“Now,” he says, getting down to business once my shoes are on and I’m standing at the ready, “let’s see what we’re working with.”

He puts music on and leads me through a few basic moves. Both he and the studio seem to change every time I see them. First, there is the studio during class, when the place is full of strangers all feeling the same thing at once, hanging on G’s every charming, authoritative word. At the social, when the didactic energy has cleared and the place has become a milonga, everyone revolving around G like lost planets. And now, I’m alone with him for the first time, and, undiluted, his presence, the weight of his focus, is almost unbearable.

“Okay,” he says after a few moments, turning the music off and standing back from me. “You’ve got the basic steps down, that we knew, but tango is not about steps, it’s about connection. And, Liz, being a follow requires patience, receptiveness. You need to open yourself to what your partner is doing, rather than trying to anticipate it.”

I make a face. I don’t like the idea of being a passive partner, someone to be moved around by an external force. The idea of a partner is already outside my comfort zone. The solitude of my sport is what I loved about it. I only had to rely on myself: it made me brave and strong, whereas the idea of opening up enough to let G—or anyone else—lead me, makes me vulnerable.

“Come here,” he says, pulling me in so that there’s only a sliver of space between our chests. “When you follow me, it’s not your feet following my feet. The communication is translated from here.” He rests his hand on my sternum; the touch feels startlingly intimate. I hear myself make something like a gasp, and he lets it pass without acknowledgment. “The heart. If you don’t learn to feel it here, you’re not really dancing.”

To be taken apart in this way feels comforting and familiar. I want to be dismantled. I was always eminently coachable; I could always convert instruction into action. The opposite of Luke, who barreled down the hill in his hell-bent way, reckless and reliant on his extraordinary instincts, tucking in ever closer to the fall line. Blair was more like me: the good and eager student. We were patient and willing to learn someone else’s way well enough to make it our own.

“Okay, un momentito,” G says and walks away, leaving me feeling exposed.

He returns a moment later, having fetched Angelina from wherever she was, and leading her to the middle of the floor. My stomach drops at the sight of her. She and I exchange a weak smile.

“Hola, Leez.” I’m surprised she knows my name, though G certainly reminded her.