Chapter 38
S OMEONE HAS SPRUCED UP THE TENT FOR US. I NSIDE, STACKED together in the middle, are a thin sleeping pad, two small pillows, a sheet, a blanket, a large bottle of water, a flashlight that doubles as a lantern, and two oranges. It’s good we have things to do right away. We don’t need to speak or think about what’s happening. There’s the unified task of getting the tent ready. Move the oranges. Spread out the sheet.
“Are you sure you’re okay with this setup?”
“Yeah, totally.” I almost add, “I trust you,” but I’m glad I catch myself. I don’t want to bring up that old wound right now. Besides, I do trust him. It’s me I’m worried about. I don’t know what my arms and legs will do while I sleep. What if he wakes up in the middle of the night and I’m holding him in a tight death grip?
I scooch over near one of the pillows, and he positions himself near the entrance, sitting back on his knees. He peels his shirt off and lays it over his backpack for drying. Even in the dim light of the lantern, I discover little things about him. The whirl of a cowlick on the back of his head. He bites his lower lip when he’s concentrating.
“Are you okay with me taking these off?” His hands pat his wet shorts.
“Sure.” I look away and pretend to inspect my corner of the tent. He shuts the light off and crawls toward me. It’s dark but my eyes adjust quickly enough to see black, hip-hugging briefs.
“Do you want to take those off?” he asks, pointing at my jeans. I realize I’m lying on, and therefore dampening, our shared blanket, so I quickly tuck myself under it.
“No, I’m fine.” I’ll just have wrinkled legs in the morning.
We barely fit. We’re both on our backs, side by side, and my right shoulder is pressed against the cool tent fabric.
“You’re shivering.” I shut my eyes, embarrassed he’s noticed. “Your clothes are soaked. Just take them off.” He sounds more like a concerned friend than a guy trying to get me naked.
Obviously, sleeping in my underwear is the sensible thing to do. My silk shirt and jeans are soaked and cold. They’re also extremely uncomfortable, like heavy chain mail stuck to my skin.
“I’ve already seen you in your bra and underwear, remember?”
“Uh, no. You said it was too dark to see anything.”
“Did I? That’s right.”
“I knew it. Admit it, you could see me from your rooftop.”
“I’ll answer that if you admit you had no idea who I was when you first met me.”
My mouth makes an involuntary deflating noise. “I could just go up on your rooftop and find out for myself.”
“I want to see you try.” His voice drops to pillow talk levels and I feel a stretching and squeezing. Like someone’s playing the accordion with my rib cage.
“Fine.” I sit up. “Bet you’ve never had to ask a girl twice before,” I tease, trying to cover up my nerves as I struggle getting the wet tank up over my head.
“I’m just going to ignore that.” He steps in to help me pull my top over my arms. I get the jeans to my knees but he has to take over from there. He crawls to the end of the tent and peels them off. He tries to make the task strictly utilitarian, to keep his gaze on the jeans. I, however, am not able to take my eyes off him. And the way he takes his time stretching out my things at the foot of the tent to help them dry.
“Thanks. I’m glad that, in this household, you’re responsible for clothes drying.”
“That works for me. What’s your chore going to be?”
“I’m one hell of an orange peeler. So, whenever you’re ready for that, just let me know.”
He fights back a grin and I watch the outline of his body crawling back toward me. I lie back feeling a million times better. We settle under our blanket again and something feels different. My body temperature is more comfortable, for one. But things are more comfortable between us as well. Probably because I’ve accepted this is happening. I’m going to sleep in a tent on the beach with René. In my underwear.
When the rain picks up, René gets out from under the blanket and grabs his audio recorder from his backpack. He gets back under the blanket and aims it at the roof of the tent. I support him with my silence.
“Cierra los ojos.”
Damn it, his deep voice is always sexier in Spanish.
“Okay.” I close my eyes and tuck a hand behind my head. Right away, the muffled sound of rain pelting the fabric heightens.
With my eyes still closed, he shares his collection of sounds. Some from our trip to his hometown. Busy streets and places he’s traveled to. Many variations of waves, the coqui frog we risked our lives for.
“It’s amazing how a sound can make you feel,” René says. “They ground me. That’s why it’s so important for me to include them in the album. Just hearing them, you know you’re in Puerto Rico.”
“Yeah, that’s all very nice,” I tease. “Just promise me you’ll repeat everything you just said in our final interview.”
He means to elbow me, but we’re so close together, he ends up pressing his forearm gently against my side. The feel of his warm skin on mine makes my insides stretch and squeeze again.
“This is a good one.” He lies on his side to face me and holds the recorder close to my ear. “Can you guess what it is?”
I shut my eyes again, feeling an easy sort of bliss. The sizzling of food on a grill, music in the distance, people talking. A broad smile stretches across my face. “The food trucks.”
“Correct.”
“I’m surprised I can remember a lot of these.” I turn my body to face him. It’s dark, but I can make out all the details of his face. “They’re like audible snapshots.”
“I do this all the time,” he explains. “I prefer recording sound to taking pictures. A few seconds of my family at home at Christmas is way better than a fake photo session by the tree.”
“Yeah, but it’s so much harder to frame.”
He scrunches up his nose in pretend protest. “I know you like photography, but I think sound is more honest. Audio has no judgment. It just is. It’s hard to see without judgment. Impossible to capture a photograph without altering the truth.”
“That’s probably why I love photography.” I move an arm up near my chest, trying to get more comfortable. “You have the control. You can make someone feel what you want. Take the gaze, for example. Where a subject is looking changes everything. If they’re looking directly at the camera, it’s a demand.” The look in his eyes seems to intensify. “Or when a photograph is out of focus,” I continue, my heart beginning to race, “it creates a sense of confusion for the viewer. It’s uncomfortable.”
He narrows his eyes and puckers his lips. “So, why aren’t you doing it full time? What do you need? A place to stay? Inspiration?” He spits out offers generously. “I know people who support the arts,” he says with a wink.
“That’s very kind, but I’ve actually never wanted to do it professionally. I love my job. Photography is something that lets me… I don’t know, express myself. I just never do it anymore. It’s been a long time.” I fidget, then rub at the tarp beneath me, feeling a pebble near my butt.
“How come?”
“It’s been a while since I’ve had any time for anything that wasn’t… productive,” I admit with a wince. “It’s been nice to have the chance to incorporate it into the making of your album. But I’m also glad we’re getting video.”
“And why is that?”
He adjusts an arm under his face and leans over slightly as the rain gets louder. It feels so good to be here with him, looking into his eyes. So easy to be open. Outside, the sky is falling, but in here, things are clear and safe. Even if I can’t stop looking at his lips.
“Well, because getting to see you make music is pretty amazing. And you do this thing where you laugh when you like the way something sounds and things are working. I wouldn’t be able to capture that with a picture.”
He smiles and then his eyes move around my face, searching for something. “So”—he clears his throat—“what have you been doing with your time? What’s been more productive than making art and expressing yourself?”
“Work.”
“That’s it?”
“Pretty much.”
“Would you say you’re a workaholic, Dani?” he asks in his best therapist impression.
“I am starting to think so. Sometimes when I see a ‘Now Hiring’ sign at a coffee shop, I’ll think, I could probably work here on weekends. Or squeeze in a few hours before work. Get up early. Maybe six a.m. to eight-thirty a.m. Help out with their morning rush.”
Even in the dark, I can see his eyebrows furrow. “Is it because of money?” he asks, still in his therapist voice. “Or are you afraid of free time?”
I huff. “Maybe both.” His face shifts from compassion to concern. “What about you? What’s the end goal, René? World domination? International stardom?”
He exhales loudly. “Honestly? I want to sell out a stadium. Just me.” His sincerity washes over me. “When I’ve performed in one for the collabs I’ve done, the energy is…” He makes an explosive sound. “You feel all this love. Like the whole damn city has showed up for you.”
The accordion in my chest stretches wider and then contracts even tighter. “You’ll get there with this album.”
He puckers his lips considering this. God, those lips. “Some people think I should play it safe, stick to collabs.”
“Does that worry you?”
“A little bit. I worry I’ll let people down. And it would suck”—he chuckles—“to be one of those artists that was doing great and then fucked it up when they went in a different direction.”
“Well, I think you have to keep trusting your instincts.” He moves his hand and it lands so close to mine, I can almost feel it. “You won’t disappoint anyone. There’s so much certainty in this new music. So much strength. Even when you’re being vulnerable. It’s so real, René,” I say, meaning every word. “So true to yourself and where you come from. What’s not to love? Is what… people will say,” I tack on. “When they hear it. And…” I draw in a breath because our hands have made contact. “I genuinely think the behind-the-scenes of the album will help you. You’re changing before our eyes. Well”—I have to collect myself because my heart is racing—“not really changing, more like shedding. Real instruments, real conversations with your friends, and no sunglasses. You’ve let us in.”
“You’re in all right.”
My breath gets caught somewhere deep in my chest. His hand presses into mine and I slip my fingers under his. He opens my palm and traces it with his fingertips, mesmerized. When he gets to my wrist, everything feels warmer. My free hand moves up his arm. His skin is soft, yet solid with muscle. He starts to lean over and my hand tugs at his shoulder, bringing him in faster.
The feel of his pillowy soft lips on mine pushes me over an edge I hadn’t realized I was so close to. The kiss is slow and tender. And slightly smoky from the rain on our skin.
A burst of laughter from a nearby tent snaps me back to Earth. I pull away, my heart knocking against my chest, and I lean back until I feel the tent fabric behind me. He settles back too, the way he was a few moments ago.
I need a minute. I need to get a hold of myself. “Thank you, um, for bringing me here. Too much.” I’m not making any sense. My brain hasn’t fully powered back on. “I’m so grateful. I don’t like surprises, but now, I think I may like them. You have single-handedly changed how I feel about surprises.”
“Glad I made an impact.”
I have to chuckle at how short his sentence is compared to what I’m feeling. Then, I think about going home in a few days and my chest aches.
“Dani…” he starts but stops short.
“Seriously, though, I loved it.” My mind has spun off without me. “And the whole thing was so effortless. The musicians, the—”
“Now, I wouldn’t say that .” His voice is deep and warm. “I booked the four-wheelers, called half of San Juan to get the bomba together. It’s actually the most planning I’ve ever done, thank you very much.”
After a beat, I start to laugh and he joins in. “Of course. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” Maybe it’s the nerves but I laugh so hard, my stomach crunches. When I finally stop, we’re closer together again, my hand on his chest. And he’s looking at me. Really looking at me.
This time, it’s me who leans in. We kiss harder and with more intention. His hand finds my waist, then moves up my bare back. My mind shuts off. The only thing I know is I want to live this. I want to be here fully. Be here with him.
I trace the tattoo around his neck with my lips, desperate to be closer to him. When he opens them, there’s a pleading in his eyes. “What are you doing to me?”
“Whatever you want,” says other Dani.
He comes alive.
I take mental photographs of everything. The way he looks at me when I reach back and undo my bra. His hands on my hips, fingers stretched out, grasping. His full lips on my stomach. Each kiss a warm bomb setting off ripples.
I know my bare back looks good in this light. Our weathered, narrow tent is a faded shade of red, so the early morning sun is coming in faded, too, casting a reddish pink haze on everything.
Am I actually trying to flex my back muscles? Yes. Yes I am. But I’m not sure if anything’s happening. Other than I’m starting to strain my neck.
I’m not even sure René’s awake. All I know is, I’ve woken up on my side, in a partial spoon with him, his thighs pressed against the back of mine. Last night, it was cool in the tent, but it’s a warm sauna in here now. The heat weighs me down. Outside, the waves sound like low, rolling thunder as they pull away.
The idea that I can catch the sunrise gets me moving. I find my bra, throw on René’s shirt, and step outside.
Two surfers have found the beach. They’re sitting on their boards in the distance, patiently waiting for the sea to give them something. The sky is dark blue, except behind the mountain where the sun is rising. The rain has stopped, but there’s a strong breeze rustling through the palm trees that sounds just like rain.
I shut my eyes, drunk from little sleep. For hours, René and I lay on our backs, arms and legs intertwined, and talked. About music, his mom, my sister. About the time he performed after having just sprained an ankle. And how I had felt strangely orphaned when I learned my dad had died. René said he thought it was because the parent who understood me the best was gone. This led to a lengthy conversation about the need to be understood.
I told him how, growing up, I never really felt American or Cuban or Puerto Rican enough.
He finally shared why he’s rarely given interviews. How the first song he wrote for someone made him so much money, he was terrified he’d come across like an idiot or say the wrong thing and fuck everything up. He was too young and shy but then it all sort of stuck and grew from there. Mysterious El Rico, the sunglasses.
We talked about the best drummers in the world. How much he liked a particular freckle on my shoulder. I feel undone in the best possible way. I bring a finger to my lower lip and rub a sensitive spot. There was some biting.
I’ve never felt so in sync with someone. Or had so much fun. The sleeping pad rustled so loudly beneath us, it was a game trying to keep quiet. Shushing, laughing, moaning uncontrollably. Not necessarily in that order. Every kiss was a release that brought us closer. He wasn’t even El Rico anymore. Except for when he pulled out a strip of some luxury brand of condoms I’d never even heard of before.
The ocean is inviting. The clear line separating the shallow beginnings from the deeper, darker water is far away. It seems ridiculous that I’ve yet to go for a swim the whole time I’ve been here. I hang René’s shirt on the corner of our tent and head to the shore.
The water is so warm, it surprises me. When I’m about waist-deep, I float, spread out like a starfish. The way the mountains wrap around this beach makes me feel held, so I let myself drift. With my ears below the surface of the water, the only thing I hear is sand shifting. For the first time in my adult life, I’m not trying to fix anything. I know Meri and Mom don’t want me to worry about them, so I let them go too.
Something taps my foot and I pull it away, splashing my arms in distress. After I’ve rubbed the salt out of my eyes, I see René in front of me. “I can’t believe you just did that. I thought you were a shark.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.” I can tell he regrets it, but he’s also got a big smile on his face. “I thought you saw me coming. But I should have known better, you seemed so relaxed.”
“I was .”
He drops deeper into the water. “What can I do to get you back there? Do you want to be alone?”
“No,” I respond without a beat, though I’m certain my mind is conflicted. Last night had felt safe. In the tent, each moment was special but also unreal. Now, in the raw morning light, the real René “El Rico” Rodriguez is before me and I’m unsure what last night may have meant to him. Come to think of it, he’s got a whole song where he compares himself to a shark. “Do you think the roads are okay by now?”
He’s about to respond when a wave comes out of nowhere and crashes into us. We end up close together, so I take a step back.
“Please don’t.”
He dips his head back beneath the water and comes out, face dripping.
“Don’t what?” I think I know what he’s saying, but I’m going to need him to spell it out.
“Don’t pull away.” He’s just loud enough for me to hear.
Three short words, but they’re raw and vulnerable. They shoot oxygen through my veins, and the need to reciprocate beats out any idea I could ever have of keeping things professional. I reach out and grab hold of his arm. It takes a millisecond for him to respond. He slides forward, bridging the space between us.
This kiss. This one is by far my favorite. It fills me up. My heart feels bigger, like it’s taking up all of my chest. It’s salty, of course, but also so damn sweet. Not in a bad-for-you, processed-sugary kind of way. It’s thick, pure, top-notch honey. Delicious and nutritious.
“Were you able to sleep?” he asks when we come up for air.
“I think so. ‘Rainy night on the beach’ might be my new favorite bedtime soundscape.”
René grins, an ease washing over him. “I’m just sorry the music had to end so soon last night.”
“It’s okay. It was incredible.”
“I’m glad I was able to make it happen. Hey, I got you to all the places in your dad’s song. Well, all but one,” he says.
My hands wrap around his face and I kiss him. “Thank you.” I rest my finger on his dimpled chin, visible through the scruffy beard.
“You’re welcome.” They were amazing back on land, but beneath the water, his hands feel like satin on my skin.
The waves have calmed around us, and so have I. Stilled in the certainty that there is something between us. I rest my head on his chest and find the surfers. Lying flat on their boards, paddling away around the mountain.