Page 23 of Julian Shared
“I already packed us a change of clothes.”
I dart back inside the house just long enough to grab the bag and lock the front door. We drive off post and into the neighboring town of Paradise Palms. Despite the ritzy name, it’s more of a sleepy small town than a destination playground.
Still, like so many towns that spring up under the shadow of the military, it has an avid nightlife. It’s main street is dotted with bars and diners, each one boasting its own gimmick, and somehow Paradise Palms manages to support not only one, but two, bowling alleys.
Joel drives us past all that and takes us to the local community center. One of the few buildings that was here long before the army showed. It was built back in the gold rush days.
“You sure this is the place?” Joel asks, peering through the windshield to look at the weather-worn stone and peeling paint of the old-fashioned wooden false front.
“It is,” I confirm while throwing open the passenger door. “Isn’t it…quaint?”
“You sure it ain’t line-dancing?” Joel jokes as he motions for me to hand over our bag of clothes to him. I let him carry it for us.
The scenery doesn’t matter. The music is the important thing.
And tonight is salsa night.
???
The club’s hosts and instructors are a lively married couple, so old their gray hair is turning white, but combined they have a spitfire energy and passion of a couple decades younger. They’re even dressed on theme. The wife has a red rose pinned in her hair along with a long dress with tassels and her husband wears a matching shirt.
I look at my polo shirt and cotton shorts. I’m absolutely basic compared to them. Oh well. For the next meeting, I’ll make sureboth Joel and I have something a little more dressy and much more colorful.
At least we aren’t the only ones dressed on the casual side.
There are plenty of soldiers mingling around. None dressed in uniform, but with their distinctive buzz-cuts and ram-rod straight postures, they stick out like sore thumbs. They look more dressed for the gym than for dancing.
The beginning of the evening starts with a brief spiel on the history of salsa dancing and a quick demonstration of the basics, but after that’s out of the way the music is turned up and the dancing begins.
Tables and chairs and even a pool table have been pushed along the walls to make room for a dance floor.
There’s a lack of women in the crowd. Not that it matters for Joel and me.
While the rest of the men practically fall over themselves to try and court one of the single ladies for a dance, Joel and I simply turn to each other and get to it. He takes the lead while I follow along dutifully.
We might have met in a raunchy gay club blasting techno, but Joel’s a wonderful dancer across multiple genres. After we got together, he introduced me to a host of moves beyond grinding in place. Salsa is his favorite. The rest of the room falls away amid the heavy and warm sound of drums, bongos, and trumpets booming from the speakers.
Joel and I lose ourselves in the music.
And in each other.
I was right. It’s perfect. Even among a crowd, we only have eyes for each other. Our bodies move in sync as Joel takes usback and forth and back again. We only stop when there’s a lull between songs. We’re both sweaty and breathless, hearts pounding and smiles wide.
While Joel pops into the restroom, I get myself some water, and a familiar face emerges from the row of wallflowers.
“Good evening, Buddy,” I greet between delicate sips of water.
“Hey, Julian.”
Buddy's the sort of guy they put on military recruitment posters. Tall, square-jawed, broad-shouldered. Always clean-shaven and with a buzz-cut that's so natural to him it's hard to imagine him with any other style.
“I didn’t know you could dance,” I say, trying to make polite but idle conversation while I wait for Joel to get back. I very, very carefully try not to remember Buddy screwing Cameron in the pool. Tonight is supposed to be about forgetting all about that.
“Well, I’m trying to learn.” Buddy scratches the back of his neck. The next song starts to play, but my feet are firmly planted to the floor. “So, you’re being a girl tonight, right?” he asks, the corners of his mouth tilting upward.
I clear my throat. “It’s called lead and follow.”
“Sorry,” Buddy says, but sounds half-hearted about it. “You’re a follower then?”
