Chapter 34
“D ANIELA, WHY DON’T YOU GO FIRST.” O UR GENERAL MANAGER , Jaqueline Mendes, is on my computer screen. “How’s it going?” She’s sitting in the main conference room, the wallpaper behind her covered in colorful geometric designs. Narrow face, shoulder-length hair that flips out like a half pipe. Seated next to her is Maureen, offering a supportive smile.
My adrenaline is pumping. Everything’s fine, I tell myself. There’s nothing to worry about. Still, in the seven years I’ve worked at Ocean, Jaqueline’s spoken to me only once and that was to bark, “Is that your car?” as I walked by. I almost said the red Ferrari was mine, she was that intimidating.
Jaqueline’s assistant requested the meeting an hour ago, labeling it a “catch up” on the invite, which would sound harmless enough if it weren’t so unprecedented. I’ve put on a fresh coat of makeup and I’m wearing my black blazer with a CBGB T-shirt. A look I hope screams, “Record label powerhouse who discovers underground bands after work.” Never mind that it’s ninety degrees in my room. Or that the outfit doesn’t quite go with the vista behind me—sun setting on a Caribbean island. It looks like I’ve got one of those fake backgrounds on.
“Well, it’s going great. As you know, René took us on a personal tour of his hometown.”
Jaqueline nods approvingly. “Yes, Maureen told me.”
I feel my shoulders untense. Maybe that’s all this call’s about. The head of the label’s just taking time from her busy schedule to tell me to keep up the good work.
“And as I’m sure you’ve heard”—I smile and sit up taller—“the picture we posted of him by his childhood bedroom already has over a hundred thousand likes, and a lot of the artists he’s collaborated with have reshared the post.” I catch a glimpse of Maureen shutting her eyes and nodding in relief. I get it. I’m relieved too. After a disastrous start, I’ve managed to turn things around. “And my personal favorite”—I’m impressed by how off the cuff and together I sound—“is that someone’s started an entire subreddit dedicated to the joy of finally getting to look into René’s eyes.” Maureen lets out a conspiratorial laugh. “And last night”—I shift to a weightier tone—“René improvised an entire song, all while playing the guitar. Santiago had to play it back for him just so he could remember the lyrics and continue working on the vocals.” I sound a little too impressed, so I tone myself down. “The song is so different than what anyone expects from him.”
“Well, I can’t wait to see that footage,” Jaqueline snaps, after giving Maureen a knowing look.
“Actually,” I continue, feeling less sure of myself, “it was after hours, so the cameraman wasn’t with me. But what I did was…” I stop here and try to flash Maureen a smile, because I haven’t told her about this yet. “I took photographs.” Jaqueline’s chin juts out, intrigued.
Last night, as Santiago played back the song, René sat close to me on the couch, so I could show him the pictures. “We have to use them,” he said, and the word “we” sent something warm through me. Not only did he love the photographs, but he was finally seeing the behind-the-scenes as a project that was “ours,” not just something I was forcing on him.
Being there together in the middle of the night felt like we were in another world. One we had just created. With him admiring the photographs while his heavenly new song played, the studio was some sort of magical womb. One with a really nice, high-end speaker system.
“René loves them. I think we can come up with a cool way to use them. They captured the sensitive moment more… respectfully than video. I’m glad James was asleep,” I burst out. For a moment, I think the connection has dropped and left me with a frozen image of Maureen and Jaqueline looking baffled.
“You took photographs? Like with your phone?” Jaqueline doesn’t mask her disappointment.
“No, with a digital camera, and I think if I can get René to finally agree to a proper interview,” I argue, sounding more defensive than I mean to, “they could be really powerful.”
Maureen pulls her eyebrows down. “Send them over!” She sounds overly excited, like she’s putting on a front for Jaqueline. “I’ll check them out and we’ll brainstorm some ideas.”
“Is he pushing back about the interview?” Jaqueline’s revved up. As though someone’s parked in her spot again. “Do we need to step in?”
I scratch at my ear and tighten my ponytail. I can’t find enough to do with my hands. The desire to defend René is so strong. What I want to say, the words that are on the tip of my tongue are, “René’s been making music for over a decade and the songs he’s collaborated on with huge artists are almost always the best songs on those albums. It’s safe to say he’s done proving himself!”
“He’s in no position to be pushing back on anything we need. Has he seen the photograph?” Something about her tone makes my adrenaline start pumping.
“What photograph?”
“Here, I’ll send it to you.” Mo types into her phone.
A moment later, I’m looking at a partially obscured photograph of Natalia sitting in a restaurant booth, dissolved into tears.
“Oh yes, I saw this.” Meri sent me the image just before this call. I felt badly for Natalia and whatever she’s going through, but I don’t see what this has to do with René. “So?”
“Did you read the comments?” Jaqueline doesn’t wait for my response. “People blame René. He’s been skewered, saying how he’s left her a mess. Unable to maintain a relationship.”
“What?”
Tabloids are picking it up,” Jaqueline continues. “It’s been a year and people are still blaming him. The timing couldn’t be worse.”
This is why they’ve called me.
“It’s ridiculous. They’re on excellent terms. And I know for a fact René did not cheat on her.” I shake a finger in the air for punctuation. “They’ve just recorded a song together.”
“About that. We don’t have any footage of them together? Is that right?”
I hesitate for a beat. “No.”
“Anything of them together, having a good time?” she expands, as though there’s some perfect material I’ve forgotten about.
I shake my head. “We do have a brief interview with Natalia in the studio.” I think back to her responses. She was so adoring and admitted she’d come even though René had shared nothing about the song. “Actually, I’m not sure that would help. She kind of came across like she’s still hung up on him.”
Jaqueline sighs loudly. “Well, we have to do something.”
“I’ll talk to him. I’m sure he’ll agree he can’t continue to ignore this.”
After the call, I let my hair down and run my hands through it, setting it free from the ponytail shape it’s still clinging to. I take off the blazer and put it away, then sit back down in front of my computer. I respond to dozens of emails from journalists requesting information and press materials about René. I let them know it will all be ready in a few weeks and then add their names and contact information to the master Excel document.
Then, I find the file where I’ve downloaded all the photographs I took last night and send Maureen a few of my favorites. I still feel these were the right approach, but I wish I hadn’t rambled off about them on the call like that. I’m glad James was asleep. What the heck was that?
My guard was down, that’s all. I just need to build it back up. Convince René that he needs to open up about the real reason behind that breakup. People should know, Natalia dumped him. Not the other way around.
Two more weeks. I need to keep a steady head on my shoulders. I’ll focus on getting what we need. Like a robust interview that ties everything together.
I step outside for some fresh air and follow the path that leads to the beach. It’s dark out now, but James and I need to be in the studio in an hour for another late-night session. Santiago has spent the day working on the new track, while René and Camila took the small boat out. There’s nothing to worry about, I tell myself. Outside, the night air feels cool and the moon is gone tonight so the ocean is a large inky blanket.
On my left there’s a frame of wooden screens I’ve never seen before. I make my way through them and reach a garden with two large sculptures sticking out of the sand. I sit on the steps that lead to the beach to admire them. They’re two silhouettes of heads looking up at the sky. From where I’m sitting, dozens of stars are framed inside them.
I slouch back, kick off my boots and let my feet enjoy the cool sand. Out of the corner of my eye, I see something on the stairs. There’s a pair of yellow high-top sneakers. On impulse, I lean across the step and pick one up. It’s hand-painted with colorful graffiti. I turn them around and even the soles are painted, making them look more like an expensive work of art than a shoe.
I bring it up close to my face to try to make out what it says when René walks into the sculpture garden. Shirtless. His sculpted tan chest is dripping wet and he’s wearing short swim trunks that sit low on his waist and cling to his skin. He looks like a merman whose under-the-sea shift just ended.
“Hi,” I say, a couple of octaves too high.
He stops in his tracks, surprised to see me. “Hey.” He rubs at his wet hair and stands there for a split second, then moves again.
I set the shoe down as he rinses the sand off his feet at a faucet on the end of the deck. When he’s done, he approaches me, his tight trunks at my eye level, and I try to ignore the sizable bulge.
“May I?” he asks, pointing at his shoes.
“Of course.” I slide as far over as I can on the narrow step.
He picks up one of his shoes and pulls out a pair of socks tucked inside. Lifting one knee up at a time, he pulls on both socks. He’s so close, I can smell the saltwater on his skin as well as the musky sweet cologne he wears as an undertone. Just like he did with his socks, he slips on both sneakers.
“Interesting,” I say.
“What?”
“Nothing. It’s just you put on both socks and then both sneakers.”
“Yeah, so? How do you do it?”
“Uh… sock, shoe, sock, shoe. As is common practice.”
He scoffs. “Always?”
“Always,” I respond firmly.
He shakes his head.
“No, hear me out. When you put one sock on at a time like that, you have to put your foot down on the ground. Now that sock is exposed to dirt and debris. Dirt that is going to be transported into your fancy shoe. It’s just senseless.”
He lets out a single laugh. “Dirt and debris,” he repeats quietly, squinting his eyes as he looks at me. “I’ll consider it.”
His body adjusts like he’s about to stand, but then stops himself. “What do you think about those?” He aims his chin toward the sculptures.
I take them in again, more discerningly this time. “I like them,” I say decidedly.
“Me too. They seem happy, don’t you think?”
“Yeah. Though that’s probably because they don’t have any brains.”
He snorts and nods. “I think you might be right.”
We sit in silence for a moment, and I feel a pulsing between us.
“So, when did you get into photography?”
“High school. But last night was the first time I’ve taken pictures in a long time.” I trail off, my mind flooded with memories. “My dad used to drive me to this dark room class every Saturday, and then wait in the parking lot until the hour was done. He’d inspect all my prints and tease me about how similar they all were. ‘ Chica, yo no le veo la diferencia ,’ he’d say, holding up two prints of the same image. One could be completely blown out and awful and he’d still say he couldn’t tell the difference.” René chuckles. “I’d like to pick it back up again, to be honest. Though… I thought that part of me was done growing or was stunted or something.”
He scoffs. “My best friend when I was little got a Saint Bernard puppy for Christmas one year.”
“Okay? Abrupt change in topic.”
“Stay with me,” he says, “and the dog grew all out of order. Tail, legs, and then his head.” I raise an eyebrow, amused by the bizarre observation. “What I’m trying to say, in a way I hoped you’d find poetic and insightful, is it doesn’t matter how we grow, or in what order. As long as you keep growing.”
“Ah. I guess it was sort of poetic.” I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “You know, these are exactly the kind of deep thoughts we want to capture in your main interview.” He exhales loudly but doesn’t respond. “Seriously, we’ll have a lot to cover.”
“We’ll see.” He surveys my face and I do my best to maintain eye contact, but it isn’t easy.
He arches his eyebrows like he’s got something to say. He opens his mouth, reconsiders it, and then chuckles to himself. His knee is doing a little nervous bounce. Is René squirming? Because of me?
There’s a strong hold on my chest. Any attempts to rebuild my guard are crumbling with this push and pull between us.
I need to secure this interview. “Have you seen the picture of Natalia from today?”
He scowls and bites down on his lower lip. “Yeah.”
“It would help if you spoke up about what happened between you two. It makes you look culpable that you haven’t.”
He lets out a sort of grunt. “What, you don’t trust me anymore?”
A single laugh escapes me. “Oh, I never trusted you.” It slips out and I’m sure I meant for it to sound playful, but his face drops. He nods a few times, then looks away.
As the silence drags, a million thoughts flood my brain. He’s upset. Why is he upset? He doesn’t get to be mad at me. Why should I trust him?
“Can you really blame me?” I’m gentle but blunt. There’s something in his eyes, a flicker of concern. This is the course of action I’ve decided on. The only way to fix this is to break it down. Crack it all open. Right here and now. “That song, the one you recorded with her. With Natalia. The one you performed on the beach. Is it about me?”
He puckers, considering this, then looks away. “I didn’t want to perform it that day,” he says matter-of-factly. “Then Santiago just started playing it.” I’m numb. This response isn’t good. He’s not denying it. “I took some poetic license, but yes, it is about you.” He leans back on his hands.
A high-pitched whimper escapes me. I quickly grab one of my shoes and try to slip it on. It’s too tight. I have to unlace it first and I hate that even on this dimly lit boardwalk, it’s clear my hands are shaking.
“You didn’t like it?”
I scoff exaggeratedly. “Why would I like it? It’s an insulting song.”
He scrunches his face. “I don’t think so.”
“ No one wants your sexy selfie ?” I quote loudly.
“ Not if you’re repressed when you undress ,” he raps, completing the lyric. As though it were some kind of defense.
“That doesn’t make it any better.”
“You said yourself you couldn’t dance, right?” he argues as though reviewing a list. “And you do wear a lot of blazers.”
I squeeze my lips tight. I can’t believe this. How is he not apologizing? “Just because something is true, that doesn’t…” I’m so upset, I can’t think of the words. “It doesn’t make it less insulting.” I try again. “If you’re making fun of someone.”
“I wasn’t making fun of you. You didn’t really listen to the song.” He sits back up, concerned. “ I want to make you move, and move you, the way you move me. ” He’s delivered the line slowly, as though reciting a poem. Okay, I don’t remember that part of the song, but I’m not about to admit it. Besides, one nice line does not negate the rest of it.
“Yeah, sure, but first I have to take off my blazer, get off my high horse, drop the attitude, and take care of a bunch of problems I didn’t even know I had. Believe me, I heard it. I wish I could unhear it.”
“You heard it,” he repeats, his face rigid, “but you weren’t really listening. You heard what you wanted to hear.”
I can’t accept he’s still pushing back. “There’s no mistaking, I never met a Latina I didn’t like, until now ,” I quote defensively, and in a way that also sounds like I’m mocking the song.
He’s quiet for an unnerving amount of time. I look at him, my body steady. For the first time in my life, I fight the desire to fill up the silence or to come to someone’s aid. I won’t make this easier for him. When he finally looks at me again, there’s a wounded look in his eyes.
“I wasn’t making fun of you,” he says earnestly. “I’m sorry you took it that way.”
All I manage is a shaky nod. We need to work together. I should tell him it’s fine. That it’s fine, even if it isn’t. But my throat is tight and dry, and I can’t get any words out.