“We’re pretty fond of swing dancing, so we’re jazzed you’re all here to learn.” At his pun, Theo gives us an impish grin. “The amazing thing about swing dancing is that it’s all improvised. None of it is choreographed. So if you were watching us just now—all of that, I was making it up as I went along.”
“And I was following based on the cues he was giving me,” Zara says. “The first thing we’re going to do is split you into two groups: people who want to lead, and people who want to follow. The lead has been the more traditionally male role, but that’s super outdated and I kind of hate it. I actually prefer leading to following. So for now, if you’re a more experienced dancer, whatever that experience happens to be, I’d recommend leading. But you can also feel free to pick whichever one speaks to you, and we’ll even them out if we have to!”
“I don’t have any rhythm,” I whisper to Russell as I pick the follow group with Nate, and he and Hannah, the experienced dancer, head to the lead side.
Zara and Theo talk us through the most basic step, the one that will be the foundation of everything we do: the rock step, where weight is transferred from one foot and then to the other. Then we add on two triple steps—“Quick, quick, slow,” Zara chants as we do it with her—and string the whole thing together.
“Perfect,” Theo says once we’ve danced it a few times with music. “Now it’s time to pair up! Find someone on the opposite side, and once you’re partnered up, let’s form a circle.”
Somehow, it isn’t until that moment that it hits me: I’m not just in a dance class. I’m in a dance class with Russell, and that means I’m going to be dancing with him.
That realization temporarily freezes me in place, so when Russell reaches me, I’ve barely moved. He’s in a gray striped button-up and dark jeans, paired with Adidas. Casual Russell.
“Do you want to be my partner?” he asks with this shy half smile.
“Yes. Save me from the traumatic middle school flashbacks.”
“I refuse to believe that Ari Abrams was ever picked last for anything.”
My brain runs wild with that sentence—I can’t tell if it’s a compliment or not. “I’m fairly certain it’s a rite of passage,” I say, which sounds safe enough.
We find a place in the circle next to Hannah and Nate, David Wong and morning producer Deandra Fuller on our opposite side. Zara and Theo demonstrate how to hold hands, elbows loose and at our waists, Russell’s hands open, palms up, my fingers curled gently over the tops of his.
“This okay? Not too tight?”
“Perfect,” I say quietly, too focused on how perfect it is. Every slight movement feels like breaking news. RUSSELL BARRINGER JUST RAN A THUMB ALONG MY KNUCKLES; WHERE WILL HE STRIKE NEXT? MORE AT ELEVEN. His hands make mine seem tiny, and I’m more aware of his scent, cedar and citrus, than I’ve ever been. It goes straight to whatever part of my brain is responsible for crafting daydreams.
Somehow that night in the hotel bar was only a few weeks ago, and now he’s in my life and lighting up my thoughts.
It could be three minutes or thirty that we practice the rock step-triple step-triple step together, the hypnotic, repetitive rhythm lulling me into a trance. I’m desperate to learn a new step, something that will either push me closer or farther from Russell. I’m not sure which one I’d prefer.
Then Zara and Theo call for us to switch partners, which we do every five minutes. My head clears, giving me a chance to keep watching the door, which also means I keep apologizing for stepping on my partners’ feet. Not everyone has such a natural grip or comfortable presence. There’s an older guy who clenches my fingers so tightly they turn white, and a woman who is focused so intently on the dance that she doesn’t utter a word. We go through several other moves, including one called “the cuddle,” which Russell comes right back around the circle for. His cheeks are flushed from exertion now, which gives that daydreamy sector of my brain more material.
“So I think it goes like this, and then—” He leads me through it, his arm sliding around me. “We did it!”
The enthusiasm in his voice is too endearing, his citrus scent too overwhelming. In his excitement, he lets go of my hands, grinning down at me, and this time, I’m less thrilled to switch partners.
Torrance shows up first, with about five minutes left in the lesson, and I might squeeze Russell’s arm a bit too tightly when I spot her. She’s all elegance, her lips bright red and her hair curling from a high ponytail. She’s in the kind of skirt that must twirl when she dances, and she checks her coat and bag like she’s done this a hundred times before catching my eye and giving me a half wave.
When Zara and Theo let us loose for the social dance, which begins with a bouncy Ella Fitzgerald song, Seth appears in the venue doorway. He’s in a starched white shirt and suspenders that somehow make him look more buff than usual, hair gelled back the way it was the night of the holiday party. He might even be carrying a fedora.
“They’re here,” I say on an exhale. “Oh my god. They’re really here. And they’re both dressed up. This is too cute for words.”
“Let’s not get too excited yet,” Russell says. “They might not be glad to see each other.”
Seth actually tips his hat to us, and I feel we’ve time-traveled a solid seventy years into the past.
I’m so caught up in the thrill of seeing them both here that it takes me a split second to notice Russell holding out his hand to me. “What do you think? Ready for the big leagues?”
“Of course you would make a sports reference.” I give him my hand, and he leads me to a corner of the dance floor. A man extended a hand to Torrance right away, but Seth remains seated.
All around us, much more experienced couples fly across the floor, skirts swishing and shoes squeaking. The sight of Torrance and Seth has made me jittery, and it’s not long before I fail to pick up on one of Russell’s cues and stumble into him, brushing against his stomach, where he’s the roundest.
“Sorry,” he says quickly, recovering and sending me into an overhead turn.
“No, I’m sorry—I’m the one who bumped into you.”
“Oh. It’s okay.” He shakes this off, but I don’t miss that he puts a little more space between us, as though anxious about his size—or how he thinks I might feel about his size. I can’t help wondering whether a thinner guy would have apologized, and it makes me want to reassure him in some way. Tell him it didn’t bother me. Except I have no idea how, so I just keep following the bends and twists of his arms.
The song ends, and while most dancers switch partners, neither of us lets go.
“Your story today was fantastic,” I say. Torrance is now dancing with Zara, the two of them talking like old friends who haven’t seen each other in a while, and maybe they are. “The pickleball one.”
“You know you’re doing something right in life when you’re getting paid to be shit at pickleball.”
“I love that about your stories. That they’re not just about sports—they’re about people.”