Page 46 of Forget Me

I laughed. Back home, we called it liquid Viagra. My aunt Camelia made a version from red wine, local honey, and herbs she grew in her garden, and she swore I’d been conceived after she served it at a family pig roast. I raised my eyebrows at Andrew. “Be careful. It’s, ah, potent.”

“What?” he shouted over the music.

“Don’t be a baby. Drink up.” Natalie elbowed him in the side and downed her drink. He followed.

I clinked my glass to Mimi’s. “Salud.”

Her smile was nervous. “L’chaim.”

We tossed back the bittersweet shots.

“That’s revolting. Like cough syrup.”

It wasn’t as good as tía Camelia’s. The bottle behind the bar had a ridiculous straw hat for a cap. But its high alcohol content might loosen Mimi up.

“Another?” Natalie grimaced.

“I’ll teach you the steps first.” Loose Mimi would be good, but I didn’t want to have to carry her out of another bar.

Taking Mimi’s hand, I weaved through the dancing couples to the line dancers in the center of the floor. We stood behind the one at the back and watched for a moment.

“Okay, see, it’s one-two-three-tap, then go right, five-six-seven-tap. Small steps, and keep your feet low.”

I placed myself between Mimi and Natalie. Taking small, exaggerated steps, I demonstrated the footwork, and by the time I’d finished the first set, Natalie swayed at my side. Mimi and Andrew hung off the ends, watching.

“Let’s go,” I shouted. Taking Mimi’s hand, I shuffled toward her, urging her to move her feet. Hesitantly, she took up the movement. “Good, good,” I praised her.

Following the line in front, I showed them how to dance forward, then I taught them the turns. Natalie picked up the pattern like a natural.

Mimi did not. She forgot to tap, missed the change in direction, and bumped my shoulder. She stomped her feet in frustration. “I told you I don’t dance!”

“It’s okay.” I pivoted, turning my back on the other lines, and faced her. I put out my palms and nodded at her to lay her hands on mine.

“To the left,” I said, moving to my right to mirror her.

She watched her feet and mine for a few sets.

Finally, when her body moved in rhythm, I squeezed her hands. “Eyes up.”

Her gorgeous brown eyes reflected the pink lights above the stage. Her lips moved, silently counting the steps. We’d work on that later.

“You’re doing great. When I squeeze your hands, come forward.” When I sensed the line behind me shift, I tightened my grip on her and as I backed up, I tugged her toward me.

“Now back.” We reversed the movement. Soon, we moved in step with the block of dancers. Side to side, front to back, turn, turn.

She was no Carmen Miranda or even JLo, but her footwork didn’t falter, and her hips rocked in a way that tightened my pants. Or maybe that was the Mama Juana.

When the music changed, I pulled her out of the line toward the dancing couples.

“Wait, what are you doing?”

“You’ve been called up,” I said. “You’re ready for the big leagues.”

“No, I’m not! I’m still a guppy.”

“Now you’re mixing swimming and baseball. This is dancing, and you’re ready.”

We started with a simple back and forth, and I was back on mi abuela’s porch, dancing with my cousins. The fug of the club was nothing like the ocean breeze back home. Still, I sang along with the music under my breath and watched Mimi under half-closed eyelids.

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