Chapter 10
It was a Tuesday in late January, just after twelve noon, and Roman’s bare feet were soaking in bubbling, lavender-scented
water.
It was his mother Dulce’s birthday and this was the only time he—well, Camille—had managed to carve out from a day packed
with meetings. Camille had scheduled all of them to take place at the Dulce Flor in Times Square, and now he was squeezing
in a midday pedicure with his mother at the hotel spa.
He’d gotten the idea for a mother-son spa date from Ava, of all people. Not that she was talking to him—he was abiding by
her “no communication” rule, even though he chafed at the limitation. He wasn’t sure if he was more frustrated by the boundaries
she’d set or the fact that he was tempted to cross them.
Don’t text her . Should be a simple enough rule to follow, right? But he found himself wanting to reach out multiple times a day. And not
just about sex either.
Like now. While Ava hadn’t directly suggested he go with his mom for a pedicure, she’d helped him recognize the value of spontaneous
free time with people he cared about. And he wanted to tell her about it.
But he couldn’t.
Beside him, the other frustrating woman in his life sat with her feet wrapped in some kind of pink substance. Since she couldn’t
get away, Roman took the opportunity to broach the topic of her imminent move.
“How’s the apartment search coming along?” he asked.
His mother didn’t look up from the copy of Buzz Weekly she was flipping through. “Bien.”
Thanks to her many years working at a nail salon, Dulce had a deep appreciation for gossip magazines. And now that she’d retired,
one of her favorite pastimes was to get her nails done by someone else.
“I can put you in contact with my real estate agent,” Roman offered.
“That’s okay.”
“Mami, I—”
She pinned him with a look. “Who do you think found all the apartments we lived in when you were young? Who do you think found
the house Keith and I bought in Queens?”
Shit. He’d offended her. “All right, but there’s no rush, and you’ll still have your rooms in my apartment if you ever want
to come back.”
She cut him off with a shake of her head. “It’s your space, you should use it how you want. Mickey and I have already taken
up room in your home for too long.”
Roman’s gut felt hollow at the reminder. Not only was his sister going to college and his mom moving out, but Mickey wouldn’t
even be coming back during her breaks from school.
“How is the book coming along?” Dulce asked.
Roman bit back a groan, but gratefully accepted the change in subject. “Not well.”
“I don’t see why. You wrote all the time when you were a kid.”
“That’s because my friends were paying me to do their homework for them.”
She gave a dismissive shrug and didn’t look up from the magazine. “Bueno, we all have to start somewhere. Put it in the book.”
Roman wasn’t sure “cheating on homework” was the best thing to admit in a book about successful qualities in business, but
he did have to start the manuscript somewhere, and he was short on ideas. He jotted down a note in his phone.
Dulce turned a page and let out an exclamation. “?Mira pa’ allá! It’s your friend.”
Roman peered at the glossy two-page spread. His old buddy Ashton Suárez smiled up at him from a red carpet photo. Ashton wore
a slick black suit and at his side, his fiancée Jasmine Lin was decked out in a red strapless gown. They looked stunning,
every inch the Puerto Rican power couple who’d taken Hollywood by storm.
“Ay, they look so beautiful,” Dulce said wistfully. “Have you heard any updates about the wedding?”
Roman shook his head. “Not since they asked me to be the best man. They’ve been busy.”
“Did they set the date at least?”
“August. At the Bellísima in Condado.”
Dulce made a judgmental noise in the back of her throat. “August wedding in Puerto Rico? It’s going to be hot.”
He shrugged. “It’s when their filming schedules allow it.”
She turned the page to a tell-all from a former child star. “Well, they still have plenty of time to plan.”
A pair of salon aestheticians entered the room and Roman stopped talking about his notoriously private friend. But when he glanced at his phone, he saw he had a text from Ashton. Speak of el diablo.
Ashton: Boarding our flight. Sorry we missed you. It was Jasmine’s cousin’s birthday.
Roman: It’s cool. I’ll be in California in a couple months. We’ll meet up then.
Ashton: Oh, and thanks for the signed Jeter jersey. Yadi está que se mea.
Roman grinned at the implication that Ashton’s son was so happy, he was pissing himself. A second later, a photo of Yadi wearing
a blue and white Yankees jersey and a huge smile popped up on the screen.
Not for the first time, Roman was glad he and Ashton had reconnected. The two of them had met in Miami in their early twenties.
Roman had been fresh out of college and working as a bartender while he applied for jobs he wasn’t sure he wanted. Dulce had
a friend whose cousin was a casting director, and while auditioning for a telenovela, Roman had crossed paths with Ashton,
an aspiring actor newly arrived from Puerto Rico.
The second Roman had seen the other man, he’d been sure Ashton would get the part. Ashton was tall and handsome, and Roman had been floored by how quickly Ashton’s entire personality and demeanor shifted when he was in character. Witnessing the transformation had given Roman permission to delve more fully into his own role, and by the time they’d left the studio, they’d formed a bond. Fortunately, Recuerdos Peligrosos had revolved around two brothers who loved the same woman, so they’d both gotten cast.
The experience of filming together had cemented their friendship, and even after Roman left show business, they’d remained
thick as thieves.
Until one day, Ashton had dropped off the face of the planet. He still appeared in telenovelas, but he’d become famously reclusive,
not answering phone calls or emails.
Roman couldn’t say it hadn’t hurt. He’d wondered if he’d done something, but whenever Ashton did reply, he just said he was
working a lot, or that he was busy with his family. Eventually, Roman had taken the hint and left him alone.
Then, a year and a half ago, Roman had been buying mints during a layover at Chicago O’Hare when he’d seen Ashton’s face on
the cover of a magazine. Roman couldn’t resist buying it, and from his first-class seat he read about the son Ashton had hidden
from the world for eight years.
Most of the article had been speculation, but it had included some blurry photos of Yadiel, along with pictures of Ashton
and Jasmine.
Roman had texted Ashton immediately, just a single word: “ Drinks? ”
He’d waited, chest tight, bracing himself for silence, or a refusal, or another “I’m busy,” until he saw the indication that
Ashton was typing back. A second later, a reply popped up: “ Sí. ”
They met up in New York at a speakeasy, and it was like they’d never been apart. Ashton had explained everything and apologized for shutting Roman out. Roman, happy to have his friend back and to finally know why Ashton had disappeared, forgave him. They laughed over the crow’s feet and gray hairs they’d developed since the last time they’d gotten trashed together, and proceeded to drink too many gin and tonics before parting for the night. Shortly after, Roman took a rare day off to meet Yadiel and Jasmine. From then on, he made time for them whenever he could and did his level best to spoil Yadi rotten and earn the “tío” label he’d been given.
The phone rang before Roman could text Ashton again, and the name of Roman’s publicist, Nigella Daniels, popped up on the
screen.
Roman hesitated. He knew why Nigella was calling, and he didn’t want to talk about it, especially not with his mother present.
“Answer it,” Dulce said, not looking up from the magazine. “I don’t mind.”
Biting back a sigh, Roman accepted the call and raised the phone to his ear. “Hi Nigella. And no, I haven’t been avoiding
you.”
“Glad to hear it.” Nigella’s tone, as always, was a mix of cheerful and hurried. “The HIV/AIDS research fundraiser gala is
next week. Did you line up your plus-one?”
Roman sighed, remembering how Ava had erected her boundaries before he could even consider how to issue the invitation. “Not
yet.”
“Well, there’s going to be a lot of Broadway people there, and Anastasia Marquez would love to go, if you want a companion.
Do you remember her? She’s—”
“I remember her,” Roman broke in.
Anastasia was an up-and-coming stage actress, a triple threat of incredible talent. Roman had escorted her to last year’s
Met Gala and attended the premiere of her current Broadway show, Light It Up , over the summer.
The “Dominican Diva,” as she called herself—a nod to her opera background—was an excellent plus-one. She was confident and charismatic, had a great sense of humor, and knew how to rock a designer dress.
The only problem was, both times he’d seen Anastasia, they’d ended up going back to her tiny walk-up apartment in Hell’s Kitchen
to fuck.
Roman thought of Ava. They’d spent only two nights together, three months apart, and he wasn’t even allowed to text her unless
she initiated contact first. The boundaries were glaringly clear.
So why did the thought of attending an event with another woman, one he’d previously been happy to engage in adult activities
with, strike him as wrong?
“Thanks, but I’ll go on my own,” he told Nigella. “Need to make it an early night.”
“Working on the book?”
He latched on to the excuse. “Precisely.”
“Excellent. I’m already lining up late night talk shows for when it comes out.”
Roman’s back prickled with sweat. “You’re the best, Ni.”
“Don’t mention it. Say hi to Camille for me.”
“Will do.”
He hung up, then put his reading glasses back on, the better to ignore the speculative look his mother was casting in his
direction.
“Was that Nigella?” Dulce asked, all innocence, as if she hadn’t been sitting right there when he said the publicist’s name.
“Yes.” He opened his email, although he barely registered the new messages flooding in. He tensed, like a mouse in a field
who’d seen the shadow of a predatory bird overhead.
His mother’s voice was sly. “Is this about a date ?”
The raptor’s claws clamped around him.
“No.”
“ Román .”
The way she said his name—the way she’d always said his name when he was trying to pull a fast one on her—awoke his inner teenager.
He tore off his reading glasses and sent her an exasperated look. “Go ahead and ask. I know you want to.”
And he wouldn’t have a moment’s peace until she did.
A spark of glee lit her eyes, and she dragged it out, likely just to annoy him. “Are... you... seeing someone?”
He huffed out a breath and cast his gaze at the ceiling. “Mami—”
“Because if you are—”
“I’m not—”
“Ay dios mío, you are .” Delight transfused Dulce’s features. “Tell me all about her.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” he mumbled, annoyed at having somehow given something away. “It’s not serious.”
Her brows snapped together and the corners of her mouth pinched in disapproval. “Mijo, you’re too old to be pulling that shit.”
He sputtered. “But it’s not .”
“You’re forty, Roman. When is it going to get serious?”
“She doesn’t want it to be,” he muttered, irritated at himself for falling into his mother’s trap.
“What’s her name?”
“I’m not telling you.” He realized immediately how immature that sounded, and sighed. “It doesn’t matter. I’m probably never
going to see her again.”
Dulce returned to her magazine. “Well, you let me know when you do.”
“I will not.”
“Suit yourself. I’ll find out anyway.”
Knowing her, she probably would. Roman put his reading glasses back on and tried to focus on emails.
But all he could think about was what it would be like to attend the gala with Ava on his arm.