Taina
INTER ALIA
I stare at the makeup that’s been replaced, untouched, some still in its plastic wrapping. A peace offering from my mother after seeing the bruises on my arm a few days ago.
Ironically, it also happens to be the day of my father’s campaign announcement party, and I’ve been instructed to “put a dress and some makeup on,” regardless of what I what I want to do. The congressman is now running for Senate. Wonderful.
So when Mami insisted I go with her this afternoon to get a blowout from the Dominican salon, I went. And now my hair is bone straight, down my back.
I went through my closet, trying to think of the best dress to wear that doesn’t make me feel too exposed.
Except I dressed like I was perpetually warm back then. Either my tits were out or my legs were exposed.
With a groan, I grab the longest dress I have, the hem stopping right above the knees. But now that I’m a bit thicker, I’m sure I’ll be tugging on it all night.
As for my legs, stockings will be the staple item keeping me from gross, older men staring at me. Hopefully.
It’s the first time my presence has been requested at an event of theirs since the incident, and I wish they’d canceled all invites indefinitely. Sadly not the case.
So I pull on my tights, hook them to my garter, and stare at my reflection for the first time in a very long time.
I really stare at myself.
And I can almost recognize who’s looking back at me.
The black, dainty lace at the edges of my bra makes me feel beautiful.
Beautiful in a way that’s only for me. I step into my black dress, contorting my arms to pull up the zipper in the back.
Once it’s done, I take a seat at my vanity, surprised it isn’t covered in dust. Good housekeeping, I suppose.
It’s a routine I could once do in mere minutes. But the lack of practice makes my hands shake, cramp, and unable to perform things as easily as I once could.
Still, I power through, opting for a simple one eyeshadow look and get up before I can overanalyze how terrible I’ve gotten. Winged liner? Apparently she’s a stranger.
And now I’m stalling, knowing people have likely already begun arriving. Would it be fashionable to go downstairs when it’s time to bid our guests adieu? Or is that far too late?
I’m about to sit on my bed when there’s a knock at my bedroom door. I’m barely able to tell the person on the other side to come in before my mother pokes her head inside. Once she catches sight of me, her body follows, and I try not to fidget as she appraises me.
“I never thought I’d see you like this again,” she murmurs, bringing her hands up to place them on my arms but dropping them before she makes contact. “Sorry. I know you don’t like to be touched.”
You didn’t care when you were dragging me through the house.
But I shrug, ready to get the night over with.
“Majority of our guests are here, and I’m sure they’d love to see you.”
“To see that I don’t need a wellness check?”
“Taina,” she snaps. “Must you ruin every moment? ”
“What did you tell people I’ve been up to the last few years? I should probably know so I can keep up the image.” I lean in and whisper the last part, happy to be over the hump of her acting like putting on makeup has somehow “cured” me.
She glances away before meeting my eyes again.
“We said that you graduated and moved to Puerto Rico to be closer to our family.”
I try not to be shocked. I always tell myself no one has the ability to shock me anymore.
But this woman takes the cake.
“Probably should’ve gotten a spray tan,” I mutter as I walk past her and out of my room. I take the stairs as quickly as I can, not being used to heels anymore. But I can feel her following, and I need to get away from her.
The guest list was relatively small, and while my parents offer plus-ones, it isn’t often that people utilize the extended invite.
I enter my living room, prepared to see the same old faces that I recognized on the guest list. Except old money politicians apparently aren’t allowing themselves to age anymore, because these aren’t the faces I used to see.
Now I’m surrounded by unnaturally tan and taut skin, eyebrows now acquainted with hairlines that scream, “I Flew to Turkey and All I Got Was a Hair Transplant,” and gray hair dyed unnaturally dark.
It is so fucking eerie in here; very “uncanny valley.” Not quite human-looking anymore.
I’m about to turn to beg the woman I was desperate to get away from moments ago to let me go back upstairs when my gaze snags on a familiar face.
That’s not good.
As if he senses my stare, mid-sip with his tongue resting on his bottom lip, his eyes find mine. His body is still facing the man standing in front of him, but his attention apparently belongs to me now, standing a bit to his right.
I see the beginnings of his smirk before glancing away, trying not to stare.
The last time I saw him, he was in a black dress shirt and dark-gray slacks.
This time, he’s opted for a white dress shirt and deep-blue suit. No tie.
His broad chest and thick arms make me think Kevlar thread may’ve been required to keep a mere flex from shredding the seams. He’s standing nearly a whole head taller than the man he’s speaking to.
This can’t be real.
What the fuck is this guy doing here? Looking all perfect in this fucked-up house.
He takes a sip of his brown liquor—a clear indication that he’s a demon from hell—and claps his free hand over the other man’s shoulder before turning to head to me.
What do I even say, knowing I’m stuck here? Walking away would be pointless. We’re meant to entertain for hours tonight .
For the first time, my other life feels like it’s wedging itself into this part of my life, and I don’t like that the fiery edges of my wrath are singeing me now. He saw me when I was someone else; not this cardboard cutout of what my parents want me to be.
This pendejo couldn’t care less about my warring thoughts.
“To think I almost stayed home,” he says as he steps in front of me. His brown eyes appraise me, and I try not to fall into his syrupy gaze.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t notice how his thighs bulged with each step.
I don’t even know who the fuck I am anymore, honestly.
Taina from a year ago would snatch Current Taina up by the roots of her hair and remind her what men do to women, simply because they can.
It’s the reminder I need as I arch a brow.
“Why are you here?” And did he know I would be?
The slight widening of his eyes when he first saw me makes me think not. But with these creatures, you never know.
“I was invited,” he tells me, gesturing toward me with his glass. “My firm represents soon-to-be Senator de la Matta. We bonded over airtight contracts, inter alia .”
Smug and pretentious. What a delight.
“Oh,” is all I offer, ignoring the way his smiles widen and the apples of his cheeks pop out in a boyish way. But I can’t ignore the way his tan neck looks golden against his crisp white shirt. I can’t ignore the way his scent envelopes me, like a lavish cloud.
“You?” His question strengthens the notion that he didn’t know I’d be here. But, again, you never know with these creatures.
“He’s my father.” My hands clasp one another, anchored at my upper thighs.
I wish someone would save me. I skirt my gaze skirts around the room, hoping to catch someone’s eye and hopefully be called over to hear them drone on about their important lives.
But everyone is having their own discussions and jazz music is filtering through the speakers at a decibel that merely cloaks their murmurs.
I look at the stranger from the gas station again. Not truly a stranger, I suppose. He’s in my home, after all. Invited by my father into what once was my safe space.
The man’s eyes sparkle as he absorbs the knowledge that he works with my father, holding his smile.
“That so?”
“ Ya dije lo que dije ,” I mutter, rocking back a little and peering around the room again. I see my mother, but she has her back turned to me.
Save me, for once woman .
“Your accent is beautiful,” he insists, and my brows draw at the strangeness of his supposed compliment. My Spanish sounds normal.
Just because I don’t enunciate the way most of the Spanish speakers here do, doesn’t mean I have an accent .
Or maybe it does and I’m just being a sensitive little bitch.
“Why are you talking to me?” I finally blurt out, tossing my hands in the air. His lips curve at the sound of his name. “I’m not…” I gesture between us. “This isn’t gonna happen.”
“Excuse me?” he asks, tucking his chin down and tilting his head ever so slightly.
“This,” I insist, watching as the corners of his eyes crinkle. His clean-shaven face only emphasizes his strong jaw.
And his dark curls? They look so soft .
“What?”
I lift a brow and cross my arms over my chest, not caring what an onlooker will think.
Not even my good-for-nothing mother.
“What, you think I’m hitting on you?” he asks, and part of his tone makes me want to shirk back and eat my words. But I haven’t forgotten what a man’s interest feels like, even after all this time.
“That’s exactly what I think.”
“Damn.” He shakes his head before he takes another sip of his drink, his eyes on me the entire time. “I gotta go harder. I want you to know without a shadow of doubt.”
He can’t be serious.
“What if I don’t want you to?” I retort, lifting my chin in defiance.
“You’re free to go.”
His response almost sounds like a dare.
I dare you to walk away. I dare you to pretend I don’t affect you.
But he doesn’t know just how dangerous this is— I am. The potential wreckage could change his life in ways he couldn’ t imagine.
Just because he decided to have a crush on the wrong woman.
He’s an attorney, well-respected if he’s working with my father. So I do the one thing I can think of to avoid mass casualties when it’s time.
I take his glass, down the burning liquor, and set the now empty glass on the table next to us.
“Trust me, this is for your own good,” I tell him before I wipe a bit of whiskey that missed my mouth. He doesn’t say anything as I turn to escape.
I walk away, each clack of my heels meeting the floor echoing my heartbeat. Before I’m able stop myself, I glance over my shoulder.
That motherfucker is still looking at me.