“We’ll support you, sweetie, no matter what you decide,” he says, confirming my conclusions. More tears fall, and I smile. It dawns on me that he is never going to judge me—none of them will—or remind me that before I came, he asked if I considered that my Nordic adventure might not work out.
My mom keeps reminding me I can have my old room back because it’s the best way she knows to tell me I will always have a place in her house. They want the best for me.
Now I have to figure out what that is.
“We’re having problems right now,” I tell Dad in a low, shy voice.
“Can you fix them?”
I think for a moment. “I don’t know... I mean, we’re both focusing on our careers, and we like to say we support each other, but the truth is, chasing those dreams is only making us hurt each other.”
Dad scratches his stubble, thinking.
“No couple lives off promises, Sol. The success of a family, even one made of only two people, depends on professional realization. It’s like they say, Amor não enche barriga.” He quotes a popular Brazilian saying that means: “Love doesn’t put food on the table.”
I nod, acknowledging that my dad is right. Both Erik and I know this, and that’s why we have to put ourselves first.
“So I should focus on my career,” I say, more like an affirmation than a question. The air gets thick, almost unbreathable, when I think about leaving Erik. But I can’t let him be the reason I breathe.
“You should,” Dad agrees, then smiles. “Love is a dance, Sol, and your partner can guide you, but you can’t let him carry you all the way. You need to be in control too. And you should know your moves so well you can always dance without him.”
His metaphor makes me smile. My dad’s wisdom never fails.
I’m going to fight for my career. For the Danish dream I came seeking. I will call Chiara and ask if I can stay at her place until the Christmas party so I can give Erik the space he needs—the break we both need.
I will go to the talent show. And I will dance without Erik.
Twenty-Five
Eight days later, we leave our desks at the end of the workday and head downstairs to the Christmas party. I go before Chiara, who is slowly packing her things, and when we meet at the decorated office space reserved for the social event, Chiara grabs my shoulders, flashing a radiant smile.
“I got the Game Designer job in Stockholm!”
We both shriek, and I hug her, saying, “Congratulations!”
We’ve talked a lot the past few days when I was sleeping at her place. I shared the joys and turbulences of my relationship with Erik, and she told me more about what had been going on between her and Anika. She listened to my advice to not give up on the two of them and kept applying for jobs in Stockholm. I’m so glad she succeeded and that she and Anika will share an apartment there.
On a selfish level, I’m sad to lose the only friend I have in Copenhagen, but the universe would have been unfair if it had denied her and Anika the opportunity to give their love—and their careers—a try.
My smile falters, however. I can’t deny I’m jealous. But I try not to blame the universe for being unfair when it came to Erik and me drifting apart. It did its part to make things more complicated for us, but ultimately, it was us who decided we should follow our separate paths.
It wasn’t something we agreed upon directly. There was no talk, no official breakup. I just left to stay with Chiara, and he was okay with that. He didn’t text me. I didn’t call him. We let ourselves focus on our jobs because until we’re okay with our own situations, we won’t be okay together.
And I’m starting to accept we might never be okay together.
Not that it’s an easy thing to accept. It’s crushing. My mood swings are a constant reminder of how all of me misses Erik. And how I will be okay without him.
I have to be.
And I’ll prove that tonight.
The hall is filled with people sitting on the sofas or on the stairs, serving cups with beer, soda, and mulled wine, and gathering in front of the improvised stage, waiting for their colleagues to embarrass themselves.
The Christmas tree is decorated with beetles from our most famous game and scorpions like the one in the company logo. We all hang out for a while, Christmas songs playing through the speakers, drinks and snacks abounding. Then the talent show begins, and George and Alex are the first couple onstage. They entertain us with a lively performance of “It’s Raining Men.”
When they are done and people are applauding and whooping, my name is announced. With my heart in my throat, I climb onto the stage and stand behind the curtains. It’s the first time I’ll do something as attention-getting as dance in front of a crowd. And not just any crowd—coworkers who will look at me every single day and remember how I’ve embarrassed myself onstage.
Oh, Jesus, why am I doing this?
To get promoted, I answer. To get your dream job.
To be yourself.
I chuckle inwardly, staring at the silky curtains. I haven’t practiced enough; I’ve switched to samba so I can dance alone. The thing is, when you know how to dance samba, you just do it. You improvise. All I have to do is pretend I’m at a Carnival parade in Brazil.
It’s a dance that can be perceived as sexy. You move your hips a lot and your butt shakes as you move your feet to the rhythm of the drums. When you dance samba, it’s normal to wear colorful, glittery outfits that cover almost no skin.
I’m wearing my highest high heels and a short green sequined dress. I know I will call attention to myself. But I want to show off dancing like this. It’s part of my culture, and I’m proud of it.
When the curtains part, I’m greeted by applause and expectant, drunk faces. I swallow hard, losing courage as I scan the room full of people looking at me. Please, start the music, or I’ll drench my clothes in sweat before I even start moving.
The drums begin to play, and I press the Start button inside me, forgetting my nervousness and embarking on my samba trip. I try not to look at the crowd, I just dance as if my cousins are behind me, making their own moves, having the time of their lives, and my uncles are in the front row, cheering us on.
Soon I’m letting go, led by the rhythm, enjoying myself. People seem to be enjoying it too. I see a few trying to copy me and dance to the beat, and I smile because their movements are so jerky and awkward. I calm myself with the thought that I am not embarrassing myself. I’m just different from them.
And that’s good, right?
I’m having fun, and everyone else seems to be having fun too by the end of the song. The final drumming echoes through the walls, and I bow as everyone applauds. I did it. It was great!
