16. Lena
If I had been frayed, I am now unraveled.
I just danced a paso doble on a boat full of strangers. Of all the random stress manifestations. I knew giving this tour would be awkward for me, but this whole sunset cruise has been too much.
Rico.
He simply had to poke at my defiant streak, forcing me to promenade on that dance floor like I had something to prove.
It was so worth it to see his mouth hang open—proof that I am not predictable. At all.
I myself could not have predicted how dancing those familiar steps would be so transporting and bittersweet. Each tap and attack rekindled something in me that stomped out that past helpless loneliness.
When Rico joined in on the seis dance, circling me with his easy smile and eagerness, the sense of recognition and overwhelming longing that flooded me contrasted so starkly with the festive, folksy dance that I nearly burst out laughing—the concerning, conflicted kind of laughter.
Definitely unpredictable.
I needed some air after all that dancing in a crowd, so I escaped back to our previous spot by the railing.
Only a moment has passed when I hear, “There you are, Miss Martín!”
A man from the tour audience walks over to me. During my tour, I had noticed him trying a little too hard with his bowtie and vest.
He extends his hand for me to shake and places his other hand on mine once I do. Okay, calm down, chico.
“I must tell you how very enthralled I was with your presentation.”
I slip my hand out of his grip with a tight smile and reply, “Eh, thank you. I am glad.”
He hasn’t mentioned his name, but after a few millennia of him going on about the huge donation his loosely termed “company” has done for a stray-cat foundation, he is hereby named Mr. Oblivious.
I try lots of nodding. I act as if I’m looking for someone and tell him it was nice to meet him. Nothing works. I even try facing out toward the horizon, but he remains going on and on about the Old San Juan feline population.
As I consider the logistics of literally jumping ship to get away, an arm surrounds me to place a hand on the railing.
I’m at once caged in and pulled away from Mr. Oblivious and closer to . . . Rico. It’s Rico’s arm around me.
I’m engulfed by his earthy scent when he leans in and says a little too loudly, “Lena, mi amor , sorry that took a minute.” Then he adds a soft peck on my cheek.
A cheek that is now blazing.
Rico casually turns to Mr. O, as if he’s just now seeing him, and signals with his thumb toward the group. “Oye , I think they’re about to cut the cake. You wouldn’t want to miss that.”
I glance between them—one grinning very close to my face and the other frowning, but still considering his options. Rico shifts, placing himself completely between the man and me, effectively giving him his full back. I don’t think even Mr. Oblivious can miss this cue.
I’m completely walled off by this meddling Nuyorican, so I only hear Mr. O’s exit as he huffs away.
A moment later, I turn my back to the railing and the ocean, facing Rico. “‘ Mi amor’?”
“What? Had to make it convincing, my love.” Both his hands are at my sides, where he placed them on the railing. I raise my eyebrows in question, and he whispers, “He might be looking back.”
I whisper back, “Neither your help nor your acting skills were requested.”
“I think you mean to say, ‘Thank you, Rico, that guy was totally in my face.’”
“You are in my face now, mi amor .”
He narrows his eyes and considers my use of the endearment. “Hmm, I don’t think that suits you.”
“It is pretty generic. Here everyone gets called ‘mi amor’ when grabbing their drive-thru order.”
Rico chuckles. Too close. After a moment, he smiles and asks, “Okay, how about ‘ mi vida’ ?”
My life, my whole life.
My heart flips. Every time we’re together, Rico inches close. Literally and figuratively. Effortlessly and excruciatingly.
I need to break up whatever this is before that wave of longing hits me again. If nobody gets close, you won’t need them. If you don’t need them, you won’t miss them. Plus, work. That’s right, I have work to do.
I have been stalling, and his self-satisfied grin tells me he sees some kind of reaction in my eyes.
Oh—so he thinks only he can play.
I go in for the kill and lean toward him, gently but firmly grabbing his suit lapels. My hands catch his warmth and strength in an instant. His brow furrows, but he broadens his stance and is so still. Waiting. I search his widened, dark eyes for a moment before whispering, “Federico, mi vida . . . ”
I almost forget what game this is when Rico sucks in a breath, and his arms tense at my sides.
Almost forgot. I smooth the front of his suit before softly pushing him back as I punctuate every word and ask, “. . . where is the bathroom?”
His jaw clenches as he lets go of the railing and steps back. He wipes a hand on his knowing smirk and silently points toward the opposite end of the boat.
That’s my cue.
As we’re about to disembark from the unexpected party boat, I feel like a different person.
A very salty, sticky, different person. Someone who charms a group and boldly dances in a crowd but hides in the tiny boat bathroom because her colleague makes her feel things.
Normally, I would draw that hard and fast professional line and savagely shut down any interested party that would only get in my way. But Rico is not just a colleague anymore.
What is he? Teammate? Friend? Attractive to the point of excess? So charming it’s maddening?
Since all of those are affirmatives, to the bathroom hiding spot I went.
Usually I only stay up late if a research muse calls my name, but I’m even more ready to turn in after everything tonight. The party would have kept on raging, but the forecast forces the boat to head back to the dock to prepare for the storm, according to what I hear from the bathroom stall. Nobody sounds too worried about it since they’ve seen worse, but it’s enough for precautions to be made.
I eventually leave my hiding place and find my way to the front of the boat. Rico stands by the ramp gate speaking to the event coordinator, one hand in his pocket and the suit jacket draped over his shoulder.
His relaxed stance makes me tense every time. Like I have to armor up because his ease threatens my indifference.
When they sense me walking over, they nod, and the coordinator continues, “Yes—both of you—excellent work. The clients are all so pleased.” She turns to me. “And, like I told Mr. Morales, they want to make this a regular thing for visiting colleagues. So we’ll be in touch.”
Rico shakes the event coordinator’s hand and says, “Well, I know I’ll be here.”
With the docking completed, the ramp is set in place. Rico gestures for me to go ahead once the gate was open, and calling out a quick goodbye, I walk toward my rental.
Only the sporadic streetlights reflect on the cobblestones and illuminate the dark night. The air is still. Compared to the overstimulating celebration I just experienced, everything is eerily still.
As I work on my strategic stepping in these heels, I know I’m not alone. Rico walks beside me, only a step behind.
Without looking back, I ask, “Is your car this way?”
“I wouldn’t say so—no.”
I stop and turn to him. “Then why are you heading this way?”
“It’s pretty obvious. I’m walking you to your rental.”
I am so tired, but I huff out, “Once again, this was not requested.”
“And—once again—you don’t have to thank me, but not resisting would be great. It’s really late, and Abuela would lock me out of the house if she found out I left you alone on these streets.”
The click of my heels starts again, still struggling to dodge all the gaps between the cobblestones.
Rico sighs and rubs his jaw. “If I were a braver man, I’d throw you over my shoulder. Only way we’re getting there before sunrise.”
The mental image of that almost stops me again. “Eh, you can walk on. I will not tell your abuela if you won’t.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
That was the last of the energy I could spare for arguing, so I continue on as fast as I can. Which is not saying much. Rico walks beside me and matches my slow pace, still with one hand in his pocket and the other holding his jacket.
Except for the background of faraway thumping music, the faint crash of ocean waves, and the hum of a few cars, we walk in silence for several moments.
“How did you learn to dance like that?” Rico asks.
I stumble as my heel catches, but he quickly grabs my elbow and rights me.
“Ay, gracias.” I thank him as I step forward and away from his sure, branding hand. “Eh, my mom was a dancer. Her whole family has a long tradition of Spanish folk dancing.”
“That looked like a lot more than your mom teaching you a few steps.”
I smile, but as memories flood back, a frown inevitably comes. “Well, after my parents were gone, the family decided to formally train me up in dance. It kept me away in the studio, and they could parade me to performance after performance . . .”
“You didn’t enjoy it?”
I ponder for a bit and answer, “It was my only refuge and turned into my only sense of value.”
“Do you still dance often?”
“Before tonight, I had not danced in ten years.”
Rico stops and halts me from walking on. “Why not?”
“Once it became forced, it was eventually ruined. When I went off on my own, I decided to stop dancing because I could.”
“Have you missed it?”
Another moment passes as I start walking again and shrug. “Since my mother’s legacy had been tainted, I filled my life with genealogy and other legacies. The kind that don’t fade.”
“But have you missed it?”
He is taking advantage of my lack of energy. I look straight ahead and nod quickly.
We cut through a narrow alley, only a block away now. After a while, Rico says, “My dad left when I was really young. I get wanting to grab onto . . . something else.”
I steal a sideways glance of him. His jacket hangs folded from his forearm, his watch with its large face peeking out. As I stagger along, I notice from my periphery that his other arm slightly extends behind me, at the ready to . . . catch me?
I am done with this night. The short, hazy memories I have of the last time someone was there for me like this are few; a steadying hand in case of stumbling. Since it was taken away, I have not allowed myself to long for that.
And Rico, I am sure, is only living up to his abuela’s solid upbringing, not meaning to apply for the role of permanent steadying hand.
Not that I have an open casting call for that, but his simple gesture opens up so many wonderings.
What would it be like to have someone who is just there to catch you? Could I be somebody else’s steadying hand?
I shake my head and push back on the lump in my throat. It must be his rolled-up sleeves that got to me.
“What was it that little Rico grabbed onto?” I ask.
“Huh? Oh—I guess it threw my overachieving into overdrive. Sports, academics, earning money, and saving up. I was the most intense preteen you’ve ever seen.”
I chuckle in disbelief. Charming, carefree Rico, a workaholic adolescent. “It is hard to imagine.”
We stop in front of my rental. Rico replies, “Yeah, it took me almost twenty years to realize I was trying to prove something I didn’t have to prove and that trying had made me pretty miserable.”
These deeper conversations are counterproductive to our already blurred line, but asking can’t be helped. “If you let go of that, don’t you need something else to grab onto?”
Rico studies me and takes a step down from the sidewalk onto the empty street. His jacket still hangs on his forearm, but his other hand is back in his pocket. A streetlamp casts his face half in dim orange light and half in shadow when he takes a few slow backward steps. Brows furrowed, he looks into my eyes as he considers my question.
Finally, he answers, “ Pues , I probably do need something to grab onto, but this time I won’t. Not until I’m sure I won’t ever let go.”
I pause. His words send a wave of chills down my spine.
As they subside, I’m left with a barrage of questions. How do you find that? How will you be sure you have? What do you mean, ‘Never let go’? Is that possible? Why were the chickens in your car?
But before my brain can sort and execute this interrogation, Rico nods decisively and turns to walk away. He looks back for a short, “Good night, Lena. Thanks again,” and leaves to find his car.