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In the years they’ve been working together, Karen should have learned to ignore the misery spiking in Tanya’s voice, especially when the latter -choreographer extraordinaire and major pain in the butt- is in the middle of teaching the waltz. American smooths have never been her favorite, but the desperate pitch she uses for her beat count as Karen tries to sneak by the open door is fake—and honestly, a little ridiculous. Next time, maybe Karen won’t fall for it. Maybe she won’t pause, give Tanya time to call out her name and allow her plans of an early night with bath salts and wine to wither away. Maybe.
While Tanya gives the group a short list of Karen’s achievements, she takes a quick look-see of the perky novices. Possibly not all of them novices –she spots a woman standing in a perfect promenade position. But definitely not all of them perky. Four heads bob up and down in greeting, but one remains resolutely low. Its owner is taking refuge in the back of the room, hoping for a sort of invisibility that can’t be granted in mirrored spaces. Surrounding himself with an air of gloom isn’t helping much either. All he’s managing to do is stand out even more.
“You don’t know how lucky you are to dance with our Karen,” Tanya tells her obviously irritated student, and Karen has to stop herself from doing a double-take. “She’s one of the best.”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” he grunts, the crease between his brows deepening.
He cracks his neck—left, then right. The popping gets on Karen’s nerves.
It’s perfectly clear that agreeing to help has made her an inconvenience to him. If the man wanted a partner, he would have brought his own. Ignoring his indignation, Karen takes her place in front of him, raising her arms as he moves closer. The sole of his shoe squeals against the sprung wood floor and the noise makes them both wince apprehensively. Karen looks down. He’s wearing combat boots. To a dance class.
(Military?)
“Softer shoes next time?” she says, maintaining her smile. Why should she care? She’s only helping out this once. After tonight, he’ll return to being exclusively Tanya’s problem again. Let her deal with what shoes he chooses to wear.
The sound he makes in his throat is as close to an affirmative as he’s willing to grace her with.
His posture isn’t completely wrong. All he needs to do is let go of the tension, relax those lumbering shoulders. The puffed out chest is overly dramatic and combined with the way he’s holding his arms up, it makes him look like an antique coat hanger.
Instead of correcting him verbally and fueling the not-so-quiet giggling coming from behind her back as the rest of his group observe them, she simply places her arms over his and tries to lower them gently with her elbows. He doesn’t ease off at first, muscles stiff as stone, and then he abruptly allows her to bring his arms in the right position, almost like he’s doing her a favor. She doesn’t have time to correct the spread of his fingers against her shoulder or the tight grip of the hand holding hers, because Tanya doesn’t give them any before starting the music.
The change is immediate for Karen. The melody nests itself in her stomach, flows through her veins, down to her feet. She feels light and buoyant, and she’s more than ready to get swept into the whirlpool of the waltz— but her partner flounders, somehow fitting four steps in three beats and clumsily kicking her toes in his attempts to recover. Karen counts under her breath to help him find his rhythm, but that only makes him groan more.
(Proud. Stubborn.)
It’s a basic step with natural turns, nothing extremely complex. It shouldn’t be that difficult. Karen has taught little boys, who despite being forced by their mothers to learn the rhumba have approached the whole thing with cheerfulness or curiosity, but in all her years of teaching dance, she hasn’t met a more unwilling dancer.
The others seem to be doing fine. They’re having fun at least, even if they’re missing a step or two.
“Relax, Frank,” Tanya instructs over the tune. “Listen to the music, let it guide you.”
“I’m as relaxed as can be,” he says.
Karen feels the muscles in his arms tense even more. She catches herself thinking he’s hopeless and feels terribly guilty about it, when his whole body slams into hers, almost sending her crashing into one of the mirrors.
She can see his ears burning as he apologizes.
“You know the steps, Frank,” Tanya sighs.
(Really? Are we sure about that?)
Leaving her toes hurt and his pride severely wounded, at least the unpleasant experience doesn’t take too long to wrap up. After the group departs, she turns to glower at Tanya, who’s trying to feign a pout without much success.
“You’re truly evil.”
The sulky ‘O’ of her lips spreads into a smile and she blows Karen a kiss. “Owe you one.”
“It’s fine.” Karen can’t help herself. She smiles back. “Is he giving you trouble?”
“He’s giving himself trouble. I can’t get him to loosen up.”
“Why are they learning the waltz?” she asks. “Why not something easier?”
“Like what, the foxtrot?” Tanya snorts, stretching her spine out comfortably as she lowers down to trade her heels for sneakers. “It’s for a wedding party. The groom, that tall hunk of gorgeousness, wanted to do a choreographed dance on the big day and he couldn’t imagine leaving his friends out of it.” She lets out another little snort and springs up from the floor in an elegant pirouette. “Frank is his Best Man. If you ask me, he probably lost a bet.”
It’s unclear which one she’s referring to. Probably Frank. It would take a miracle to teach that man the simplest choreography. Maybe Karen should be wishing her friend luck. She’s sure going to need it.
Tanya glides over to her, stroking the back of her hand on Karen’s cheek. “Karen, babe…” she says with a purring vibrato that doesn’t bode well at all. Undeterred by a clear no-no-no head shake, she continues. “He’s only a beginner, he’ll learn.”
“Not on my toes.” Even the smallest tap from those boots hurt like hell.
“Look…” Tanya says with a pitiful sigh that never fails to get to Karen. “He was probably having a bad day and I didn’t help by throwing you into the equation. If he had private lessons, without his friends watching, I think he’d do much better.”
“Then you give him private lessons.”
“I may be a better choreographer than you,” she says, “but I’m no match for your patience.”
“So you want to see how far it can be stretched?” Karen knits her brow as she tries to make up reasons to refuse. The unflattering collection of adjectives keeps growing.
(Crabby, disagreeable, unpalatable man.)
“I can’t focus on the bride and groom if my attention is constantly monopolized by Frank. And I wouldn’t want to disappoint that lovely couple. Would you?”
When the small group of friends comes in for their next lesson, Karen pops her head out from the door of the dance room next to the one they’re headed.
“Castle, you’re with me.”
Frank seems almost as surprised to hear this as she was to have accepted the task. Her imperious tone has a strange effect on him. He briefly stands to attention and exchanges a quick look with the “tall hunk of gorgeousness” who shrugs in ignorance. Wearing the same frown as the first time they met, Frank splits from them and follows her inside.
(Definitely military.)
“Let me see your shoes,” she says once she’s closed the door behind her. He narrows his eyes at her but puts one foot forward regardless. Sneakers. Better. “Great,” Karen smiles. “Let’s get started.”
“Why am I here?” he asks.
She’d love to know the answer to that too. “To learn how to waltz?”
Frank snorts and points at the wall behind the mirrors. “I suppose the others are learning how to bake in there?” Being separated from his unit doesn’t sit well with him.
“Tanya is a terrific teacher, but we both feel you’ll do better with me,” she explains.
“Yeah? Why is that?”
“Weren’t you listening last time? I’m one of the best.”
“Do you know the choreography?” he asks, trying to poke holes in whatever plan the two instructors have come up with.
“Do you?”
That shuts him up for a spell. Long enough for a quick warm-up and for Karen to get him in the right position. Starting with pulling his arms up to where they should be and not a half inch higher. “Here,” she says, “or your partner will have to stretch up to reach you and that won’t look good.” He nods and brings his chest forward. Why does he insist on doing that? Can’t he tell how ridiculous it makes him look? “No,” Karen corrects him, placing one palm on his chest and the other between his shoulder blades, squeezing, adjusting his torso to look more or less as it’s supposed to. He complies much more easily than she expected. “If it doesn’t feel natural, then you’re doing it wrong.”
“None of this feels natural,” he grumbles as she circles around him, humming in approval.
“Because you’re doing it wrong,” Karen says with a wry smile. “Don’t move.”
She steps into the ring of his arms and slips her right hand in his left. His fingers clench around hers like a vice. “Ow,” she says, though it doesn’t hurt all that much, and he mumbles an apology as his grip loosens. “Very nice, soft fingers. Now, the hand on my shoulder.”
“Don’t tell me it’s too tight,” he huffs.
“No, but your fingers are spread too far apart.”
He argues that they aren’t. She insists that they are and pulls back to show him exactly how they should be. It’s obvious that he doesn’t understand why all those rules are in place, but the mere existence of rules and the fact that she knows them, puts her in a commanding position over him. He doesn’t contradict her again. From the mirror, Karen sees his chest puff out with a long inhale as she turns away to start the music. She rolls her eyes, but there’s no need for corrections by the time she’s gone back to him. He’s standing perfectly straight when their bodies connect with one another, his fingers folding gently over her hand.
“Ready?”
Preparation includes the ritual cracking of his neck it seems, the sharp pop pop-pop pop.
(Unbearable.)
“One, two, three…”
He doesn’t turn as much as pivots. He doesn’t sway as much as… No, he just doesn’t sway. His body is a block of wood, unsuited for the eddy of dance, and he hauls it around like it doesn’t even belong to him. But honestly? It’s not as bad as the previous time they danced together.
He spends a lot of time looking at his feet to make sure he’s not making any mistakes. At least he knows the steps—the lines of his face contort into exasperated anger whenever he misses one, which is presumably why he spends most of his time there frowning. He also has no idea how to lead of course, so Karen has to do it for him. For now.
“Okay,” Karen sighs at the end of the lesson. “We have a lot to work on next time.”
“Next time?”
There are a few dozen men that would gladly stand in line for a chance to dance with her and he’s complaining about it?
“Until then, your footwork could use a little practice.”
“Fine,” he grumbles.
(Always grumbling, always moody. How can anyone be in a bad mood when they’re dancing?)
They follow the same pattern for a while. Karen fusses over him, picks him to pieces. She tells him where to look, how to stand and loosen his knees, even how to breathe. Frank behaves the way she’s come to expect; dark looks and furrowed brows, he frets and fumes, but at least he’s learned to keep his complaints to himself.
Every so often, she catches him humming along with the melody, forgetting to count or think about the next step too much. She’s determined not to crack a smile at his mellowing— she’s made that mistake once or twice and he was so embarrassed by it, that they had to spend the rest of the lesson re-learning parts of the choreography.
At the end of each lesson, he lingers by the doorway for a few moments, obviously trying to pick different words but always settling on a simple, hasty goodnight, always in the same tone, and taking cover with his friends as soon as they emerge from their ballroom. Their laughter is a stark contrast to his sulk. Karen wonders how he fits in with them.
Improvement becomes gradually evident. It’s nothing spectacular; she won’t rush to enter him into any competitions. It’s just enough, just right. His knee brushes hers at every turn, so smoothly that it almost looks as if he knows what he’s doing and not bumping into her by accident. He’s getting better with the steps too, his footing getting lighter, but when it comes to his back and shoulders… They’re still so damn rigid.
A missed step traps her toes under his shoe for a second. Frank freezes in his spot.
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay, keep going,” she reassures him, drowning a grimace under her trained smile. He stumbles only for a couple of beats and then continues as if nothing happened. “Just be careful at the actual event. You don’t want to be dancing on your partner’s toes.”
“I don’t wanna be dancing at the event at all,” he says, giving her a look of annoyance, but with the corner of his lip twitching. “Not this way, measured steps and counting and all that shit.”
“Where should your eyes be, Frank?”
Ordinarily, his gaze turns over her right shoulder before her chiding is even finished. But not today. “You know, I don’t think my partner will care where my eyes are. It’s a wedding, not a competition, so maybe cut me some slack.”
Leaving professional pride aside, there’s no real reason to push him so hard. He isn’t an aspiring career dancer. She could afford to ease up on him. “Bend that knee a little. Not like you’re limping, more—”
“Smooth,” he nods, absent-minded. “I know.”
“So where’s your partner? Too busy?”
Another nod. “Friend’s kid. She has a lot of studying and after-school activities to go to. No time for dance lessons. But I show her the steps and we practice together on weekends.” He rolls his eyes when her mouth gapes slightly. “The whole family was invited. It’s not like she’s my date.”
Karen responds with a sarcastic snort, and he bites the bait, that twitch on his mouth curving into a lopsided smile. “Poor kid.”
“Tell me about it.”
“It shows.”
“What?”
“That you’ve been practicing.”
Praise changes the color of his skin to scarlet, from the tips of his ears to the bottom of his neck. “Thanks.”
(Oh no. He’s cute.)
Karen clears her throat. “Can I ask you something?”
“Go ahead.”
“You don’t like dancing.”
“That’s not a question,” he chuckles, not denying it.
“Why take part in a choreography, if you don’t like it?”
His head snaps towards her a little too quickly. It messes with his balance. He groans, turning to where he’s supposed to be looking. To avoid her eyes, she assumes. “If Russo wasn’t such a pain in the ass, I wouldn’t have set foot in here to begin with. But he likes making me suffer,” Frank says, too softly for a man made to attend what he deems as torture. “Guess it’s important to him.”
“That you suffer?”
Frank –previously surly, obnoxious Frank- starts laughing, deep and genuine, a low boom clashing with the harmony of the waltz. “Yeah, maybe,” he says mid turn. His knee grazes hers again. “Fair is fair though. I said I’d dance at his wedding if he ever convinced that woman to marry him. Can’t blame him for wanting to collect.”
So he kinda did lose a bet.
“I’m sorry that you have to go through this then.”
“I can take it.”
Blindsided by her dancer’s smile giving way to an informal grin, Karen forgets to scold him for stealing a glance at her. She allows the half a step into her space too. It’s not the end of the world if their chests touch when they breathe in.
(He smells like cedar wood and citrus.)
It’s winter outside, but it’s terribly warm in there.
Bit by bit, Frank’s bearing becomes more confident. Nice, open shoulders— though he does lean in a little more than he’s supposed to—and a gliding gait that means he’s finally taking guidance from the music. But there’s still something off about his movements. He must realize it too because the more the music swells, the more sweat forms at the roots of his hair.
“Wait a second.” Karen slows down and brings them to a stop, then slides her hand up his shoulder to cup the back of his neck. Her fingertips press the bumps on his spine. To feel for rigidity in the muscles, offer a warning about soreness. Frank squirms slightly at the touch, holds his breath. “All this tension in your neck is throwing you off balance. Can you feel it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he exhales, his voice a whisper of smoke.
Of their own volition, her fingers sweep up his neck to the base of his skull in a soothing stroke. “Want to try being a bit more chill? I’m teaching you how to dance here, not torturing you.”
“I am trying,” he says and as the music fades out, he leans his head back to swallow.
Despite the lack of musical score, something else dances then. A shiver, slipping from his skin to her palm. Physical contact can’t be the issue. Their bodies are almost constantly touching. He’s in so close her hip bone is poking his right now. A little surprised, Karen looks up and finds his dark eyes staring back. Frank doesn’t seem startled. Somewhat dazed maybe. Hooked. He takes a step forward and waits.
Karen realizes she’s waiting for something too, but she has no idea what. For him to pull her closer maybe, or spin her around, make her feel like she’s floating. Something.
Shostakovich's Waltz No. 2 tiptoes between them and his shoulders drop as she trails her fingers back down to his upper arm, squeezing once. “From the top,” she says and he nods.
When the lesson is over, instead of groaning his goodnight and scurrying off like he has every other time, he takes a little too long to put on his jacket, shifting his weight from one foot to the other while Karen slips into her ballet flats and picks up her bag.
Frank sighs as though there isn’t enough air to share between the two of them.
At that exact moment, Tanya lets her group out. Their boisterous laughter rings out loud as Frank looks at his watch regretfully, tapping a listless foot on the floorboards. His tall, handsome friend approaches and grabs him by the shoulder. His eyes flick between them. It’s the fleeting look of a man who would ask his friend if he’s banging the teacher. He might do that, as soon as they’re out of earshot.
“You should be charging us more for making you deal with this guy,” he tells her as he playfully shakes Frank, who swats his hand away. “Can’t wait to get out of here, huh, Frankie?”
Frank glares at him, waving on his way out the door, an almost apologetic gesture.
In the aftermath of the dancing shiver, without realizing it at first, then obviously doing it on purpose, they go off the choreography, making their own tiny changes to it. Elbows drop a fraction, then another, distance closes, chests press against each other, confidential information is traded in hushed tones.
- Russo is an asshole, but he’s family.
- I don’t have family.
- No? What do you have?
- A very old car. A small cactus field on a shelf. A job that I love.
- I’m not making you hate it?
- Not at all.
They’re slow dancing with a box step, basically. The only thing missing is her head resting against his shoulder.
Not knowing that Karen’s waning afternoons with Frank are turning into the most pleasant parts of the week, Tanya starts teasing her about getting the short end of the stick, gloating like this is indeed a competition and Karen just so happened to choose the wrong partner, effectively kissing the trophy goodbye.
“Do you want him back?”
“No no, thank you very much,” Tanya shakes her head and Karen lets out a tiny puff of relief.
He shows up early next time. Half an hour early, to be precise, and unaccompanied by his squad members. A little short of breath, like he’s been running. He throws a worried smile at Karen, perched up on a ladder, one foot hovering slightly over the step as she tapes a fabric poinsettia flower to the wall. The cold outside has turned his nose slightly red, which reminds her—
“There’s some tinsel left in that box. Can you grab it for me?”
Frank presents her the bunched up decorations with one hand and holds the ladder with the other. He doesn’t need to do that. The thing is steady as a rock, but she thanks him both for the help and the concern, as she hangs the garland around the window. When she’s done and ready to climb down, his free hand rises to support her.
“Is all that for the party?” he asks. Tanya must have put up the flyers.
“It’s not until the 21st. But our junior dancers go crazy over tinsel.”
“Yeah, I know how kids are with sparkly things.”
As Karen moves the mostly empty box of decorations to the back of the room, she wonders if they should start early, but she suspects Frank would rather die than have more dancing time forced on him. She’d love to work on that tension coiling across his shoulders though. It would be so satisfying to spread her fingers over his unburdened back for once.
She turns to him and pretends to adjust her hair, casual and comfortable. “You’re not here to quit, are you?” she says in jest. A flutter of chagrin dances in her stomach when Frank drops his eyes to the floor. “Oh, come on. You’re doing so well, and we were almost done anyway.”
“The wedding’s off,” he explains, notes of vague disgust in his voice, but nothing that hints at shock. Yet Karen’s eyes are wide with it.
“What happened?”
“Billy being Billy,” he shrugs. “Can’t appreciate quality over quantity.” The quirk of his eyebrow discloses an extensive history of cheating, as well as his own aversion to it. “I thought he’d gotten his act together.”
“That’s terrible…” Yes, feeling bad that somebody’s wedding fell through for your own selfish reasons is terrible.
“I hate to do this, but as former Best Man, cancelling dance lessons is one of my duties.”
“No need for a wedding dance if there’s no wedding,” Karen nods. “You’ll have to talk to—”
“Already did,” he tells her.
The disappointment his tone speaks of seems to match hers.
“I guess you’re free now. No more measured steps and counting and all that shit.” She laughs, because what else is there to do?
“Shame about the choreography though.” And there it is again, that uneven smile curving his mouth, but with a new look in his eyes which Karen can’t remember seeing before, pleading almost. “It was… nice.”
“It was.” There’s more or less a three-foot distance between them. She closes it with easy, relaxed strides, chin up, and gives him her hand. “Well, Frank, it’s been fun.”
He squeezes her fingers in his and presses his lips together.
“I won’t ask if you can make it to the party.” His Christmas plans probably consist of drinking with Russo and trying to talk some sense into him. Not dancing.
“Wouldn’t want to embarrass you in front of your other students,” Frank tells her, lips sloping down on the ends as their fingers slip apart. “Happy holidays, Karen.”
“You too, Frank.” Karen gives him a last heartfelt smile and hurries off to the storage room to fetch the lights. She has to make the place look as festive and merry as possible in time for the most wonderful time of the year. It’s winter outside and it’s getting really cold in there as well.
The studio closes on the evening of the 20th to reopen for one elated night on the 21st before the New Year arrives. Lights twinkle and cast a red glow over professional and amateur dancers alike, gathering in the largest dance room to show off their moves. Karen spends most of her time dancing with the younger students, but she can’t refuse to dance with a couple of adults as well. She isn’t allowed. They keep trying to talk over the music and she pretends not to hear them. Everything is loud as she spins and turns in her flowing dress, and not once does it feel like she’s floating.
After the party, Tanya offers to help her shove plastic cups and plates in a huge garbage bag. “It’s okay, I got it.” A crew will come in at some point to take care of the rest of the cleaning, so they don’t need to be too meticulous with it. Besides, Tanya has someone to go home to. Karen doubts her cacti will wither with missing her too much. They part with a kiss on the cheek and plans for brunch over the weekend.
It doesn’t take more than half an hour to pick up everything, tie the bag and slide it towards the door. Then she kills the main lights, settling against the door frame to watch the colored lights glitter in the night. She’ll have to turn those off eventually. The music as well. But there’s no hurry. A nice, mellow tune is murmuring over the speakers and it’s okay if she sticks around a little longer, five more minutes before—
Frank comes into view, his coat draped over his arm. He’s wearing a nice suit, dark, tapered. No tie.
“You almost missed me,” she tells him.
“I did.” He clears his throat. “Thought you might need a ride.”
“You dressed up to take me home?” Karen asks, trying to sound coy, but her voice comes out in a giggle, maybe just a tad derisive, as he looks down at his clothes.
His smile is shy and warm. “Gotta match my partner’s outfit.”
Karen stares at him, jaw going slack and eyes rounding as her brows stretch towards each other. “Oh, so you’re here to dance.” Shocking.
“Yes, ma’am.” He bows his head and steps away to leave his coat on a nearby chair, then moves to the center of the room and stands there, his arms tense at his sides. A body ready for action. “But not your way.” Without another word, he reaches an inviting hand out and Karen takes it.
For a moment, it looks like he’s going start with a promenade position. But his right arm trembles slightly under her left as his palm slides from her shoulder blade to her waist and his stare asks for permission to loop her other arm around his neck. She does it for him, leans in and sighs. With his temple pressed to hers, feeling the rise and fall of her chest, Frank sways her in his arms, from side to side first, then around the floor.
His shoulders feel stiff, as usual, but there’s a change he must be able to sense— a ripple swelling out, spreading as though across a pool of water. He holds on to her tighter, humming a soft breath that brushes the lock of hair tucked behind her ear.
“I thought you didn’t like dancing.”
“Your words, not mine,” he replies and guides her into a twirl under his arm, bringing her to face him without missing a step.
A glint of amusement flickers in his eyes. He gives her another twirl and then dips her so low she wouldn’t be surprised if her hair was touching the floor. Instinctively, Karen wraps her leg around his. The smell of cedar wood fills her lungs as Frank bends closer.
“Didn’t figure you as a tango kind of guy,” she rasps and he laughs into her neck as he draws back in a more upright position.
“I’m not,” he says. “I’m a… hold-you-in-my-arms kind of guy.”
The music trickles to a stop, but Frank doesn’t break his ebb and flow. Karen begins to untangle her leg from his to see if she’ll still feel weightless with both feet on the floor—she does. “Okay, you’ve done that. What’s the next step?”
“You tell me.”
“I think…” She pulls his hand away from her waist, up to her cheek. “That’s where your hand should go. Nice soft fingers, remember?” He improvises by moving her hair aside, stroking his thumb across her skin until she tips her head back. “Can you take it from here?”
In a daze, Frank kisses the corner of her mouth, then shifts his hand to her neck, holding her in place. Between their hearts pounding in perfect harmony and him dipping to brush his lower lip to hers, the tension melts completely off his shoulders. “You know,” he chuckles, “I carried a piece of mistletoe in my coat pocket. Just in case.”
“You want to go get it?”
“Can’t right now. I’m dancing.”