Despite the alcohol and the sensory deluge of Edward’s party, the memory of those few minutes, of Gianluca’s arms holding me with such control and authority, is stunningly clear. It had released me for the briefest moment from myself, and I’d felt the dense knot of grief that lives in my chest breaking up. I want it again. I guess I’m taking tango classes.

Tango Fortunato occupies a glass storefront in the Microcentro, not far from where my Spanish classes are. The main studio is one large room, and students congregate on the periphery, lounging on the large L-shaped sofa that occupies one corner or sitting on the floor to change into dance shoes.

I’ve arrived early and the class before mine is still going on. I watch as a collection of adults of all ages pick their way through intricate combinations. A younger man and woman I assume are teaching assistants wander the room. They both wear T-shirts with the studio logo and periodically cut in on couples to demonstrate. They’re both horribly beautiful. He looks typically Porteño—Mediterranean with dark hair and green eyes—while she looks like she’s from somewhere else: Brazil maybe? She’s tall and lean with large luminous dark eyes and dark skin, her hair cropped close to her head.

I walk in as the class wraps up, and the gorgeous male assistant comes by with a clipboard to check me in. The woman is standing in the corner, talking to Gianluca, along with a girl I recognize as his partner from the other night. I wonder if one of them is dating him. Are both of them?

I feel a pleasant jangle of nerves as I wait with the other students for class to start. I’m not sure how my general athleticism is going to translate here; I’ve never been especially graceful. The commentators loved to contrast me with my top rival, Kjersti Larsen of Norway. They would remark that I muscled my way down the runs while she appeared to glide down seamlessly, breaking the laws of gravity that constrain mere mortals. Kjersti. I miss her. There was always camaraderie between the Norwegians and the Americans on the circuit. I miss the odd intimacy of our rivalry: the way we would catch eyes on race day and smile at each other.

I don’t expect Gianluca to remember me, but he spots me leaning against the doorway, trying to be inconspicuous.

“Ciao,” he says, walking over. Then, in English, “From Edward’s party, right?”

“Right.”

“I’m so glad you came,” he says, “I enjoyed dancing with you.” He kisses my cheeks. “Tell me your name once more.”

“Liz,” I say. My face feels like it’s on fire and I pray it isn’t noticeable.