“Ballroom dancing? You’re taking me ballroom dancing?” The look on Jack’s face when he finds out where Hank and Renee are taking us is priceless. He obviously didn’t have much to do with the planning part of this date.
“You know how it is,” Hank replies nonchalantly as he drives us through a small business area on the outskirts of Austin. “You tell your woman you’re taking her on a date, and she decides she wants to go dancing no matter how much you try to talk her out of it.”
Renee twists around in her seat next to him, shaking her head and giving me that look every woman knows. The one that says That’s not how it happened. I press my lips together as I try not to smile.
“The way I figure,” Hank continues to lecture, “if I have to suffer through this, next time I get to decide, and we’re doing something more manly. We’re Texas men, dammit.”
Renee pats his arm condescendingly. “We’re from Kentucky, honey.” He ignores her and continues his rant.
“We’ve lived here for twenty-five years. We’re Texans now, and next time, we’re going to the shooting range.”
I cover my mouth to stifle the laugh that really wants to burst out of me. The roll of Jack’s eyes says he doesn’t find this exchange as entertaining as I do.
“We most certainly are not,” Renee argues. “The last time we went to the gun range, you nearly blew off your toe when you unlocked the safety while pointing that thing at the ground by your side.”
Hank points his finger at her, but never takes his eyes off the road. “That was not my fault and you know it. Someone messed with my gun. The safety was too loose like someone had oiled it.”
“You’re the only one who touches that gun, Hank.”
“Obviously not since it had been tampered with.”
“Anyway”—Renee turns around in her seat to continue our conversation—“our daughter is getting married in a few months, and she really wants Hank to know how to dance appropriately. So I promised her I’d make him taking dancing lessons. He’s been resisting for weeks until Jack called the other day about going out.”
“So I got suckered into it,” Jack grumbles.
“Hell yeah,” Hank admits. “I need to bring some backup testosterone in case one of those dancer boys in tights and ballet shoes decides this silver fox is right up his alley.”
There’s no hiding my laugh this time.
“How do you have any friends when you say stupid shit like that?” Jack asks, still sounding irritated.
Hank just shrugs. “I don’t know. You’re the one who called and asked me to get together, remember?”
“Oh my lord. Just ignore him,” Renee advises. “The older we get, the less the filter between his brain and his mouth works.”
“It doesn’t bother me any,” I admit. Jack stares at me wide-eyed, shaking his head frantically, like my admission is about to open Pandora’s box. I’m not worried. “Frankly, I’m surprised he hasn’t asked me about my ability to make tacos yet.”
Jack drops his head in defeat. Hank, on the other hand, his eyes light up as he looks in the rear-view mirror. “Can you? Make tacos, I mean?”
“Sorry to disappoint. Except for Thanksgiving turkey and a couple staples, I’m not much of a cook.”
“Dammit.” He actually looks crushed. “I was hopeful we finally got a cook in this little foursome here.”
“Why?” Jack’s tone changes, and he sounds really irritated now. “Because she’s Hispanic?”
“No, you racist shithead. Because she’s a woman.”
“Oh my lord!” Renee yells while Jack smacks his hand against his face. I’m the only one laughing so I guess I’m the only one who finds him funny. Inappropriate . . . yes. But harmless. “You are not allowed to talk anymore for the night.”
Hank mimics zipping his lips and throwing the key away as he pulls into a parking space in front of the Alexander Astaire School of Dance. I highly doubt this Alexander guy is actually related to Fred Astaire, but props to him for making himself sound the part.
We all climb out of Hank’s extended cab pickup—the vehicle of choice for any man living in the Lone Star State—and head into the building. It’s one giant ballroom, complete with a massive dance floor and dark red drapes strategically placed around the room. A woman in a white flowing dress and a man dressed to match stare into each other’s eyes as they glide around the floor, gracefully dancing a waltz.
I watch, mesmerized at how beautiful they look together. It’s like they’re two halves of a whole. They can completely anticipate each other’s moves, and I have no doubt that, if one of them messes up, the other is there to keep them on track. It’s beautiful.
As the music winds down and they end their dance, the patrons begin applauding, to the obvious delight of the dancers. He bows and she curtsies before breaking apart and going their separate ways. The man heads our direction.
“Velcome, velcome!” he says with a strange accent I’ve never heard before. That answers the question about his link to Fred Astaire.
Jack is obviously confused as well. “Is he from some random European country, or is he faking that accent?” he whispers in my ear. I shh him so I can hear what this odd man has to say.
“My name is Alexander Astaire, and I vill be your instructa this evening.”
“My money is on faking it,” Jack whispers. I smack him playfully.
“Let’s get everyone zigned in and ve vill begin.”
The next fifteen minutes is made up of people signing in and making introductions. This is followed by a series of stretches to warm up. I can’t be sure, but I think I heard Hank whisper “My nutsack doesn’t stretch this way” to Renee. Her hand clamped over his mouth pretty quickly.
An hour later, we’ve been taught some basic steps and the instructors are ready to set us loose on our partners.
“Remember,” Alexander calls into crowd of a dozen or so couples, “Zee man alvays leads on zee dance floor. Ladies, you may lead everyvhere else, but vhen you are in his arms, let him be in control.” He waggles his eyebrows up and down like he’s made a joke, and sure enough, several of the women are giggling. Jack rolls his eyes for the umpteenth time and sighs.
“Oh come on.” I hold my arms out in the correct ballroom dancing position. Jack does the same and pulls me to him, ready for the music to begin. “It’s not that bad, is it?”
“I don’t like dancing,” he grumbles. “Didn’t like it when my coach forced us into it at college. Don’t like it now.”
“Okay, Mr. Sourpuss. At least try to have some fun with me and your friends.”
He hrmphs, but I ignore him, trying to enjoy myself despite his grumpy mood. The music begins, and Alexander counts us down. I take a deep breath and prepare to dance with my man, excited about the idea of us floating around the room gracefully. Before I can take my first step, Jack beats me to it.
“Ouch!”
“Oh shit, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to step on your foot,” he says apologetically, as I rub my toe. My cute flats are no match for his cowboy boots.
“It’s okay,” I say as I shake my foot out. “Let’s try again.”
We get back in position and listen to the music, waiting for Alexander to give us the correct count again. He does, and we begin dancing. It’s not great, but we’re moving.
Until I step on him this time.
“Oh my gosh. I'm so sorry.”
Jack chuckles. “It’s okay. I barely felt it.”
Smiling through my discouragement, I raise my arms and we get back into position again. Third time is a charm and all that, right? Alexander calls out the count and we begin moving to the music. We make it all of ten steps before Jack steps on my foot again, making me cry out.
“No! No! No!” Alexander comes stomping over to us and we stand in the middle of the dancefloor while everyone else dances around us. “This iz not dancing. This iz . . . I don’t know vhat this iz. But iz not dancing. This . . .” He waves his hands at us. “This iz a couple that iz completely out of sync.”
I look at Jack and realize Alexander’s not wrong. We are out of sync. And not only on the dance floor. Jack and I love each other, that hasn’t changed. But with work, school, studying, football drama, Charlie drama, Jack’s inability to pick up after himself, and everything else in between, moving in together is harder than we originally thought it would be. It’s just the reality of everyday life, but I thought tonight would at least get us out of the chaos for a few hours so we could just enjoy each other like we used to. From the scowl on Jack’s face, I can see that’s not going to happen. At least not tonight.
“There. Look over there.” Alexander gestures toward Hank and Renee who are, to my surprise, gliding gracefully around the room. Alexander folds his hands together and covers his heart. “You zee how they hold each other. How they caress each other? How they love each other? This iz how you dance with your partner. Like you are making love on the dance floor.”
Jack puts his hands on his hips. “I am not making love to her on the dance floor.”
Alexander ignores him and calls to the other couple. “Come. Come here. Ve’ll svitch.”
Jack scoffs. “What? I don’t want to ‘svitch.’ I want to dance with Joie.”
Alexander cocks an eyebrow at him. “You need to learn to not stomp on her toes first. Come now. My beautiful Renee.” He grabs her hand and practically dances her over to my boyfriend. “You. Dance vith Jack. Show him how to treat hez lady.”
Before Jack can respond, Renee grabs him and waltzes him away. Oddly, he doesn’t seem to step on her toes. Does that mean I’m the problem in this duo?
As Alexander follows them around the room, calling out basic instructions, Hank looks at me and does a sort of bow. “May I have this dance?”
I smile at his chivalry and hold my arms out, getting us in the proper closed hold position. Within seconds, Hank is whisking me around the room. I’m shocked by how easy this seems to be. Looking over, Jack seems to be doing well. So why can’t we seem to do it together?
“You’re really good at this,” I remark, feeling myself relax and enjoy feeling graceful.
“Yeah, well, don’t tell anyone but my mother made me take ballet lessons when I was a kid.” My eyes widen at his revelation. “I didn’t take them for very long, but I was the best in the class. I’ve got very good rhythm.”
“I’ll say. I feel like I should be on Dancing with the Stars or something right now.”
“Just don’t tell Jack or I’ll never hear the end of it.”
I laugh as he twirls me. “Your secret is safe with me.”
We continue to move around the room, keeping time with the music. Sometimes we spin so fast, I can feel a breeze on my face. I can’t help my huge smile.
“You know I’m not really a bigot, right?”
The smile falls as I take in Hank’s face. He seems really concerned that he’s offended me. I don’t understand why, since I’ve never given him any indication my feelings were hurt. But thinking back to our conversation in the car, I bet Jack’s anger made him wonder if he’d crossed a line.
“I never thought you were,” I reassure him. “Honestly, I think you like popping off because you like shocking people.”
He responds with a broad grin and another spin. “You caught me. Their reactions are hilarious. Jack especially. Man, that boy falls for it every time.”
“I think he’s probably more amused than he lets on.”
“Maybe. But he sure can be set in his ways.” Suddenly the tone of the conversation changes, and I don’t think we’re talking about whether or not Jack offends easily anymore. “He driving you crazy yet?”
I look over at the other part of our group again as they show off some fancy footwork. Jack is smiling, and Renee has her head thrown back at something he’s said. He’s finally starting to relax. “I wouldn’t say he’s driving me crazy.”
“Hogwash,” Hank exclaims. “That man is the biggest slob I’ve ever known in my life. Has he started picking up after himself yet or are you still doing it for him?”
My shoulders relax more. Looks like I was suffering in silence, waiting for us to get into a groove, for no reason. “You mean it’s not just at home?”
“Oh hell no. His office is a mess. That’s why we always use mine for meetings.”
“I guess I should have checked out his office space before I moved him in.”
“Eh.” Hank shrugs. “Just tell him they’ll be no riding the Jack Express if he doesn’t pick his shit up off the floor.”
I laugh and roll my eyes at yet another comment designed to get a rise out of me. It didn’t work.
“I can’t shock you, can I?” he asks, seemingly perplexed at why I take everything he says in stride.
“Nope. My grandfather has no filter either. You’ve got nothing on a ninety-two-year-old man.”
He narrows his eyes. “So you wouldn’t be offended if I called you Taco Belle?”
“Only if you don’t mind me calling you Ritz.”
“Because I'm wealthy and powerful, right?”
“No. Because you’re a cracker.”
A belly laugh bursts out of him as we keep dancing . . . spinning and twirling until Alexander ends the class, handing us all a coupon for a discount on regular classes as we leave.
Somehow, I don’t think Jack will ever let us cash it in.