Chapter Two
Backleading

“Yo,” he answered my call.

 

“Hey,” I started.  “What time should I-” I heard him speaking Spanish near the phone and stopped my inquiry.

 

“You there?” he asked.

 

“Yes.  I was just waiting until-”

 

“Just finishing up with a client,” he relayed, still intermittently answering questions in Spanish. 

 

“Sorry,” I offered, but wondered why he answered my call during a client meeting.

 

“Can you meet me here at 5:30?  Park in the lot and just come up.  You know the office, right?”

 

“Yes,” I confirmed.

 

“Bueno,” he concluded our call. 

 

As the rest of the office packed up and sprung out of the suite door, I locked up and opted for the stairs down to the garage.  Despite the four mostly functioning elevators, I wasn’t going to wait around and join the others in the packed space, inevitably stopping on each floor until reaching the lobby.  I was too excited to wait.  My first real Salsa class was only hours away and I had no idea what to expect.  I pictured a dance class from my youth, although those rarely included coed participants.  I shrugged off what I assume were any number of inaccurate assumptions about the night ahead.

 

The combination of nerves about the many unknowns and intrigue about finding a new hobby, or rediscovering an old one, made me wonder if I’d be able to eat before the class.  Should I eat before the class?  I recalled that advice about waiting a while after eating before swimming, but this was dancing.  Was it the same?  Maybe something light?  I should hydrate too.  I’ll make sure to drink a lot of water at dinner.  But then I will have to use the restroom during class.  I’ll miss instruction if I do that.  Then I’ll be behind.  I’m already behind.  Everyone else has been there for weeks.  I will need to practice what I learn over the weekend so I can try to catch up.  Maybe go light on the water too?  I wonder if the studio is nice?  I wonder how often they clean it?  I wonder what the people are like?  I presume I’ll feel like an outsider, that’s a given. Maybe it’ll be easier with a friend. 

 

I grabbed the bag from my trunk, smiling to myself that my old crutch bag had now been replaced with a bag of clothing, providing me a few options for class-appropriate attire.  I also snatched a pair of sneakers from the pile of pairs.  The extra comfy shoes typically scattered throughout my trunk started as another one of those pesky crutches, providing options to change into when my back began to ache after hours in court on low heels.  I had taken up walking in the small gym on the second floor of my high-rise office building and kept several pairs on hand for the so-called workouts.  I smiled when grabbing the bag holding my dance shoes and wondered if my trunk would soon be littered with multiple options of those as well. 

 

Since I had no idea if there was a place to change at the studio, I took the elevator back up to my office and changed into black Capri length leggings, a short-sleeved royal blue t-shirt and a zip-up, not terribly form fitting hoodie made of Lycra, similar to the pants.  I was comfortable as I once again locked the office door and made my way down the stairs and back to my car.  I had a bag with a water bottle, filled in the office before I’d left, my keys and wallet, and my flat dance shoes, opting for comfort over style for my first class.  Honestly, I only had the one option.  I exited the garage and made my way down the block before pulling into James’ lot and heading up three flights of stairs to his office.  When I opened the office door, there were voices in the distance, but not a face in sight.

 

“Can I-” the man began as he approached from the nearest hallway, but stopped when he saw me. 

 

“Hi,” I smiled.

 

“Can I help you?” he inquired.

 

“Is James here?” I asked.

 

“Yeah.  Is he expecting you?”

 

“Yes,” I responded.

 

“One second,” he suggested, walking away.

 

“Send her back,” I heard what I can only assume is James shout.

 

The man returned to the doorway, “he said you can come on back.”  I stood and he led me past three offices with doors shut and I heard elevated voices, one side of many telephone calls.  I caught James’ pleasant voice behind a closed door as well and assumed he too was finishing up a call.  The man opened the door for me and said, “go on in.”

 

“Thank you,” I responded walking across his threshold.  James caught my eyes as I entered his office, feeling underdressed and awkward.  He was speaking with a client who was sitting across the desk from him and pointed to a nearby couch.  The client barely noticed my presence and soon after I had taken up position on the modern seating, I looked around at the walls of diplomas and art, and even out the large window, and avoided any glances at the client or James.  I saw the client shake his attorney’s hand out of the corner of my eye and then he was out the door. 

 

“Ready?” James asked, snatching a set of keys from the top right-hand drawer of the desk.

 

“Yeah, sorry.  I just assumed when you said to come back that you were alone.  I mean, not with a client.”

 

“It’s all good.  I was just making sure he had the correct court address, date and time.  Sometimes we do a little babysitting.  A lot of babysitting,” he rolled his eyes.  “Can’t win if the client doesn’t show up and you’d be surprised how many times we have to remind our clients of court dates, times and locations.”

 

“Really?” I was legitimately surprised.

 

“Yeah.  Our worlds are very different.”

 

“So, I guess I should’ve waited to change until we got to the studio?” I inquired with a hint of embarrassment.

 

“Nah.  We’ll just pick a casual place for dinner.  Do you like Cuban food?”

 

“I don’t know.”
 

“Seriously?”

 

“I’ve never-” I started but he cut me off.

 

“Yeah, I forgot.  You eat at your desk or get take-out from one of four places.  Time for a change….and an education.”  Noticing the uneasiness or queasiness on my face, he assured me, “baby steps.  It’ll be fine.  Trust me.”

 

Oddly enough, I did.  I had no reason to but since first connecting with James he had gotten me to dance, despite fear of injury, accept a ride, despite fear of the existing injury’s side effects, attend a social event in a place I’d never been with people I’d never met, despite my typical avoidance of such situations, and cut my working hours short to attend a dance class.  He had also limited his own fun during our partnered dancing to avoid hurting me.  I doubt he’d put me in harm’s way.  I felt safe and James was right about how handy it was to have someone to catch you before a fall. 

 

He was right about the Cuban food too.  It was phenomenal.  He chose a restaurant right across the street from one of our local courthouses, about twenty minutes from our offices, on the other side of the county, and approximately five minutes from the dance studio.  I had been to that courthouse on multiple occasions and never thought to stop or stay in the area for food or entertainment.  I just high-tailed back to my office for the next thing. 

 

I realized as we approached the building that housed the small studio spaces that I had not asked about the studio’s location, hadn’t checked a map and determined the mileage, hadn’t done my research about the classes and costs.  I just showed up in James’ office on a Tuesday and let him take the lead.  I found my own behavior quite odd, but then remembered my ridiculous internal discussion just an hour or so before when I was dressing for the evening, having pondered all sorts of meaningless and worrisome thoughts.  “Still me,” I assured myself under my breath as we exited his vehicle.

 

“Ready?” he inquired, removing his tie and dress shirt and yanking a t-shirt over his head.

 

“Sure,” was my only response. 

 

The participants had begun lining up before the mirror on the East side of the large studio space.  James was sitting on a nearby couch changing his shoes and offering greetings to several people when Bennett approached. 

 

“And who is this?” he asked.

 

“The one I was telling you about,” James responded.

 

“Parker, is it?” he asked and I was surprised James had mentioned me to someone, anyone really. 

 

“Yes,” I nodded. 

 

“I’m Bennett.  One of the instructors.  Welcome,” he smiled.  Looking at my feet, he added, “do you have shoes?”

 

“Yes,” I patted the bag in my hand. 

 

“Great.  Get those shoes on.  We’re about to start.”

 

I obeyed his command and a woman approached holding a credit card machine.

 

“Are you new?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Tonight’s class or a series?”

 

“Series,” James responded for me as I retrieved a credit card from my wallet and handed it to the kind-looking woman. 

 

“Thanks,” she handed it back to me after a swipe.

 

“Thank you,” I offered her a smile and shoved my credit card back into my wallet.

 

“Come on,” James commanded and pointed to a spot next to him. 

 

Music began to play and Bennett stood in front of the class offering a warm-up.  That, I could follow, and I was pleasantly surprised by the easy start to the experience.  It felt amazing to stretch muscles that hadn’t worked well in years and I noticed elevated breath as the movements grew in speed and intensity.  When the second song concluded, we were told to break into groups.

 

“You can come with me, Parker,” Bennett suggested and with a nod from James, I entered the smaller studio space. 

 

I had been relegated to the beginner session, thankfully, and listened as Bennett took a brief inventory of the participants.  Once satisfied with his knowledge of who was present and how much experience stood before him, he stood before us and presented his best explanation of the basic step.  I was excited that our first lesson wasn’t exactly new to me, as James had taught me this particular movement, and my teacher at the social had only improved my mastery of the task.  Or so I thought.

 

The way Bennett broke it down and performed it in front of us assured me that I was far from understanding and perfecting even this preliminary move.  He was dressed in black jogger sweatpants that ended a couple of inches below his knees and hugged his calves, a crisp white t-shirt and I saw, what I believed, was a hint of tattoo ink beneath the thin material’s surface of his chest.  His shoes appeared similar to mine: a dancer’s unsupported, slip-on flat, with suede across the bottom for ease in gliding across the floor’s hard wood.  I decided that I was appropriately dressed for the class and had taken my hoodie off after the warm-up, but it was hard not to notice how the man before me, even in the simplest of attire, looked incredibly dapper.  Not a bad visual distraction, but it was fleeting, as my eyes found their way back to the mirror and the difference in our steps.  His, like his presence, elegant and smooth, mine, choppy and forced. 

 

He commanded us to continue with our steps while he searched his phone for appropriate tunes.  Finding what he wanted, music began to play and it wasn’t what I expected.  The melody was familiar and yet not.  I recognized it as an R&B favorite, produced within the past several years, but it had been altered.  It didn’t seem like what I expected of Salsa music.  I hadn’t heard anything like this from James during our first lesson, nor my many hours at the social.  I was going to enjoy this.  The sound of Bennett’s voice overcame the music, “one TWO three four five SIX.”  He repeated his counting for almost half of the song before he stopped and began walking around correcting participants. 

 

“Don’t forget to shift your weight,” he instructed me, to which I nodded still staring at myself in the mirror.  He took up position next to me and we performed the basic step in unison.  “How do you know James?” he inquired.

 

“Work.”

 

“You work together.”

 

“Kind of.  We each have our own firms, but we’re both lawyers and our offices are a block away from each other.”

 

“You do criminal defense too?”

 

“No,” I replied, offering no additional details.  “How long have you been an instructor?”

 

“A few years.  I started dancing in college and ended up teaching for an on-campus club after graduation.  I started teaching here a few years ago.  I also teach a class on Saturdays, plus private lessons.”

 

“I guess that keeps you busy.”

 

“It does, plus, you know, my real job.”

 

“Real job?”

 

“I’m an engineer for a defense contractor.”

 

“Oh, you-”

 

“You thought I was just an instructor?”

 

“Well, I don’t think I really-”

 

“I don’t mean just an instructor the way it sounds.  There’s nothing wrong with being a dance instructor, it’s just not my only interest.  Plus, it doesn’t offer retirement benefits.”  It was odd hearing such a young person, in his late twenties I assumed, talking about retirement.  As my mind cleared, I looked up to see Bennett watching my feet in the mirror.  “And there it is.”

 

“What?”

 

“You just needed a little distraction.  Your footwork got better when you stopped thinking about it.”

 

“Oh,” was my only response.

 

“And relax your arms,” he gently flicked my forearm as he moved on to the next student.    

 

Honestly, I hadn’t even noticed my arms until I looked up from the view of my feet in the mirror and found myself looking much like one of Michael Flatley’s dancers and chuckled.  This was harder than I first thought and it was all I could do to focus on correcting each error and working towards a mastery I suddenly and insatiably craved. 

 

After we practiced the basic step for about thirty minutes, Bennett showed us another version, this time with movements from side to side instead of front to back.  After another round of practice, Bennett decided to test our responsiveness and called out the two different versions of the basic step as we all tried to follow, intermittently adding a “TWO” and “SIX” with the music.  It was like a Salsa version of Simon Says. 

 

Next, he taught us to spin, which started a lot like a basic step before sending our bodies left or right, once around over a balanced foot, each of us wobbling before bringing ourselves back into basic step.  A few songs later and Bennett once again tested our knowledge, calling out commands seconds before expecting us to hear, understand and obey.  There were mistakes, smiles, even laughter at times, but I enjoyed it immensely. 

 

I took a few glances at James’ class, decided it was way out of my present league, and quickly returned my focus to Bennett’s instruction.  As the ninety-minute session neared its end, Bennett suggested we grab our phones to videotape his footwork so we could practice on our own before the next class.  He read my mind.  He turned on the music, gave us fair warning and we all eagerly videotaped this obvious master of Salsa dance.  Even his basic steps were beautiful, filled with grace but intention, and I felt as if I was standing within feet of the professional dancers I’d seen on stages.  I had to remember to thank James for all of this.

 

“Good job today, Parker,” Bennett offered as I changed back into my street shoes.

 

“Thank you.  I had fun,” I offered sheepishly, wondering how many classes it would take for confident demeanor to return. 

 

“How was it?” James inquired after we each said goodbye to a few fellow participants and headed for his car. 

 

“Amazing,” I smiled.  “You?”

 

“Good.  I’ll show you a few steps I learned later.”

 

“I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

 

“If you practice with me, you’ll be more ready for next week.”

 

“True.”

 

“When are you gonna learn?”

 

“What?”

 

“Always right,” he reminded me tossing his bag into the back seat. 

 

That first Tuesday class was thrilling and once again, just like the first lesson and meal, I assumed it wouldn’t be replicated.  Once again, I was wrong.  Don’t tell James.

 

Tuesday had been a nothing day of the week for me.  It wasn’t the ‘overwhelming first day back at work, time flying too fast to get anything done’ of a Monday.  It wasn’t the ‘you’re halfway there, midweek reprieve’ of a Wednesday.  It wasn’t the ‘we’re in the home stretch and there’s likely a happy hour’ of a Thursday.  And it wasn’t the ‘catchall, all of the worst of the clientele come out, and usually wait until 4:00 p.m.,’ of a Friday.  It was Tuesday.  It meant nothing for so many years, until it meant the best day of my week.

 

My family, friends, clients and colleagues knew my regular working hours began around 7:30 a.m. and ended around 7:30 p.m.  That Spring, my Tuesdays developed a hard stop at 5:30 p.m., and it took everyone a while to adjust, including me.  By five o’clock, I was shutting down my laptop, changing into my dance attire, and driving the block to James’ office.  My car would sit stagnant in his parking lot until several hours later when my cohort would return me to its resting place. 

 

He would usually pick the venue for dinner, as the one of the two of us who was more familiar with the options and acutely aware of the time it would take to reach our dance destination.  We rarely partook of the same dining experience twice, at times assisted by reviews on an app, but for our go-to spot, Princeton, a few miles from our offices.  It was the most accessible, most familiar (the bartender had our glasses on the space in front of us before we had removed our coats), with delicious options (we each picked from our favorite three depending on the day), and always began with a shared dip.  Soon after we became regulars, we noticed that one of our favorite retired judges had made that place his regular spot as well.  Despite our different practices of law and different personalities, we each adored him for our own, different reasons.  I understood from James that he was very defendant friendly in criminal law and, having heard his typical speech at a sentencing or two while awaiting the start to my own cases, I understood the appeal.  For me, he would always be part of my first appearance as a guardian ad litem, representing a child in a high-conflict custody battle. 

 

I recall when the judge told James the story of our first meeting.  “When I took the bench, I was expecting to see those same old litigators before me.  I did a double-take when I saw this little girl, I’m sorry, woman, but at the time I was thinking little girl, standing at counsel table, in appropriate attire, thank you for that, and ponytail swinging gently behind you.  I must admit, I really was looking around to see if your parents knew you were skipping school.”  James chuckled, as did I.  “But then, you opened your mouth.  That brilliant mouth and I knew your appearance was deceiving.  The words that came out sounded like that of an old soul, someone who understood the audience, understood the facts, understood the law, and understood exactly what she was doing.  That was some of the best advocacy I’ve seen in family law…young lady.”  He chuckled at his final words.

 

“No doubt,” James chimed in. 

 

“Have you ever seen her in court?” the judge asked James.

 

“Not really,” he responded, remembering our brief appearance together when he saved our settlement.  “But I know you’re right about her talent.”

 

We’d find the judge holding court at Princeton about once per month, as his colleagues and friends listened intently to his overly dramatized stories of cases he’d seen and always that focus on whether the litigants and attorneys were appropriately dressed.  I had never seen the judge not adorned in a perfectly tailored suit and bowtie.  Whenever James and I showed up at our collectively favorite spot, the judge halted his impressive stories and asked us about our continued dance activities, enjoyed pictures and videos when we had some to share, and at times revealed bits of gossip that nobody other than lawyers would deem remotely interesting.  

 

Typically, the bartender alerted us to the time, provided the check, and let us take turns covering the meal before we rushed out the door to make class on time.  It started at 7:00 p.m., which means it started around 7:30 p.m., and we were often the last ones through the door before class began.  A few times, we missed the warm-up.  Despite extremely limited parking, James always found an accessible spot and his skilled maneuvers in any contortion of spaces always impressed me and prevented us from further tardiness. 

 

The studio was called the Academy and housed many talented instructors and students.  I found my place in the smaller studio for the first four weeks of classes, not brave enough to join James’ class, but always looking through the glass at the intricate sequences and steps that James would show me later when we practiced on our own.  It was Bennett who suggested I move over to the other class for week five, believing, I assume, that I could use a greater challenge after somewhat mastering the basics.  I was hesitant to leave Bennett’s class, having found James’ instructor quite intimidating from afar, but within a few weeks, I felt like James’ dance equal.  I even received my first shot at serving as follow to the instructor for the inevitable instructional video filmed by each participant on their phone at the end of class.  I hated being photographed or filmed, but considered being chosen as a clue that I had done well in the class that evening.  And after a few weeks, Bennett joined us in the larger studio to replace the regular instructor and a different instructor took over the beginner class.

 

Classes were never enough and James and I seemed to both suffer from the same ambitious attitude of adding more, challenging more, doing more, and just plain overscheduling ourselves.  I wonder from what exactly we were running.  I don’t actually wonder - I know exactly what it was, for me at least.

 

First, we began practicing at a local gym after classes.  That only lasted a few weeks and I barely minded the odd looks we received from random people enduring actual work-outs around us.  Any time James expressed frustration at my inability to follow or our failure to perform a sequence, I’d offer, “calm down, Jimmy.” After the inevitable harsh look that would wipe any smirk off my face, we’d tried again. 

 

Then we began taking a second class offered by the Academy, after our regular class of the evening.  We tried advanced footwork with guest instructors, and a balance and flexibility class on multiple occasions, before finally deciding to forego the extras on Tuesday and join Bennett’s Saturday classes. 

 

Unlike the ninety-minute classes on Tuesdays, Saturday was a three-hour boot camp session that taught me more than I had ever hoped to learn, and instilled the greatest muscle memories that still linger so many years later.  I was nervous during my first session and was not eased by a few familiar faces in the class.  I was intimidated to say the least, until Bennett added spins to the warm-up.  Noticing how quickly I caught on and inquiring into my dance background, I finally, for once, felt like I impressed not only Bennett, but the several strangers who had been putting up with my still nascent salsa skills.  Within just a couple of months of dancing, I was in the best physical shape of my adult life and my strengthened core had limited the number of times my spine sent me back into unforgiving bondage. 

 

I had a new schedule that was designed for dance, not work, although my work seemed more efficient and successful during those times than it had when I had little to no down time or creative outlet.  I still worked from 7:30 a.m. to 7:30 p.m. most days, but Tuesdays were reserved for dinner with James followed by the Academy.  Every other week was a Salsa social with my favorite host, who seemed to remember not just my name but every attendees’ name, and most Fridays I was out the door before 5:00 p.m.  That was so I could enjoy a happy hour or dinner with friends, but was really about finding a better balance and not being so accessible to the people who had typically used and abused my time. 

 

On Saturday, I was back at work in the morning, getting the business side of running a practice done during the quiet times when the telephone did not ring non-stop.  By one o’clock, I was headed to Bennett’s boot camp, for three hours of intensive training, before typically grabbing food with James and heading out to an event.  Sunday was my day of rest and family.  We had not really meant for it to become a tradition, but my family had sat together for dinner most Sundays and it was my favorite time to talk to my all-time favorite conversationalist, my grandmother.  When she asked me about my trials and tribulations of the week, despite the realness and simplicity, it often came out like elaborate parables designed to entertain one of the smartest, no – wisest, people I have ever encountered in this life.  When her eyesight began to falter, we also spent those evenings reading our favorite literature, me reading aloud to her, and her enveloping the words so intently that it felt like we were living in the same dream. 

 

My evenings weren’t the only thing that changed.  I was the one who rarely made time for lunch and when I did, it was leftovers from home eaten alone in my office while working, or take-out for my team around a conference room table.  James broke that pattern quickly and it happened without me really knowing or even considering the change.  Nearly every week and weekend day, lunch and sometimes breakfast, although neither of us were fans, and quite often an oddly timed coffee, was spent with James.  It wasn’t typically planned, but became almost expected.  I’d receive a text, “where are we going for lunch?”

 

“Walk or drive?” I’d respond.

 

“Walk.  I have a hearing in 45 minutes” he’d respond.

 

“Café?” I’d suggest.

 

“Takes too long.  Meet me at Cal Tort,” he’d decide.  I’d be in line when he arrived.  He’d be on a call and just as I finished my order, he’d end his call and add his own choices before sliding a credit card in the machine in front of us.  I’d make a mental note to cover the next time.  No matter where we ended up, we always confused people.  People never understood why we were friends or how we even knew one another, perhaps because nobody really knew or understood either of us, or perhaps, and even more likely, because our small legal town was just an extension of that immature, high school mentality, a place where men and woman cannot be just friends.  Eventually, people got used to us and even questioned when they saw one of us without the other.

 

I recall sitting outside on a beautiful Spring day, phone in hand, drink on the table in front of me, alone, as a familiar group of attorneys approached.  One of the women was infatuated with James, or so he had informed me, and he did not reciprocate.  But he felt that since they were often on opposing sides of cases, he didn’t want to offer a blunt or brutal response to her many attempts at flirtation, and risk a poor plea offer for his clients.  He didn’t want to offend.  Having spent time with James, and having been on the receiving end of many of those blunt and at times brutal one-liners, I thought he was right.  Although, I must admit, for me, that was one of the best parts of our friendship.  Not the at times harsh words, but the no-need-to-fake-it way we were friends.  He didn’t know everything about me, nor I him, but what we did know at least came from a place of truth.  It was refreshing not only to be myself but to have someone readily accept me as myself. 

 

“Nice to see you, Parker,” one of the gentleman greeted me.

 

“You too,” I responded to a local prosecutor.

 

“No James today?” the woman couldn’t hide her pleasure. 

 

Before I could respond, the gentleman chimed in, “I saw him in District.  Long docket.”

 

“Sorry you lost your lunch buddy for the day,” the woman feigned sadness and barely attempted to mask her pleasure. 

 

“Hey, sorry I’m late,” James arrived and dropped his briefcase on the ground beside the chair across from me. 

 

Checking the time on my phone, I responded, “pretty early for you, actually.”

 

James chuckled then looked at the group standing next to the table.  “Hey guys, wanna join?’

 

“We’re on our way back from lunch,” the gentleman responded. 

 

“We’ll be at happy hour later.  Maybe we’ll see you all then?” he added taking a sip of my drink. 

 

The woman’s eyes turned sad and I looked at James to see if he noticed too.  He did.  He had accentuated the ‘we’ part of his comments with purpose.  The group headed towards the courthouse as James took another sip of my drink and offered, “I’ll get you another.”

 

James was acutely aware that I did not like drinking after people, even close family and friends, and never ceased to put me at ease, putting up with my eccentricities (that’s not the word James used), although always striving to make me go further than I believed I could.  He somehow had more hope, or maybe the best word is faith, than anyone I’d ever spent time with.  That included people I’d met in church, where I could only assume faith would reign supreme.  The thought of James in a religious setting made me chuckle, as I doubt they’d let him in the door with that, at times, foul mouth that I found so hysterically funny.  He is one of the few people I’d met in my lifetime whose use of expletives and obscenities didn’t sound provocative or nasty, almost as if the words meant something different when he used them.   

 

“So, you really want to go to happy hour?” I inquired with a frown as we finished lunch.

 

“You gonna make a liar outta me?” was his response.

 

“Happy hour it is.”

 

“Text me when you’re ready and I’ll meet you on the corner.”

 

“Ok,” I responded, stood and grabbed my blazer from the back of my chair.

 

“Leave the blazer in the office,” he commanded as we walked towards our offices.  I had gotten used to James’ comments about my attire.  He told me once that he assumed our dance excursions would positively impact what he deemed to be my conservative, or even prudish was the word he used, attire.  “You look like a nun,” I recalled him saying about a favorite black dress.  “Dresses don’t need sleeves.”  I’d shake my head each time he roasted my clothing choices.  He took obvious pleasure in getting a rise out of me, and while I allowed myself to be influenced, positively so, by many of James’ suggestions about cutting working hours, trying new things and being less fearful, my style was my own and James never made a dent in that habit. 

 

Besides, that dress was not remotely conservative.  Just a solid black dress that hit just above the knee, with short, capped sleeves, and a full length, exposed zipper up the entire length of the back.  I adored fashion and although I couldn’t enjoy the freedom on my feet like my contemporaries, my office style was never boring.  It was a bit conservative, on purpose, because in my area of law, and especially as a woman, I’d rather not have people mistake me for the paramour instead of the lawyer.

 

Despite his failure to influence my clothing choices, James did significantly expand my palate.  Thanks to him, my favorite new lunch spot was the local sushi joint, where we’d sit outside, weather permitting, share an edamame appetizer, and then talk for a couple of hours as he ate sushi and I enjoyed one of the two options on the menu not prohibited by my seafood allergy.  The servers were used to James ordering for both of us, although he always inquired which of the two options I was in the mood for on a given day, and always reminded the server to put the fish sauce that came with my dish on his side of the table and to bring me plenty of soy.

 

That was also the spot where we ate dinner on a random Thursday evening after both of us had a longer than usual day in court.  I tried a new cocktail, at his suggestion, despite my belief I wouldn’t like it, but was pleasantly surprised when I was wrong and he was right (again).  Halfway through the first drink, we both fessed up to our respective and most recent relationship disasters.  It was cathartic and somehow felt better telling James than my closest family and friends.  I credit his responses for that feeling.  No hint of his playful banter or fun at my expense, without remorse, was present in that conversation.  Instead, it was a somewhat typical and exasperated series of comments, that time coupled with slight pounding of a fist on the table between us.  “No,” his voice was elevated, “you can’t possibly think that was your fault.”  And when I didn’t respond, he added, “Parker…..Earth to Parker…..come back Parker.”  A smile ever so slightly parted my lips, but he pressed on, “say it with me now, not my fault, not my fault, not my fault.” I laughed as he continued pounding a fist on the table in perfect cadence.  “Well?”

 

“Well what?” I looked around to see how many people were staring. 

 

“I’m w-a-i-t-i-n-g,” he drew out the word.  “Don’t look at them.  Look at me.  Come on, Parker, three little words.  Say it.  Say it.  Say it!”

 

“Not my fault,” I confirmed softly.

 

“Again,” he commanded.

 

“Geez, not my fault.”

 

He stopped the pounding, took the last sip from his glass and praised, “good girl.”  Then he motioned to our server, “another round please.  We’re celebrating.”

 

“Sir?” the server inquired.

 

“Another round, please.  My friend here just remembered who she is,” the server looked confused. 

 

I couldn’t help but laugh.  “Another round, please,” I confirmed to the server, all the while smirking at James. 

 

Although a few others had made similar comments, attempting to ease the unexpected pain of my last romantic failure, and his comments weren’t groundbreaking or anything, none of my family and friends’ words presented quite as true.  None had forced me to own it. 

 

“What about you?” I asked when our drinks arrived.

 

“Me?” he questioned, then promptly realized what I meant.  “Oh, I know it wasn’t my fault.” He responded of his own recent break-up, clinked his glass against mine and took a healthy sip.  Although I believed his words and they came out quickly, I noticed a hint of insecurity in his statement.  I thought of the first lesson, our first lesson, or whatever you want to call it, in the gym many months ago.  He was asking for a stranger’s help with something he knew didn’t come naturally.  He should’ve been vulnerable.  He should’ve been incredibly insecure.  And maybe he was all of that, but I watched the determination when he just went for it.  He didn’t seem to care about failure.  He didn’t seem to care about embarrassing himself in front of me, or anyone else in the gym.  He just reconciled to do it.  And that reconciliation seemed to come so easily to him.  So naturally.  He just, well, he just decided he could do it.

 

I realized early on that I finally had the kind of friend I never knew, but kind of knew, I always wanted or maybe always needed.  Or I was his project.  One or the other, or maybe a combination, but I think it was the former.  He was chipping away at walls I’d spent years building and every couple of weeks I’d tried to process how far I’d come in so many arenas only be shocked at my own progress.  There were fewer daily barriers and his spontaneity, which at first stressed and scared me, was incorporated into what no longer really resembled my world.  Those bags I’d relied upon for so many years, with all of the items I thought I needed to protect me, comfort me, or just get me through the day, were replaced by a bag of extra clothing, mostly for dance, but also for any number of events, activities or occasions I got to enjoy because of my friend.  I often wondered if I was as good of a friend to James as he was to me.  I hope so.

 

They were full weeks.  It felt like a full life, but again, it was just the beginning.  Once the new routine was mastered, I needed excitement, a new challenge.  Enter another stellar suggestion from James:  a private lesson with Bennett.  

 

Excitement.  Anxiety.  Fear.  I walked casually across the dancefloor that served as my home for many months.  Many a class had left me inspired, elated, epiphanied, free.  But some sense of that freedom was lacking.  I was still holding something back.

 

That private lesson was the first time I confronted criticism head-on, from both my teacher and myself.  He had corrected me during class, advised me on a better movement, musicality, flow.  He had warned me about the ‘let’ of it all.  Let it happen.  Let him lead.  Let yourself go.  But I did not truly understand what it felt like to experience the success of his advice.

 

While another class got underway in the large room, I found myself enclosed in a much smaller space, first within feet of my mentor, later within inches.  There was nowhere to run.  Nowhere to hide.  He was about to encounter all of my faults close-up.  And since I was not only enclosed by walls, but floor to ceiling mirrors, so too was I. 

 

He already knew the music to which I responded and started with a favorite.  I took a few deep breaths before we began.  When he approached me to partner, it wasn’t like dancing with the classmates whose lead I had learned over time.  Sure, I had followed him on occasion, served as the sample guinea pig in class, but that was only for minutes, seconds really.  I had never been stuck in a room with him alone for an hour.   We would be squarely addressing all of my fears, with his goal of me overcoming and my goal of counting down the minutes to escape while trying to avoid abject embarrassment. 

 

“Okay.  Let’s stop for a minute.  Breathe.  Okay.  Let’s try again.”

 

Another attempt.

 

“Okay.  Hold on.  Let’s go back to the hold.  Tension here.  Not here.” 

 

I was completely in my head.  I was thinking.  I was thinking about the right place for tension.  I was thinking about the steps.  I was thinking about listening or really feeling his commands.  I was anticipating.  I was guessing wrong.  I could tell he was frustrated.  I was frustrated.  And there it was, my nemesis:  the dreaded backlead. 

 

James had complained on many occasions about my trying to lead our partnered dances.  He corrected me aloud during class in front of our fellow dancers.  He reminded me of this particular fault during any meal or drinks excursion, whether we were on the topic or not.  I knew he was right.  It was something I’d been working to fix, but as yet, no solution. 

 

I so desperately wanted to cure this particular ailment, so that I could experience the dance as it was meant to be experienced.  Free.  In the moment.  Feeling and understanding the music.  Being surprised. 

 

Stop anticipating!!!!

 

He took up a position next to me and asked me to go back to basic step, alone.  He chatted with me, similar to that first class at the Academy, and distracted me from my own thoughts.  Mid-conversation, he moved towards me and once again began a partnered stance.  He continued the conversation, the distraction, and it worked at times. 

 

After one song had passed, he paused.  “Let’s try something else.”  I watched as he walked over to my bag and snatched the scarf sitting on top.  It was a chillier than usual Spring day and I had worn that particular item in an effort to cover exposed skin around my neck, preventing the chills and shivering that would certainly force my spine back into aching failure.  “Put this on,” he suggested, gesturing as if placing a mask over his own eyes, and I tensed.  “I think we need to limit your senses so that you can find the one that matters.”

 

I didn’t yet trust Bennett the way I trusted James and the thought of me informing James about this scarf scenario made my pulse speed.  I imagined what would surely be his inappropriate puns, double entendres or any of the other expressions that would make my cheeks blush and conscience tense.  

 

Thirty seconds later I had blindfolded myself, literally and figuratively (and no, they don’t mean the same thing).  I was completely off balance.  I was standing in the middle of our small studio, unaware of my surroundings, dizzy and completely freaking out about falling over, running into something, stepping on his toes, or injuring myself. 

 

I could hear James’ words in my head.  Not the positive, fear overcoming words of his most hopeful comments.  No, these were the other words.  The not remotely lady-like, crude, biting, cursing bits that came out humorously in his voice, which somehow lost even a hint of eloquence in my spinning head.  Then I imagined my mother’s words when an accidental expletive parted my lips, “don’t talk like that.  You sound ordinary.  It’s not you.”  I pictured James and my mother together in conversation and wondered to myself what that would be like.  Amusing, I presumed.  My momentary amusement turned to anxiety.

 

I recognized this feeling.  I was ten years old and on the grandest stage to date.  I had practiced for the months leading up to this event, enduring harsh, stinging, critical words from the one in charge of my training.  She even expressed doubt that I could succeed.  My coach.  Maybe she thought her meanness would give me a thicker skin.  Maybe she thought I needed to understand at a young age that not everything will come easy.

 

I had mastered her steps each time but she predicted I would never actually become a master of dance.  She would find fault with an un-pointed toe, a bent knee, a pause, an unsteady foot or a stiff hand.  And right before I performed, she would offer her harshest words.  “It all comes down to now.  If you fail, all of those months meant nothing.  Good luck.”  Fear.  Fear of failure. 

 

And then my parents would step in and offer their final words, “have fun.  We love you.” I’d close my eyes, wait for the music to start, take a deep breath, remember who I was, smile and perform for them.  And me. 

 

But that was childhood.  I’m an adult.

 

I recognized this feeling.  I was thirty years old and in the most intimidating courtroom to date.  I had practiced for the months leading up to this event, enduring harsh, stinging, critical words from the one in charge of my training.  She even expressed doubt that I could succeed.  My boss.  Maybe she thought her meanness would give me a thicker skin.  Maybe she thought I needed to understand early in my practice that not everything will come easy.

 

I had mastered her assignments each time but she predicted I would never actually become a master of trial advocacy.  She would find fault with an imperfect paragraph, an incomplete citation, a project that took too long, a strategic decision that she did not support. And right before I left for court, she would offer her harshest words.  “It all comes down to the argument.  If you don’t succeed, our client loses everything.  Good luck.”  Fear.  Fear of failure. 

 

And then I’d recall the words of my parents on so many occasions, “remember who you are.  We love you.” I’d close my eyes briefly, since that was all the court setting would allow, wait for the Court to address me, take a deep breath, remember who I was, smile, but only to myself, and speak for them:  the clients.  And me. 

 

What changed in those moments?  How had I overcome?  When the predators pounced, I feared.  Pitiful prey.  But when those who loved me unconditionally spoke, I followed. They didn’t exactly prophesy my success, but they encouraged me to be me.  They let me be me.  I let me be me. 

 

Wait a minute!  The one who diagnosed my injury all of those years ago and predicted my failure, she too spoke a bit harshly.  I’m sensing a pattern here.  All of those would-be wardens appeared different, but they had one thing in common:  me.  I let them imprison me, didn’t I?  Sometimes for a moment, sometimes for months, sometimes for years.  I let them bind me to their words.  Their words.

 

How did I get back to school when she said I should fear it?  I just decided to.  How did I get into James’ car when I feared the motion sickness?  I just decided to.  How did I get on that dance floor despite my fear of re-injury?  I just decided to. 

 

I chose. 

 

I let it happen. 

 

I let me be me. 

 

Remembering James’ bravery during our first lesson, I decided to cue up his decisiveness.  I decided to let myself follow.

 

The music began and I waited. He didn’t approach.  I tried to rid my brain of the overwhelming thoughts.  Deep breath.  Listen.  I heard the music.  And then I really heard the music.  And then I felt the music.  “With two senses intact, who needs vision?”  I thought to myself.  

 

Without noticing, my feet moved ever so slightly.  Softly.  My arms, originally at my sides with minor elevation for balance, now resembled hand movements I had practiced in ballet so many years ago.  Soft motion, fingers light, starting from the shoulders and trickling down to the fingertips.  I suddenly felt like a fool.  I figured I looked awkward.  I wished I could look in the mirror, that would confirm it.  I could feel the fear returning. 

 

But he left me there for several minutes.  And after many moments of mental gymnastics in my head, while he remained absent from my presence, I slowly, ever so slowly, began replacing my fear and insecurity with a combination of peace and excitement.  I don’t exactly recall how it happened. 

 

And just as I reached some level of comfort, impatience crept in.  I don’t like waiting.  It’s the worst part of my job:  waiting for clients to show up, waiting for court to start.  But I have gotten used to it in friendship and dance: waiting for James to show up and waiting for class or an event to start. 

 

Impatience was soon replaced by nerves, yet again.  Was he just going to leave me here and see what I did?  I wish he wasn’t so, so, so intimidating, so…I tried to stop my brain.  Find comfort.  Find a default.   

 

And then I found myself in basic step.  One TWO three four five SIX.  Small motions.  I was barely moving off my starting point. 

 

Moments later, with sheer, elegant grace, the back of his elbow nudged my forearm towards its rightful place.  My hand took up position on his shoulder, the back of my wrist to his shoulder blade.  I felt the difference between something I had once felt, the weight of my arm hanging on the lead.  This time, it was resting gently.  I was holding my own frame. 

 

My left arm was still my own, still moving slowly and at waist level.    

 

And then I felt his hand meet mine, as if they just found each other.  I did not know where I was in the room, which way I was facing, where I was looking, where he was looking.  I knew that I wasn’t looking at my feet (a habit) ,or forcing steps in any particular direction.  I was just following.  I felt balance.  I felt at home in the frame.  I felt safe under his strong lead.  I felt free.  I worried I would lose that feeling when the song ended.  The worst part about an amazing dance is that when the song ends, you thank your partner and move on to another option.  I don’t remember the song ending or maybe he just had a playlist cued to continue, but I remained in that dance, in that freedom, for what felt like longer than a song.  I later learned it was three.  Until, at his request, I removed the scarf and tried to replicate my responsiveness with open eyes. 

 

It was rocky at first, that one sense really does overtake the other four.  But as if by sheer strong will or force, eventually my memory of closed eyes returned.  My eyes were open but it was as if I was seeing without focus, as if everything was blurred and eyes not perfectly in use so that all other senses were heightened.  Like when you are reading aloud words from a page but words make less sense because mere rote scanning doesn’t allow you to purely comprehend or make sense of the information.  The start of a new muscle memory, perhaps. 

 

No matter the diagnosis, I had experienced what I had been searching for over months of practice.  Forget the controlled existence I had taught myself to live each day. Forget the walls I had built around my body for protection.  Forget the armor I had worn to avoid anyone getting too close.  Forget the overwhelming history of leading and just, for once, follow. 

 

I will never forget that first feeling of follow freedom.  It was branded in my memory and for good measure, as it would be months before I would experience that sensation again. 

 

The classes that followed were more challenging as I continually tried to replicate that letting go with various leads.  The hardest to follow remained James.  Despite all of our commonalities, he still seemed concerned about hurting me, and there was something about our respective styles of dance that never quite manifested in a successful partnership.  We took a few private lessons with Bennett and his partner and although we learned many clever sequences, we could not bypass whatever prevented the ultimate free dance.  At least not yet.

 

Despite our many failed attempts at partnership, James will always be an important part of these chapters in my peaceful yet plagued existence, and certainly my marathon of dance.  He was the starting pistol.

 

James introduced to me Salsa.  Salsa introduced me to Bennett.  Bennett introduced me to freedom in dance.  Then came an entire network of friends and partners, which really began at my first Congress.   

 

Time to meet the Delegates.