As I said before, Brady ended up being in my Ballroom Dance class. So from then on, we'd dance together at least once per class, which was twice a week. I'd dress extra cute those days, knowing I'd get to dance in his arms. In class we were taught to never turn down a dance, so if someone picked me before Brady made his way over to me, I'd have to say yes. I'd get stuck with the kid with the tiny carney hands, or the kid with massively sweaty palms, or, even worse, the kid with god-awful breathe and no concept of the term personal bubble.
I both loved and hated dancing with Brady. I loved that he was so much taller than me, that his hands were a normal size with an average moisture level, his breath was fresh, and my personal bubble disappeared when he was nearby. But I hated that he was a better dancer than me. I was the Cuban one! I should have been the one dominating the salsa, the cha cha, the tango. But no, tall, white Brady, with his slightly big ears and country accent could outdance me any day. And did.
I felt clumsy and awkward and embarrassed when I'd dance with him. And it didn't help that it always felt like it was 100 degrees in there, the bright sunshine flooded through the windows, creating elongated rectangle sun spots on the hardwood ballroom floor. When you danced through them, your shadows danced with you. It was beautiful, but it sure didn't help when Brady would lift my arm to do a spin. Holy pit stains.
He'd come over every week to watch Laguna Beach. He wasn't afraid to admit he loved that show. But he wasn't about to watch it with his guy friends, so he'd escape to my place to watch it with me and my roommates. He'd have his hand on my leg and he'd kiss me goodnight.
But we both knew he was leaving at the end of the semester, so we'd never be more than dance partners (back then, anyway). Sometimes we'd dance in my living room after Laguna Beach.
Sometimes he'd sleep over. Sometimes he wouldn't.