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She lets out a nervous giggle. “That imagery helps, thank you.”
“I know this isn’t easy.”
Her look is understanding. “Neither is getting into a fight with someone who probably wants to kill me.”
“I think that’s enough for today.” She needs so much more training. So much. We could use a dummy so she can get used to stabbing an object, but we don’t have one. We could use sparring time, but I don’t want to doctor accidental injuries. Some knowledge is better than no knowledge right now.
“The more you teach me, the more I wish I knew. I wish Mother had put me in karate rather than ballroom dance.”
“Hey, you never know. Ballroom dance might save your life one day.”
She laughs and then looks instantly guilty. “That’s morbid.”
“Humor is sometimes the best coping mechanism. The gravity of what you’re learning, and the repercussions of all the various outcomes, could be debilitating. But if you can joke and laugh about it, it helps.” I gather the remaining knives, and we head to the house. “Why do you think the military gets shit over the jokes we tell?”
We go inside and I rearm the security system.
Penelope unhooks the holster from around her thigh, but she doesn’t set the knife down. “I’m going down to the studio to work on some choreography. I have ideas for a foxtrot routine.” Her wry smile doesn’t hide the sadness in her eyes. “If I ever compete again, I won’t have to come up with a routine for years at this rate.”
“When you compete again.” I’ll make sure it happens for her. If Juan Pablo gets out of competing entirely—I wouldn’t blame him after being publicly accused of cheating on his wife—then I’ll search the nation for another partner for Penelope.
Her smile widens but doesn’t erase her melancholy completely. “When I compete again.”
“Are you done with the Viennese waltz?”
“I’ve polished it as much as I can without seeing it performed by two people.”
“Can I see it?”
Her dark brows lift, but pleasure resonates in her expression. “It’ll be a one-woman show, but yeah, if you don’t mind a little bit of a geek-out.”
In the studio, she reads over her notes and puts on music. I wait in near-giddy anticipation, but I play it cool. It’s like my own special performance.
She smiles shyly, but the nervous energy from outside has turned into delight. This woman loves dancing, and she prefers to do it in front of an audience.
She’s wearing her slippers and black leggings with a loose cream-colored top, nothing like how she would be dressed for competition, but I can see it. The clothing would only add to the art of what she’s doing, and so would a partner. I try to picture how Juan Pablo would move. I’m sure it’s all written down in her notes, but all she can show me is her part of it.
She begins. I watch her feet and get a sense of the steps. A waltz is different from ballet, but the basics of dancing have enough common threads that energy is soon zinging through my body. I miss moving like her. I miss having the purpose of art and expression rather than defense and offense. I miss this world.
The song wraps up, and she ends with one arm in the air and her other hand lower, where she would be holding on to her partner.
Driven by eighteen years of ballet and dance partners and collaboration, I cross to her and take her hand. I raise my other arm, similar to hers. “Is this how Juan Pablo would end?”
Her puffy lower lip has dropped, and her wide gaze registers the significance of what I did.
“Um, that’s more of a figure skating end.” She turns toward me and sweeps her arm up and out. “That’s how I pictured it.”
I copy her. Then I say the words I never thought I’d say again in my life. “Turn on the music and teach me the steps.”
She waits for a heartbeat, like she’s giving me an out to change my mind. But the want is filling me again, and I’m actually allowing it. I get to move, I get to create, I get to share her passion. Nothing is going to stop me from finishing a Viennese waltz in the next three and a half minutes.
