I’m about to leave the stage when another song starts to play. A tune featuring an accordion and a rhythmic regional beat.
The forró song Erik and I had been rehearsing.
I look around, confused. Did I tell them to add this song to the playlist when I thought Erik was going to join me? No... I’m pretty sure I didn’t. But then how—
Erik emerges from behind the curtains, and I watch him walk toward me. What the hell is happening?
My mouth is hanging open when he positions himself in front of me.
“What are you doing here?” I whisper, wide-eyed.
His reply is a meaningful smirk. One that says, What do you think I’m doing?
His left hand holds my right hand, and his right arm goes around my back. He pulls me closer until my chest is pressed against his. I lose my breath. In forró, there is no space between bodies.
Feeling the warmth of his muscular torso through the fabric of my dress fills me with desire. My left arm is embracing him at shoulder height, and though our skin is not in contact, this is as close as we can get.
Well, not quite close enough. My groin heats up with the way our hips click together. It’s scary how fast my body responds to his touch. How quickly it remembers the pleasure and forgets we are not walking in that direction.
But we are dancing. Erik starts with the first basic step we learned—one step forward, one step back. We are nailing it like we didn’t in our few rehearsals. I’m in awe. What on Earth is happening?
Smoothly, he changes to the second basic step—left-left-right-right. He is actually moving his hips. Then he holds both my hands and tries the third basic step, which we didn’t practice. It feels easy enough now, both of us opening sideways and stepping back, mirroring each other, until we are back at our starting position.
Suddenly, we are spinning, doing the complicated step he found nice but claimed would be impossible to learn so quickly. I tried to teach him, but he wasn’t very patient. Now here he is, dancing with confidence, not afraid to move and be vulnerable. We are caught in a tight embrace, our hips swaying in one flow. It’s sexy, fun, and breathlessly intimate.
Dancing here with Erik, who has clearly practiced so much he could be one of the Brazilian men I would find in a club, I feel a heightened sensory experience. I’m touching his solid muscles, observing his mouth, smelling his skin, moving with his guidance. It feels as though all our days apart never existed.
And the time away only increased my longing for him.
I want to touch his face, kiss his neck, and feel his fingers on my naked back. He spins me, and I’m back into his arms. Every boomerang move is a chance to be reunited and feel the butterflies in my stomach assaulting me in a delicious way.
“This is impressive,” I whisper to him as we dance. “Who did you practice with?”
“A stiff cousin and a pregnant woman with an eight-month belly. I don’t recommend it.”
I laugh. I’m so proud of him. And I can’t believe he did this for me.
The song ends, and we hear applause roaring. Erik takes my hand, and once we are off the stage, many people acknowledge our good performance. We squeeze through the crowd, trying to find a quiet place where we can talk, but Lars blocks our path and claps right in front of us with a huge smile on his face.
“That was excellent. Very entertaining.” He bows his head at me. I thank him with a smile. “Erik, you’re a great dancer,” Lars says, and Erik laughs dismissively.
“Let’s not exaggerate.”
“Were both of them Brazilian dances?” Lars asks me, and he looks delighted to have witnessed something so out of what is ordinary for him. Maybe I was wrong about him. Maybe I didn’t need all the lies.
“Yes,” I answer enthusiastically. “The first was samba, and the second is called forró.”
“Amazing.” He puts a hand on Erik’s shoulder, still smiling. “Can I have a word with you, Storm?”
Erik looks surprised. He blinks at me, then at Lars.
“Eh...sure.”
“Great. Come with me.”
And just like that, Lars takes Erik away from me before I get the chance to ask him what this whole dance thing was about. Lars couldn’t know we have been living apart, not talking for an entire week, but I can’t help but feel frustrated. Why did he have to talk to Erik in private now? What could he want to say that I couldn’t hear?
I hold my breath. Could this have anything to do with the idea they’re stealing from Erik? Is Lars going to tell him they will not do that after all?
My stomach flips, full of hope. Maybe everything will turn out all right for both of us.
I move through the crowd, trying to spot them, but I don’t see them anywhere. Did they go upstairs to a meeting room? I stop myself at the stairs. Erik will tell me what it was about, of course. I just need to wait until he finds me.
I sit down with a cup of mulled wine and wait for what seems like endless minutes. I can’t be patient though. My head is spinning. I need to know what is happening.
Today is my last opportunity to convince Lars to choose me for the game director position. We all go on Christmas holiday tomorrow, and then we’ll know who he is hiring in early January.
I enter the corridor where the bathrooms are and find Martin leaning on the wall, pressing paper against his nose. He’s grimacing. Bleeding.
“What happened to you?” I ask.
“Erik happened,” Martin says with an angry nasal voice.
An involuntary smile stretches my lips. “Did he punch you?” My expression then changes to concern. “What did you say to him?”
Martin gives me a bloody smile. He’s so full of his usual disdain, my insides twist. “You don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?” Fear assaults me. I try to keep breathing.
