Chapter 4
I ’M STARING AT A PICTURE OF R ENé WITHOUT A SHIRT ON. F OR strictly work reasons, of course. He’s humorless behind his dark shades, head tilted up. I drag the mouse, zooming in on one of his tattoos, and make a note. Puerto Rican flag on heart. I’ve spent the day on the couch with José José, our elderly dachshund, cuddled beside me while I crammed on all things El Rico.
The verdict? Attitude aside, he’s extremely talented. And in demand. For over a decade, he’s been writing songs for other artists, collaborating on major hits, and recording a lot of duets. As far as I can tell, he’s been the secret ingredient to almost every successful reggaeton dance hit of the past few summers. All little tidbits of information I wish I knew yesterday.
Another major takeaway: He’s as big a jerk in his songs as he is in real life. On almost every single track, René’s the bad guy who threatens to steal your girlfriend, succeeds, then leaves her hanging.
Still, his voice is unlike anything I’ve ever heard. It’s perfectly imperfect. Sure, he only pops on for about twenty seconds in a duet, but when he does, his unique voice cuts through and marks its territory in a song. I can’t believe he’s thirty-one, practically a spinster in recording artist years, and hasn’t been signed until now. Maybe that’s why he’s wary of record labels.
He has a loyal fan base. There’s an entire Reddit thread dedicated to discussing whether he and his personal assistant and stylist, Camila Gómez, aka Floppy Hat, are secretly a couple. He’s also been linked to a few of the women he’s collaborated with and a handful of models. René is extremely private. The spokesmodel for a brand of designer sunglasses, he never takes them off. His social media presence consists entirely of curated images of his sunglasses casually strewn about wherever he goes. Sunglasses in a recording studio. Sunglasses at a restaurant. Sunglasses on the edge of a hot tub.
I’ve dug up every “El Rico” interview to be found online. There are only a few from early on in his career. None of which were particularly helpful. He doesn’t open up to anyone . Granted, most interviewers back then only wanted to hear about the more well-known artists he was collaborating with.
So I’m hoping his tattoos will help me learn something about him. Thankfully, there are innumerable shirtless photos of him online. I find a picture of him from behind and jot down more notes. Research significance of large bird on his back. Is a phoenix a real bird?
I’m feeling less confident than I would hope after this many hours of René research. My biggest concern is that he will demand to work with someone else. Someone who knows what he looks like. Then again, it’s been over twenty-four hours. If he were really upset, my boss would have heard by now. I hold José José’s sweet face in my hands. “Right?” He leans in, resting his head in my hands. “By the way, blink twice if the duck is pestering you.”
“Mom, I need a despojo ,” my sister, Meri, announces as she flings her bedroom door open.
She’s wearing a tight yellow tank dress and has crafted ornate twirly shapes on her eyelids with yellow liquid liner. She’s standing, head tilted back melodramatically, waiting for a reaction.
“ ?Por qué? ” Mom calls out as she walks over.
“First, I can’t get Juan out of my head, and now this test. None of it is going inside my head.”
“Okay, let me see if we have eggs,” Mom replies casually.
“You need a spiritual cleansing to help you memorize better?” I ask, not looking up from the computer.
“Pretty much, yeah.” She doesn’t sound like herself. Her voice has a gruff, tired quality. She drags her feet and plops down next to me on the couch. “So, how did it go? You have to give me a little more than ‘It was fine,’” she begs, inspecting René’s physique on my computer screen.
“It was okay.” Thinking about last night makes me feel nauseous, but I can understand Meri’s excitement. I’ve finally met someone at work she actually listens to, but I don’t want to burst her bubble and break the news that René’s a complete asshat. Or admit that I didn’t recognize him.
“What did he say? What was he wearing?”
The memory of René standing in front of me without a shirt on begins to take form, so I shake it away. “Let’s talk about your test.” I close the computer, and Meri drops her head dramatically. “Are you sure you don’t want me to hire the tutor? You know, instead of an egg.”
Meri sits up. “No, it’s fine,” she says firmly.
“Seriously, the offer is still there.” I know it’s not the best time to suggest it, seeing as the window deposit will wipe out my bank account. Private tutors aren’t cheap, but I found one that has great reviews for visual learners like Meri. It took her four years to get her AA, and for the past three years, she’s worked as a sales rep for a well-known beauty brand while she’s attempted to pass the nursing entrance exam.
Nursing wasn’t what I expected for her. She spent most of her teen years watching or creating makeup tutorials on social media, but I’ll admit I was relieved. Nursing is secure. Nurses make good money. Nurses make overtime. Double, if they’re sent to a city where they’re in high demand. Still, the college admits students only once a year for the fall. So for the past three years she’s been stuck in a continuous loop. Study for the test, take the test, fail the test, wait for the test.
Mom hands Meri an egg and steps outside. “You want one?” Meri asks, waving the egg in the air.
“No, I’m good.”
“ Are you? Have you heard from him?” Meri sounds concerned.
“Who?”
“Your ex. You forgot about him already?”
“Oh, James,” I say, relieved. “No, I haven’t forgotten about him. We’re fine.”
“Do you miss him?” She’s motionless in front of me, determined to get to the bottom of things.
“No.”
“That’s kind of sad.”
“No, it isn’t.” It’s been two months since we broke up, I want to add. But then I remember that Meri won’t think that’s much of a defense. James and I dated for a year and I wasn’t especially sad when it first happened either.
I see it as a win that we’ve been able to slip right back into friendly colleague mode. Isn’t that the best of all possible scenarios?
“I knew it. You didn’t seem perdidamente enamorada .” Mom purses her lips, contemplating. She’s standing by the double doors that lead to the backyard, listening to every word.
“That’s a good thing. I don’t want to be ‘lost in love.’ That sounds awful. ‘Lost’ isn’t a healthy relationship goal, Mom.”
“He was too serious,” she continues, disregarding what I’ve said.
“I liked that he was serious. I’m serious.”
“That’s true.” She sounds disheartened, as though disappointed of the reminder.
As they step into the yard, I can’t help but feel more left out than usual. They’re so alike. Meri cooks like my mom, makes Cuban coffee like her. Try as I might, I’ve yet to achieve the damn espumita . They’re both excellent dancers and will break into salsa at the slightest provocation. My sister could dance before she could walk. Literally. And anytime Meri’s heartbroken, Mom is there, ready to jump into action. Wave an egg, read her tarot cards, or drop some seashells into a cup of water to help lure the guy back.
I know she’s proud of my accomplishments. First in the family to get a degree, my job at the label, but I have this feeling nothing would make my mom happier than to find me sprawled out on my bed, in tears over a guy. Heartbreak, she understands. This cold, unfeeling daughter, she does not.
Before James, my previous relationship lasted three years, and that one also ended amicably and tearless. Who wants to be lost in love? No, thank you. I prefer to know exactly where I am at all times. Where does falling get you?
I watch through the window as Meri, under Mom’s guidance, slowly waves the egg around her head, and then her whole body. I hate that my sister is still hurting over her cheating ex.
Of all our differences, our taste in men is the most distinct. Meri always seems to fall for the wrong guys. The hot ones who talk a good game, then turn out to be untrustworthy liars. I prefer no promises to broken ones. I love a man who’s rational and restrained. It’s why I think Spock is the sexiest character on Star Trek .
Mom grabs the egg from Meri and takes over the cleansing. They look like the Witches of Eastwick out there, waving an egg around in the moonlight. There’s a tugging in my chest. Meri’s only five years younger, but when our dad died, I felt that gap widen. I could see in her eyes how afraid she was. She’s strong-willed but extremely vulnerable at the same time, and I wanted so much to take the worry and heartache away. For Mom too. Even now if I could bubble-wrap them, I would. Put them in an egg carton.
Mom holds the door open for Meri, who walks through the house holding the egg out in front of her. “Now just throw it out into the street, into the intersection.”
“I know,” Meri says.
“Well, that’s done.” Mom sounds certain she’s cured whatever was ailing my sister.
I wish I could believe that were true. Because at the moment, I’m picturing Meri walking down the street, throwing the egg out into the busy intersection, hitting a passing cop car, and getting arrested.