Chapter 31
T HE WORDS FLOW SO EASILY, YOU’D NEVER KNOW I WAS DRAFTING a text to Mom letting her know how totally cool I am that she’s met someone. It doesn’t even occur to me to mention I’m concerned about how quickly she’s moving with him. Instead, I tap away, letting her know how deserving of happiness she is and how incredibly proud I am she’s put herself out there. I throw in a bunch of Mom’s favorite emoji, flamenco lady. They float there at the end of the text, dancing their little hearts out, adding just the kind of levity and joy I want to transmit.
I’m hoping this carefree hopefulness will last, but I think I’m just riding on a rush of endorphins brought on by how well it went this morning. It’s gone even better than I’d hoped. Like, “I think I just saved my job” better.
“Has Maureen responded?” René asks, twisting around the front seat of the helicopter so he can see me sitting behind the pilot. We’ve agreed we’re done filming for the day, so James is next to me, holding the camera on his lap. I can’t help comparing how different it was to sit next to René. Right now, I don’t feel any tingles of electricity. Only a large camera battery poking into my waist.
“No, not yet. We don’t have a signal up here.”
“True.” He turns back around and taps his hands excitedly on his thighs as though they were drums. I can’t believe he’s excited about the post. I can’t believe he agreed to the post.
While we were still at his house, I emailed Mo the image and text for her to approve. We landed on, Soon, I’ll let you in… , first in Spanish and then in English. I love the image René and I agreed on. He’s looking right into the camera, a sweet half smile, eyes literally sparkling in the sunlight. Behind him, the revealing images on his door are partially in view along with a glimpse of his bedroom.
We reach the ocean, and the helicopter veers right to follow the coast. With San Juan behind us, we begin to float down over a parking lot near a long strip of food trucks. René turns around. “We’re going to get a bite here before we head back.”
As soon as we land, I turn airplane mode off on my phone and send the drafted text to Mom. I admire it proudly then scroll through the last few texts I’ve sent her, all way less fun in comparison. Not a single playful emoji in sight. I’m checking up on the window installation, her health, and whether the repaired sink disposal is functioning okay. And is she really sure, has she tested it with something like a lemon?
Next, I check my emails and find a response from Maureen. It’s simple and to the point, but I can tell she’s excited.
Brilliant! Go for it!
I tap René’s shoulder and flash him the response. When it registers, he keeps a straight face but stretches his hand out for a high five. I comply, but not without a smirk.
“How much time have we got?” James asks brusquely as he unbuckles his seat belt.
René turns to speak, but I beat him to it. “What’s up?”
“I’d like to take a taxi to San Juan for a few things I can’t get on the island.”
“Sure, whatever you need,” says René. “We’ll be here at least an hour.”
“Great,” James snaps loudly. “Thanks.” What’s up with him ?
“Hey, are you okay?” I ask James, once René is outside.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Are you feeling sick again?”
“No. I’m okay. Just a little tired, I think. Seriously,” he reassures me, “I’ll be back soon.” He sounds more like himself, so I choose to believe him.
Once James is gone, I find René outside and review the social media post one more time.
“Are you sure?” I ask him before posting.
He nods once, and when I’m done, I hand his phone back, feeling accomplished and relieved.
“This is a strange place for so many food trucks,” I say as we approach the crosswalk. “There’s nothing around here.” Across the street is an oasis of food trucks facing the two-way road with a narrow strip of beach behind them. The smell of smoke from savory beef being grilled on open fire pits reminds me I’ve barely eaten today. We’ve arrived a little late for lunch, so there aren’t many people in line and the picnic tables on the grass in front of the road are mostly empty.
“It’s a busy road, so it’s an easy pit stop as you’re going into or out of San Juan.”
Different songs blast from the trucks, so as we walk past one, the song changes. It’s like switching the station on the radio with your steps. I catch my reflection in a food truck window. My hair is all tussled like it’s on vacation, and there’s more color on my face.
“Everything here is delicious.” René has stopped in front of a truck with large pictures of their menu posted outside.
I check out the options. Every single item looks delicious, except for one oddball, poorly lit sandwich in the corner. Possibly a quick last-minute addition.
René pulls a face. “That one looks like he had a rough night.”
“I think that might be its mug shot,” I whisper.
He laughs and my eyes drift to his one crooked tooth. It’s on the top right of his smile and it leans in a little. It’s the sexiest little tooth.
I try to ignore the confusing cocktail of emotions. There’s relief in the ease between us, but there’s also distrust and apprehension over the hurtful song he wrote.
“I think I’ll just go back for something from the first place,” I say, trying to regain control of my head.
“You can’t come here and go to just one place. You have to hit a few. Try different things. They each have their own specialty. Here.” René leads us to the picnic tables. On each one, there are a variety of hot sauces and a whole, raw onion holding down a small stack of napkins. “I’ll go first. Pick a few things, and then you can go.”
I watch him walk away and I’m surprised no one recognizes him. I wonder how he’ll feel if this album blows up. Will he be able to come to places like this without bodyguards?
For the first time, I consider the possibility of working with him again. We’ll have to at some point, I’m sure. One day I’ll cover the filming of one of his music videos or see him backstage at an awards show. God, I hope this album wins awards but not for the song about me.
That’s it. I have to ask him about the song. Now, while we’re alone. I can’t keep pushing it down. I’ll get an ulcer. Who knows, maybe he does have a good explanation.
There’s a bounce in his step as he makes his way back carrying a small tray of food. “Okay, here’s my selection.” He places a glass of juice in front of me. “Homemade passion fruit juice and empanadas. These are spinach and these have beef.” He points to a small plastic container. “Mayo-ketchup,” he announces. Then he shakes another one with oily green liquid in it. “And cilantro mojo.”
I grab a beef empanada and take a bite.
“No, wait! May I?” René asks, leaning across the table with the cilantro mojo in his hand. When I nod, he pours the oil into the opening I’ve bitten into it. It seeps inside, and the whole moment feels bizarrely intimate.
If someone were watching, they’d think we were a couple. I sit up taller and try to push the thought away. What I need to do is find the right moment to bring up the song he wrote. I tap my forehead and feel a layer of perspiration. René’s skin is also gleaming. There’s a warm, intermittent breeze coming from the ocean, but it’s no match for the early afternoon sun, and heat rising from the open-air fire pits that surround us.
I take another bite and my eyes widen. It’s the absolute perfect burst of zesty beef, lemony cilantro, and warm, flaky crust. I shut my eyes, savoring the flavors. When I open them, a trail of oil is oozing down my wrist, threatening to drop onto my pants, so I stop it with my mouth. With my lips still on the back of my wrist, I catch René watching me closely as he chews.
I flash him an awkward smile, take a napkin, and wipe the rest away.
“It’s delicious,” I say at last.
“Your turn.”
I walk away feeling a little ridiculous and like I need to get a hold of myself. I decide when I get back, I’ll just place the food down and say something like, “Hey, there’s something I need to ask you.” Or more to the point, “Hey, we need to talk about the song.”
I find a bright yellow truck and peer into their glass case filled with different kinds of fritters. I find myself wanting to impress René with my choices. I want to pick a few things that are delicious and maybe balance each other out. I get the vendor to tell me what everything is and decide on what looks like an elephant ear but is in reality codfish batter. The thing is bigger than my face. To add some sweet to the savory, I also get some fried sweet cheese croquettes.
I wonder how he’ll react when I confront him. Another thought pops up as I watch the vendor grab our items with a napkin. This feels like a date. A really fun date. I don’t know if it’s the heat getting to me but I’m in a happy trance walking through a wall of smoke from the fire pits.
“ Bacalaíto ,” René announces with glee, “and sorullitos ?”
I nod with an expectant smile and admire my selections.
“I love these.” René grabs one of the croquettes, dunks it in mayo-ketchup sauce, and takes a bite, devouring half of it. He groans with delight. “Unexpected grouping with the codfish but I admire your”—he pauses to think about how he wants to finish his thought—“creativity.”
I shake my head, pretending to be upset, and take a bite of bacalaíto . I take my time, letting it linger in my mouth before swallowing. They’ve magically turned fish into an airy, fried doughy snack. It’s thin and perfectly crispy on the outside, soft and chewy on the inside.
“I’ve never had this before.” I rip another piece off and dunk it in the cilantro oil.
“Really?” René’s flummoxed.
“My dad never wanted to go out for Puerto Rican. He was never impressed and spent the entire time comparing everything to the food back here. My mom used to make a few basic dishes, but nothing like this.”
René furrows his brow and opens his mouth to speak just as his phone rings on the table. Santiago’s name pops up on the screen. “That’s actually why I wanted to bring you here.” He flips the phone around without answering it.
My stomach does a couple of somersaults at the sight of René not taking a call because he’s with me. Being the focus of René’s full attention is overwhelming. I feel drunk.
“My turn,” he announces, pushing himself away from the table.
I wish I could know what he’s thinking. Is he having as much fun? Now that he’s gone, I re-center myself. I need to ask him about the song. I’m running out of time.
A few minutes later, René returns and places a basket on the table with extra swagger. “ This is the real reason we’re here.” He looks accomplished, like he’s won some game.
“A giant corn dog?” I tease him.
“This is so much better than a corn dog,” he explains, his face lit up. “It was in the song.”
I tense up. “What song?”
“Your father’s song. The line about alcapurrias .”
I blink a few times but can’t speak.
“I’m sorry, we can get them back on the island too,” René says, concerned. “These are the best I’ve ever had so I thought I’d bring you here. But maybe that was wrong? I can take you to get some on the island instead.”
“No. It’s not that. It’s just…” What I want to say is, why are you being so nice to me? “I know you have work to do. You have so few days. I just want you to know, you don’t have to do any of this.” The words spill out of me quickly in an irritated ramble.
He shuffles in the seat. “I know.”
I let out a deep exhale and pick up the alcapurria . I take a bite and it’s an explosion of flavor. Sweet and spicy mash wrapped around tangy, savory meat. “It’s the best thing we’ve had today,” I admit somberly. “The least attractive, but still the tastiest.”
“Right? The dough is made of plantains and yucca. And then deep fried, of course.”
“Of course,” I say, feeling my throat tickle. I refuse to get emotional over a fritter. It’s just impossible not to think of my dad. Suddenly, I can see him here. Walking around with that bounce in his step. Always open to strike up a conversation or make new friends. He would have asked the couple next to us where they were from and suggested things they could do in the area. He would have ribbed the vendors. Coming up with just the right thing to make a perfect stranger laugh.
I feel his absence so much more intensely here. Probably because it’s become impossible to fight back the memories. Still, it’s nice to let them in. To fill the hole in my heart with a clearer picture of him. To remember his zest and the way he left everyone he met better off than they were before.
“Hey,” I say and take a deep breath, “thanks again for today.” He nods, glancing up at me. “Now we just need a proper interview.” René scrunches his nose at this, as though he’s smelled something foul. “Seriously, we’ll really need one at some point.”
He sits back in his chair, studying me. “You really don’t let up?”
“Does it upset you there’s someone in the world who doesn’t bow before El Rico?”
“No, not in this case.”
The directness of his comment sends me floating. “Seriously, though, all the wonderful footage in the world will need to have actual sound bites for us to share with the press,” I add.
He grabs a sorullito and points it at me. “You don’t dance. I don’t do interviews. We all have our things.”
Bringing up my not dancing reminds me of the lyrics of his song, and it takes all of me not to reveal the disappointment on my face.