Chapter 46
I ’VE MADE A TERRIBLE MISTAKE. I ’VE BEEN LIVING IN S AN J UAN for a week, and everywhere I go, I hear René’s first single. The song is on heavy rotation. It blasts out of every other car that passes me as I walk to work. It plays inside grocery stores and restaurants. Two teenage girls passed me on the sidewalk yesterday singing it a cappella. A cappella!
And now, as I wake up, it’s seeping in through the walls of my new apartment. I press the pillow around my head and cover my ears. The universe has a twisted sense of humor. Or maybe I shouldn’t have moved to a place where everyone loves the guy I’m trying to get over. The label put me up in a hotel for a month, but I moved out of it yesterday after only a week. This was the first place I saw, and as soon as I had the key, I ordered a mattress. In the span of an afternoon, I had a new home.
The window in the kitchenette is my favorite feature. It has art deco vibes and lime green textured glass. I open it and René’s song comes in louder. I shut my eyes and brace myself for the ending. The song winds down with sounds René recorded himself. I miss him so much, I feel seasick hearing the waves crash and the chorus of one particularly recognizable frog.
I can’t let it get me down. It’s my first morning in my own apartment. I have so much excited energy, I don’t know what I want to do first. I consider walking the hour and a half to El Viejo San Juan, but I’m too hungry. And I don’t have any food. Or plates. Or even a table and chairs.
My new neighbor Beatriz recommended a few shops for furniture thrifting. She’s a sculptor and her boyfriend, Pablo, is a tattoo artist. They live below me and were the ones playing René’s song just now. I met them last night and they’ve already invited me to a party they’re having in a few weeks. They also said I was free to use their terrace whenever I want. Framed by walls of hanging plants, the terrace in front of their apartment has a barbecue, a large wooden picnic table, and two comfy outdoor bean bags.
So far, San Juan hasn’t been the switch off of René I was hoping for. But there’s plenty of newness and temporary diversions. As soon as I’m settled, Meri’s coming for a visit. In the meantime, she’s found a reggaeton dance class near work for me to try. The last month in Miami, we were inseparable. Mom too. The three of us made dinners and checked out Meri’s favorite thrift stores. I also met and played chess with Mom’s new boyfriend, who’s actually very considerate and kind. He’ll call her on the phone just to play her a song that’s made him think of her, and I love that there’s music in her life again.
Walking back from the grocery store, I see a familiar face just as I’m reaching my gate. Pale pink tube top. Hair and miniskirt looking a bit frayed at the edges. Camila.
“Dani? What are you doing here?” She glances suspiciously at my building.
“I just moved.” I lift the enormous bags of groceries as proof.
“Wow, I hadn’t heard. Congratulations.”
“Thanks. Wait, do you live nearby?” I think we’re both surprised by how excited I am at the possibility of having her as a neighbor. I can’t help it—it’s comforting to run into someone I know on my first day in my new home. Even if that someone is Camila.
“No, I’m meeting a friend for brunch over there.” She points at a café down the street. “What made you move to San Juan?”
“I transferred, so I’m still working at the label.” The heavy bags are starting to hurt my hands. “Do you want to come up?”
We take the flight of stairs up to my apartment, and the moment we step inside, she says she loves it. I glance around the room, feeling the same joy and excitement I experienced when I first saw it.
It’s cozy and eclectic, with high ceilings, oversized windows, and a terra-cotta-tiled floor. There’s a small, triangular balcony, and if you lean out far enough, you can see a sliver of the beach two blocks away. And it’s also only a fifteen-minute walk to work.
“When I walked in here yesterday, they had all the windows open and the breeze was so strong.” I drop the bags off in the kitchen and join her in the living room. “It reminded me of Culebra. So I took it, right on the spot. And how are you ?”
“Great.” She takes a few steps to the French doors that lead out to the balcony. “I’m strictly styling René now.” My smile drops. “We got him a new assistant,” she adds, turning around. “Probably for the best, huh?” She gives me a knowing look.
I want to nod or smile, but something’s messing with my equilibrium. For the past five weeks, I’ve eased myself out of any direct work on René’s album, but up until last week I was still copied on every email. Every single time I saw his name in the subject heading, it was like a thumbtack prick to the heart. Even though it was followed by words like REVISED BOOTH SKETCH or TOUR MERCH APPROVAL VERSION 2.
Since I moved here, I haven’t been cc’d on any emails. Or invited to a single strategy meeting. It’s what I needed. Hearing about René hurts too much. And those were just work updates. I hadn’t thought of the danger of being around Camila. I’m not ready to hear about René from such a direct source.
“That’s awesome. Congratulations,” I manage, shuffling my weight. “We should hang out soon,” I say, changing the subject. “Once I get some chairs.”
“We should,” she agrees with a smile. “I’ll let you know when I get back from the tour. Have you seen all the looks I’ve picked out for René?”
“No,” I admit, my voice deep. Before I can think up a reason to stop her, Camila’s next to me and scrolling through hundreds of photos on her phone. René is everywhere. His hair and scruffy beard are more grown out. I feel like a punching bag receiving quick-hitting jabs.
She scrolls quickly, so I only get a vague sense of what he’s wearing. Tank tops. Colorful pants. Shimmery shirts. Baggy jeans. He’s posing for the camera, humoring Camila, enjoying the looks she’s put together. But when she stops too long to show me a favorite outfit, it’s a jab, punch, or uppercut.
“Gorgeous. I mean, it’s gorgeous. The styling. You’re so good at styling.”
“This one I absolutely love.” She pulls up a photo of René leaning on a car in a leather ensemble. In this one, he seems kind of down to me.
“How’s he doing?” I blurt out nervously.
“Good. He and Santiago are in Mexico.”
“Oh, right.” I remember he was going to be doing press there.
“He’s excited about the concert. It’s two of his biggest dreams: selling out a stadium and launching a tour here.”
“Mm-hmm, that’s right.” In two weeks, René will be performing here in San Juan the night before the album drops. I know it’s his dream, but selfishly, I can’t help wondering when it will stop hurting to hear about him.
“Hey.” Camila takes a step away from me. “That day on the roof, during the interview, why did you stop René from showing his lip tattoo? That was so… weird.”
“Oh, um, you know what, we didn’t need it.” Camila studies me as I stumble. “I just… I could tell it was important to him,” I say in a more serious tone, dropping the act.
Camila’s face doesn’t budge, but one eyebrow curls ever so slightly. “Yeah, it is.”
For two weeks, I’ve made every excuse not to visit Culebra. I mean, how could I not try all the restaurants in a two-block radius of my new apartment? And, like, have you really lived in a city before you’ve visited at least one of its museums? Plus, I needed chairs for the balcony, plants, a toilet plunger, door stops, and curtains.
I’m not out of excuses, but today I took the day off and hopped on the first ferry. René is performing tonight, and the stadium is in the dead center of San Juan. Close to my new office and close to home. So Culebra it is.
Tiny, shimmery fish jump in and out of the waves the boat is making, like dragonflies. From the landing, I take a cab to the neighborhood where I spent the morning taking photographs that day and retrace my steps. It’s a weekday and still early in the morning, so the beach is empty, except for an older couple, who wave hello as I walk past them.
I strip down to a bathing suit and throw my beach cover-up and sneakers into my backpack. Ahead of me, the island seems farther away than I remember. I gather myself, hold my bag over my head, and start to wade in.
The water is at the height of summer warmth. Every once in a while, I look back to see how far I’ve come. When I’m about halfway, the older couple is sitting up on their loungers, watching me. I’m about waist deep, heading out to sea, holding a large backpack over my head. Even with their hats and sunglasses on, I can see the concern on their faces. I consider yelling out an explanation. Something, like, “Hey, don’t worry! The water is shallow all the way to the island. I photographed a family doing this not too long ago.” But I decide a little mystery never hurt anyone, and I keep on walking.
It’s a struggle to get onto the beach. Like quicksand, my feet sink in with each step. I have to crawl to avoid toppling over. This is when I realize it isn’t sand at all. Instead, each grain is actually a miniature stone or seashell sediment.
I make my way farther up the shore, where the ground is more walkable. I don’t know if it was the quicksand or the heat, but I feel weak. As though I’ve already run a race. Wading waist deep in the ocean for a few minutes is more tiring than it looks. I pull out my water bottle as I walk along the deserted beach.
As I approach the end of the beach, I have mixed emotions. I think this may actually be the last place in my father’s song. But I have a strange feeling I’m going to lose something else the moment I find it. If I’m right, I’ll have nothing left to find. No more of his wishes to fulfill. This, I realize, is why I’ve been avoiding coming here until now.
I see the spot I’ve been searching for. An area where the water comes right up to the trees. This is the place where I saw the figure in the photograph walking on water.
When I reach it, I brace myself and face the sea. My shoulders drop. It’s a dock all right. Sunken a few inches below the shimmering, clear water and made of large planks of wood. It juts out about thirty feet in front of me before it disappears from view.
I hang my backpack on a branch and set up my camera, programming it to take a picture every ten seconds, and then I walk to the shore.
Unceremoniously, I step onto the dock. Out in front of me, the water glides off the surface like it’s on ice. You’d think the thing would be covered in seaweed, but it isn’t. Instead, the water has weathered the wood in other ways. It’s swollen in parts, or rubbed soft like foam. Initially, I was afraid it’d be too slippery to walk on. But now that I’m standing on it, I’m more concerned it’ll crack and I’ll fall right through.
I take a deep breath and start to walk. I’m ankle deep in the crystal-clear water, and the wood is soft and gives a little with each step. About halfway, I stop. It’s creepy walking this far out. Up ahead, I can’t tell how deep the water is. Tall waves break near the end of the dock before they ripple gently onto the shore. If I get hurt, there isn’t anyone around to hear me call for help. I’ve left my phone and the rest of my things on the shore, and I didn’t even tell anyone where I was going. But I did manage to set a photo timer, so if someone recovers my camera, they may get to see the exact moment I fell through a crack.
I remember my dad’s song and the lyrics about this place.
on the dock under the sea
I found my faith and learned to love
Suddenly, I’m ten again, up in a tree with him egging me on from below.
“I don’t think I can go any further,” I called out, pointing up to the next branch. “It’s too far away from this one.”
“Keep going. It only looks that way now.”
I push on, my eyes watering. The farther I go, the higher the water rises over my calves. Overcome with emotions rushing up and through me, I reach the end. As the next big wave approaches, there’s fear and excitement, like the panic that grips you on the roller coaster just before the drop.
I tighten my leg muscles to firm up my stance, and my toes grip the foamy wood. The next wave crashes and I let out a long, happy shriek until I’ve run out of air.
Remembering I set up the camera, I turn around for the ultimate empowerment selfie. I raise my hands in the air, brace myself for the next wave, and count to ten.
I turn back around to take in the view one last time and feel so at peace. Everything is a message from my dad. Everywhere I look, there’s a reminder that he’s here and that I belong. The birds, the fishermen on their small boat passing by. They wave at me and it’s so sweet. If they only knew what their kind smiles mean to me right now. When they’re close enough, I can hear the music they’re listening to. Is that? No. There’s no way.