Chapter 45
I PULL THE DOOR WITHOUT HESITATION AND WALK INSIDE THE gourmet food market across the street from work. I didn’t tell Maureen why I wanted to meet, nor did she bother to ask. For the past six weeks, we’ve come here almost every day. We’ve had lunch, coffee, or late afternoon pastries at the café tucked inside this market as we finalized and then executed the marketing plan for René’s album.
It was impossible to detach myself as I put together the behind-the-scenes pieces and sent them off to the press. Practically every single one of my coworkers came by to marvel at René’s piano playing or gawk at him swimming in the pool, the bird tattoo on his back gliding beneath the surface of the water. It wasn’t easy, but at least René’s happy with everything we’ve done. Or so we’ve heard from ángel.
Maureen is sitting at a corner table, wearing her chic red reading glasses and hyper-focused over a thick stack of documents. It’s 11:00 a.m. and there’s a waitress placing drinking glasses on the empty tables ahead of the lunch rush.
“Have you seen this one?” Mo asks, looking up from her reading as I sit down.
René’s first single was released last night at midnight, so this morning, Mo’s assistant distributed printouts of every single article, online post, and review.
“Which one?”
“ Billboard Global. ” Mo picks up the top page. “‘If there were any doubts whether René Rodriguez was worthy of his close-up, they melt away before he gets to the chorus.’”
“I have,” I say, wishing I could see René’s face when he reads it.
The bomba song ended up being the first single. The traditional music blended with Santiago’s reggaeton beats and René’s vocals created a joyful dance track people are already calling the perfect summer hit. We made a phenomenal teaser for it that combines the photographs I took of René recording the drummers on the beach, with video of him adding vocals in the studio.
“I ordered us something sparkly,” says Mo. “Hope that’s okay.”
“Sure, why not.”
“There’s a great piece in Variety .” She flips through the stack of printouts. “I just saw it.”
“Is it the one that describes René using a bunch of hyphenated words back to back? ‘Genre-bending, multi-instrumentalist, soon-to-be chart-topping, global-phenom’?”
“No, but that one’s good too. And did you see the one in Marketing Magazine online?”
“Yeah, I did see that one, but please don’t let that stop you from reading it out loud.”
Mo smiles wide and holds up the document. “‘Kudos goes to the marketing team at Ocean Records,’” Mo begins, “‘for their unconventional campaign to promote René’s much-anticipated first single as a solo artist. For twenty-four hours, fans could experience the song before anyone else by stepping inside private dance booths that popped up in select cities across the country. The queues were long, but listeners left happy, and with the ability to preorder the album at the booth, the buzz and sales generated have paid off.’”
The dance booths were my idea. I wanted people to experience the passionate rhythms without any distractions, the way I had on the beach. Besides, I knew it’s what René wanted after all, to make people move. While it’s nice to get a shout-out, it has a bittersweet sting.
Our waitress places two glasses filled with pink bubbly on the table.
“To you,” Maureen toasts. “Congrats, Dani.”
“To us,” I amend and take a large gulp for some liquid courage. I know I have to shift the subject soon enough.
“‘Whether it’s with his heartfelt lyrics’”—Maureen has moved on to another article—“‘or his pop-up dance booths, René Rodriguez is more Rico than ever.’” She flips through the papers.
“Actually, Mo, I need to talk to you.” I haven’t told anyone about my decision. Not because I’m afraid Mom and Meri will try to change my mind—I just want to make it official first.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes,” I say and decide to spit it out because Maureen’s intense joy has switched to just plain intense. “Everything’s fine. I just wanted to tell you why I asked to meet up.” The lines around her eyes and forehead flatten out again. “I quit.”
Maureen is stunned silent, still holding one of the documents out in front of her.
“I’m officially giving my notice, Mo,” I continue, excitement spreading down my arms and making my hands shake. “I’ll give you plenty of time. It doesn’t have to be for a while, actually.”
Mo sets the document down. With everything going on, I know I’m leaving things on a good note, but I still hate feeling like I’m letting her down.
“I just want you to know I’ve loved working together and appreciate every opportunity you’ve given me. But… I’m moving to Puerto Rico.”
“Dani, I—”
“I’m sorry,” I interrupt. I’m so nervous, I need to barrel through the speech I’ve prepared. “I just know from our calendars how far out you count on me, so I wanted to give us enough time to find my replacement. I won’t leave you hanging, Mo. And if you hear of anything in the San Juan office or can put in a word at other labels there, that would be great. It doesn’t have to be right away. Could be in six months, or maybe even a year. Whatever you need, Mo.” It’s a huge relief to get it all out, so I down the rest of my drink.
Maureen reaches across the table and gives my hands a squeeze. “How about next month?”
I cough as the bubbles come back up my throat.
“Your counterpart there just gave his notice a few days ago.” Mo’s eyes widen. “He wants to open his own yoga studio. The kind with a monthly membership,” she adds as though this were an important detail.
“What?”
“You’d still report to me, but you’d basically be running your own show. We could pay for your move.” The conversation has shifted and now it’s Mo trying to convince me to leave. “And put you up for a month while you look for a place to live.”
I’m speechless. The idea has been forming since I got back. I’ve been feeling this intense need to stretch out. It started as just wanting to go back for a visit. That grew into an idea for an extended stay. Then yesterday, at our weekly team meeting, I just felt it.
To commemorate the release of the first single, Mo played the final mix of the song for us in the conference room. The bomba music and the sounds of the beach that seeped into the song as René recorded it, they were all calling me back. The rhythm was telling me to move. Not just to get up and dance, but to move move.
Now, though I’m still sitting inside a café, nestled inside a fancy supermarket, I’m already there. It’s all happening. Limbs are being stretched. I’m learning to make alcapurrias . I’m photographing Old San Juan on the weekends.
I told myself I would be practical. To save up money so I could venture out even without a job. But here’s Maureen saying I can go right away, and with the safety of working for the same company, doing a job I love.
“Yes, of course. Let’s do it,” I say, all dopey-eyed and ecstatic that I get to be adventurous and practical.
I can see Mom’s and Meri’s faces when I tell them. They’ll probably want to take the credit. Say it’s all thanks to the magical egg cleansing I let them do for me when I got home, or the glass of water Mom put by the window with some seashells in it.
Mo jumps into an excited speech about all the new artists I’ll be working with. “But”—she tilts her head down, bringing me back to the moment—“I’ll need you to start right away, so you won’t be able to finish up René’s campaign. Will you be okay with that?”
I lean back in my seat and feel the tightness around my heart slacken for the first time since I’ve been back. There’s a year of work ahead on René’s first album, promoting the album’s release in a few weeks, then the next two singles, the tour, the awards circuit. “Yes, I’m fine with that. The pieces are in a good place. I can hand it all off.”
Maureen doesn’t know what happened between René and me. How could she know this is exactly what I need? It’s a miracle within a miracle. I can finally start to move on from René. And move on with my life.