15. Rico
The music is loud. But not loud enough to drown out the ringing in my ears.
They’d have to be able to take their eyes off you? Cue a thousand facepalms.
Was there some sort of truth serum in this generic water bottle? Let’s consider that possibility.
The saying-it-out-loud part was knee-jerk, but it’s the truth. How could anyone look away from Lena when she’s in her element, braving through her nerves, being brilliant? Never mind in that dress and those ruby lips.
Clearly I am still unwell after seeing her walk up to the pier—or whatever that baby giraffe cobblestone side-stepping was. Her usual elegance and every curve dialed up in that outfit while her poise was getting tested. Her brow furrowed with determination to not accept defeat by footwear. Gorgeous and adorable, mano . What do we do with that?
Well, what I did was let that attraction tsunami land at frustration. I just stood there telling my sped-up heart rate that all this was annoyance.
This is so annoying.
If she had been Angela Lansbury, her shoes would have been very suitable, and I wouldn’t be acting the conflicted fool every single moment we’re together.
Also, is this a new way my sisters have found to torment me? Fiddler on the Roof on replay for years wasn’t enough. Now they have to doll up my endearingly prickly colleague to the point of devastating…annoyingness. I’m going to have to bring back planting lizards in their shower.
And I wasn’t kidding about how Lena killed it with that group. I came down those stairs, still with all the energy from my solid tour presentation, to once again get smacked in the face with her intelligence and dominance. It was so good to see her like that, I was able to hold back the unexpected irritation from all of those people having eyes on her and getting her smiles, practiced or not.
So really, no one can blame me for sputtering out the most awkwardly revealing sentence possible. That wasn’t enough for this idiot, though. I also had to minimize her performance as part of my flailing recovery. Flailing—that’s me.
Lena and I stand by the railing, blinking at the lights and trying to make sense of how this elegant cocktail party turned into a rager. The event coordinator walks by with a tray of very fancy cupcakes and yells out over the music at us, “It’s a surprise celebration for a major investor’s wife. They sprung it on me today.” She shrugs and hurries off.
So now we’re on this party boat as the bright lights from the coast of San Juan twinkle faintly in the distance, and we’re not going anywhere for a while.
The contrast of flashing lights with the surrounding darkness encloses into a more intimate scene. The boat only sways with the beat from the dancing, and without any breeze, it all becomes a little stifling.
With the cocktails flowing, the party group gets pretty loose. After a couple of songs, Lena gestures to the dance floor and says, “You can go join. You don’t have to stand around with me.”
“I’m good,” I reply, shaking my head.
“I thought you would be the life of the party. Dancing the night away.” She gestures again at the group dancing the night away.
I shrug. “Sorry to disappoint. I mean—dancing I can do. But, much like in life, I’ve learned it’s not as enjoyable with random people.”
“Huh.”
I turn more fully toward her. “Not surprised you don’t dance, though.”
“What is that supposed to m—”
Several from Lena’s tour group approach us, chanting her name. I recognize the song as the classic Puerto Rican Dancing Around the World, a nineties mix of traditional music from different countries. We’ve heard the samba, cumbia and tango, so the paso doble is coming up. Apparently, her adoring fans think their Spanish fearless leader should join. But of course, she won’t.
Lena’s eyes widen as they both chant and grab her arms to drag her into the dancing. She stands her ground and looks at me as I shake my head at her predictability.
Something flashes in her eyes: defiance.
Abruptly, she relaxes and allows them to pull her to the dance floor. Turning around so she’s right in my sight, she raises both arms as the paso doble music is about to begin. Literally letting down her hair so the dark waves frame her face, she raises her stance. Her fierce eyes lock with mine.
I think my gulp could be caught by sonar.
I had thought she was elegant before but poised for attack has turned all that grace into a weapon. Her wrists turn, fingers fluttering as if she were clacking actual castanets, and her arms slowly arch up and down with her measured, wide turns. When the music hits its marching stride, her arms swoop down and her heels stomp impossibly on tempo as the rest of her body is unmoving and upright. Everyone circles around her, cheering.
Regardless of the thumping speakers, it’s as if the entire deck vibrates with her confident heel taps at the end of every swift turn. While others join in following her lead, all I see is Lena. Her head shifts sharply from side to side, matching the progressive steps. When the music hits its climax, she stomps out an exclamation point to all that harnessed passion.
We’ve established she is mesmerizing. Now my jaw is at risk of dislocation because Profesora Magdalena Martín danced that paso doble like she has never not known how to.
The song mix continues to the next country’s music, and after clapping and hooting for Lena, the group moves on to the next dance.
She stands there, frozen in her last pose, chest heaving. Now that she’s still, small beads from her effort drip down her temple and neck. She shakes her head as if pushing off a daze and looks around. Her eyes find me as she’s enveloped into the group dancing to the remaining music.
Nobody is safe, and I’m eventually hauled in for the last part of the song when a Puerto Rican seis chorreao blasts from the speakers.
I do Abuela proud. Hands behind my back, I shuffle my feet and tip an imaginary straw hat as the women simulate their long-skirt swooshing, Lena included.
As the dance dictates, we circle each other. She looks up at me, and our gazes lock. Her eyes shine with exhilaration. Time stops, the tide stops, everything but my runaway heartbeat stops.
Lena expertly swishes her pretend skirt. Eyebrows raised, she asks, “Satisfied?”
The opposite, actually. A gaping hole of yearning in my chest widens to point out just how unsatisfied I am.
My throat bobs, but before I can answer her, whether in truth or deflecting, the song ends.
Out of nowhere, the event coordinator stands at my side, wanting to talk business after this evening’s success, and I lose sight of Lena among the crowd.