballet would be all scary instructors shouting at exhausted, underfed children, with everything very serious.
But the Winters children themselves had their own section too, and the first thing he saw was a candid photo of Elisabet, when she was very young, standing on a grown man’s feet as he danced. That was probably her father, and she was giggling up at him.
An older brother choreographed dance scenes for Hollywood. Chico read all about his attempted revival of serious dance and his longing for the days when many more actors studied dancing. But it was the other brother’s picture that made him stop and forget everything he’d just read.
His dance teacher was Rafael Winters.
Rafael was posed by himself on a stage, costumed in a fitted jacket and tights that stopped Chico’s heart with how much they revealed. He didn’t know what exactly went on underneath those tights to both hide and emphasize everything, but it took effort for him to drag his gaze back to Rafael’s face. Rafael had to be much younger in the picture, but it was definitely him. According to the write-up from the local paper, he’d won more than a few competitions as a young man, but he had retired from professional dance only a few years after that picture was taken, choosing instead to stay and teach at his parents’ dance studio.
Did that make him the family failure? Chico had recently become acquainted with that role. After years of being the queer cousin, after Davi of course, he could definitively say being the family sad story felt far more shameful. Alone, broke, and practically homeless at thirty-four was bad, but possibly being the administrator and teacher in a family of dance legends was worse. Maybe that’s why Rafael could be so understanding with nervous wrecks like Chico.
Chico jumped when a door at the end of the hall opened, abruptly aware that he was alone in the foyer with only the distant sound of multiple strains of music and that he’d been staring at a picture of Rafael Winters for way too long.
He turned quickly to see Davi approaching him with both thick eyebrows raised. He and Davi had the same large eyes, in identical shades of deep whiskey brown. It was the family color. But Davi liked stubble at his jaw, which Chico couldn’t stand, and had a simple, short haircut and a tendency to wear flannel. His cousin could be depressingly masculine when Chico needed advice about clothes, or hair, or boys, but he knew Chico better than anyone else.
He was short, only an inch taller than Chico, and his sleeve tattoos were visible when he wore a T-shirt. He threw up his hands when he saw Chico. “Where the hell have you been? I wanted the group to meet you so they could see where they can use you.”
Chico gestured vaguely at the walls. “I was here. I got here, I mean. That should count for something. I left the house.”
Davi gave him a look that said he knew Chico had dragged his feet and showed up late.
Chico deflated. “Volunteering?” he asked, like he’d asked the first time Davi had mentioned it. The annual graduation ballet performance for all the students was a town event, but it also cost money. So props and costumes were repurposed, and volunteers painted all the sets. Chico sighed. “I’m no good at things like that. And I’m tired.”
He’d been tired, before he’d stepped into that dance class. Now he couldn’t have settled down for a nap if he’d tried.
“Bullshit.” Davi rolled his eyes. “Anyway, you could be garbage and we’d want you. We need the help. But more importantly, it will get you out of the house.”
“You keep saying that.” Chico’s heart was beating fast. He glanced quickly at the picture of a younger Rafael. “And do okay. I need to get out of the house. I admit it. But maybe not this.” He had stuttered and tripped all over Rafael like someone who’d never seen a handsome man. “It… it’s not time yet.”
“Oh, it’s time. I live next to you, remember? It is fucking time,” Davi enunciated each word in his gruff voice. “And this will be fine. You can hide in the background and do whatever. No pressure.”
Chico couldn’t help a small twitch at those words. Apparently his fear was visible to everyone, family and strangers alike.
Davi paused to consider him. “Where were you anyway? Not out here the whole time.”
It would really show him if Chico said he’d taken a dance class. But he’d have to talk about stumbling in there, and going speechless around the instructor, and yeah, no, he was not going to do that. Davi would be too happy to hear it and insist that he come back and take a class for real.
Chico finally shrugged and turned away from the wall of photographs. “I got lost. Come on. I’m tired. I wanna go home.”
“Of course you do,” Davi grumbled. But he caught up to walk alongside him after he left the building, and stayed with him as they walked home.
THE WALK took about ten minutes, and they parted ways outside Davi’s garage. All the houses along Alberi Lane were older and large. Davi’s property had several outbuildings, as if the previous owners had wanted a giant complex of cabins when they’d built it in the twenties. Chico lived in an apartment above the detached garage, where a chauffeur or mechanic must have lived back in the day.
Davi had renovated it into something more modern and livable, with the intention of renting it to tourists or a local looking for something low-cost, but he had offered it to Chico when he’d become aware of Chico’s situation. He was sweet about it, really. Chico paid for his share of the utilities and his Internet, but no rent, at least for now.
It was the best Chico could afford, between moving expenses, only finding part time work up here, and the financial devastation that occurred when kicked out of the shared life with his boyfriend with no warning.
John hadn’t physically pushed Chico from their apartment, but he hadn’t really left him any other choice but to move out. He’d come home from work and informed Chico that he was dating one of his coworkers and that it was serious, which hadn’t left Chico a lot of other options. Stay in their apartment and make himself sick, or leave and lick his wounds somewhere else.
Chico hadn’t been thinking clearly at the time. If he had, he would have remembered how vicious and cutthroat the Bay Area housing market was and how all his friends were paired up and settled and in no need of a roommate. He would have thought about how little his job made compared to John’s, and how he didn’t have enough in his savings to pay anything close to what was now demanded for rental deposits across the Bay Area.
He’d stayed on couches, with his things at the apartment, and thought numbly about the money he’d already spent on Christmas presents and holiday plans for the two of them before John had decided that the two weeks leading up to Thanksgiving was the time to tell Chico it was over.
Chico’d had neither the energy to take the gifts back to the store nor the interest in the store credit he would have been offered. He’d stopped looking for apartments sometime in January and wound up at his parents’, curled up in a sleeping bag on the floor of his old room, now the room his nieces and nephews used for nap time when his mother watched them, which was almost every day.
He’d gotten in trouble at work for showing up late, for not looking his best, and he couldn’t blame them. No one wanted to buy expensive suits from someone with dull eyes and hair and tired smiles.
Chico’s parents, who still spoke to Davi even when his own parents wouldn’t, must have contacted Davi, because in March, Davi had driven down and intervened. He’d taken Chico to get tested again while cursing his cheating boyfriend, then picked up Chico’s things from his old apartment for him—neatly boxed up by John’s new boyfriend, how thoughtful—and taken most of them back up to Brandywine with him. Before he’d left, he’d told Chico to make arrangements to live up there for a while.
Chico could admit to himself, away from his cousin’s smug attitude, that coming up here was good for him in a lot of ways. Not worrying about where he’d sleep or how to get a lot of money in a hurry helped. Distan
ce from his friends was nice too. He didn’t need awkward reminders of how they now hung out with John and his new boy and felt guilty about it. John’s coworker was probably better for him. Same job, same interests, same boring conversations to have over dinner with those friends, who, honestly, hadn’t known what to say to Chico even before he’d fallen into a depression.
But he didn’t need to go out. He wasn’t ready for that yet. Work, dealing with the public, and selling things took enough of his energy right now.
So he watched Davi head into his house and then began his slow ascent up the stairs along the side of the garage. He’d left the light on inside, which at least made it easier to unlock the door in the shadows of evening, because of course he hadn’t flipped on the porch light. Little things like that were the worst for making him feel like a failure all over again. Chico had once been on top of things—Christmas lists done by Halloween, Halloween costumes done in September, clipped coupons in a side section of his wallet, specially tailoring his clothes to fit his small frame.
His clothes really were too big for him, and he hadn’t even noticed until today. He unbuttoned his dress shirt the moment he was through the door, and left it draped over a chair in the kitchen—something else he never would have done when living with John.
The blinds were all up, and he’d never bothered with curtains because there was no one here to care if he undressed. Davi had turned on lights in his house but was probably already in his living room, working on his computer. Chico took off his shoes and pants and set them on top of some boxes he’d never unpacked. He wondered if living in a small room among the redwoods was the adult version of running away to live in a treehouse.
The only mirror in the place was above the sink in the bathroom. Once upon a time, Chico would have insisted on a full-length mirror too, but it hadn’t occurred to him. No wonder he hadn’t realized the toll the past months had taken on his body until he’d seen his reflection at the dance studio.
