Chapter 47
Never met a Latina I didn’t like, until now
It’s the blazer that’s got to be off, not your rhythm
But if you play me your B-side, I’ll want you beside me, baby
“This is for a Ricky Martin concert.” The security guard inspects the backstage badge I’m still wearing around my neck. “From last year,” he adds, turning it over.
“Really?” My heart is beating at a disturbing pace, but my face is perfectly still. Call it instinct, but I feel the less overacting I do in this situation, the better.
“In Orlando.” He pulls the badge and my neck closer.
“I must have grabbed the wrong one.” My tone is so nonchalant, it’s bordering on boredom. I happen to be using the lanyard as a bookmark, so it was the only one from my extensive collection I had on me.
I dig through my bag. Not too desperate or too hurried. With my performance, I hope I’m conveying: I absolutely have the correct pass somewhere in here. I’m so certain, I’m not even stressed.
The frustrating thing is, I was granted access a few weeks ago. Gabriel, the coordinator who took over my position, included me on the list. I know he’s here and could easily get me inside, but I may have been a little intense when I stormed over to his cubicle demanding to be taken off the list. In my defense, I’d already asked him to stop copying me on every single email about René. So when I saw the access badge email, I snapped.
“It was just as a courtesy since you’re going to be living in Puerto Rico by then. In case you wanted to stop by and check in on us. Just looking out for you,” he said.
“Well, don’t. When I said I was off this project, I meant it. It’s all yours. I have every faith in you. I’ll be too busy to check in on anyone. You’ll just need to rise to the occasion, okay?”
“Yes, you got it.”
I can feel the security guard’s eyes on me. I wish every bit of my tie-dyed bikini wasn’t visible beneath this black crocheted beach cover-up. I spot a patch of sand on my thigh and brush it off. There was no time to change. I only have a short window to talk to René.
When I was in the cab, I dug up the schedule in an email I was copied on a few weeks ago. He should be in the middle of his sound check right now. After that, it’s a tight schedule before the concert. He’s doing interviews in his dressing room, meet-and-greets with contest winners, and a live interview with a local station. Just as I was arriving, my boss and Meri tried calling but I declined them both. I can’t have any distractions. I’m finally putting my own needs first. And what I need to do now is let René know I finally heard the song he wrote about me. Really heard it this time. The fishermen, it turns out, were listening to “Take It Off.” Which was a little surprising because I had no idea we were releasing it as the next single.
I can’t lose my nerve now. I mean, I am losing it the longer I pretend to dig through my bag. But I really don’t want to. I need to talk to René. Tomorrow, he’s flying to New York for an album release event, then it will be a storm of promotions, and a three-month tour.
It’s clear the guard isn’t going to suddenly decide he feels sorry for me and let me in, so I pull my phone out and make the call.
Moments later, the large metal door clunks open and Camila steps outside, looking more tousled the ever. She looks me up and down and, after an unsettlingly long pause, approaches the security guard. “She’s okay. She’s with me.” There’s a sparkle in her eye. “She’s one of our backup dancers.”
The guard pulls an iPad out from under his armpit. “What’s the name again?”
“She was a last-minute addition,” Camila bursts out, enjoying herself. “But really, who needs to be on the list with moves like these? Show him, Dani.”
This would explain what I’m wearing and I did start taking dance lessons, but two introductory reggaeton lessons do not a backup dancer make.
“Come on, Camila. I need to save it for the stage.” My whole body’s slackened. I’m squinting and scratching my hair, making it messier. My poor impersonation of a backup dancer is someone who’s drunk and has poor vision. And possibly lice.
Camila stifles a laugh. Two roadies arrive wielding a bulky case on wheels and I take the opportunity to mouth the words “Help me” to Camila.
“Here”—Camila taps into her cell—“I’ve just sent a text to the venue manager to add her to the list.” In less than a minute, we’re waved through.
We walk quickly inside, and when we get to another set of doors, I stop to thank her.
“It’s fine,” she says. “I should be thanking you.” My face brightens at the thought. Camila, of all people, is rooting for me? “We need all the help we can get with this leak,” she adds, and all I can fathom is a large pipe bursting somewhere near the stage.
“Leak?” I repeat.
Her eyes narrow. “Yeah.” She sounds suspicious. Like I can’t possibly not know what she’s talking about. “Three hours ago, the whole album. Plus, a few other songs he wanted to release as a B-side in a few weeks. They’re pretty sure Santiago’s storage cloud was hacked because…”
The room has started to spin. All of the noise and activity coming from the other side of the closed doors suddenly seem menacing. “I didn’t know.”
Camila sizes my getup again. “Then, what are you doing here?” She positions her back to the door, waiting for my response. She’s standing guard between René and me, using her body to block me from coming any farther.
“I… I need to talk to him.”
“I thought I heard you weren’t working on René’s album anymore.”
“I’m not,” I admit. And something about her trying to protect René reminds me of how I’ve been with my mom and Meri. Camila told me she’d moved on, but I can see she’s still very much stuck like I was believing we know what’s best.
“Camila.” I pause, knowing that what I’m about to say could make me end up back outside. “I know you said you’re only styling René now, but do you think, maybe, it’s time to step out on your own?” Camila registers this but doesn’t budge. “For example, what about your handbags?” I ask abruptly.
She tilts her head, surprised I’m bringing them up. “What do you mean?”
“Are you still making them?” I feel caught. Like I wasn’t supposed to notice what she was doing all the time. “I just think they’re really nice.”
“Yeah, I am. Would you like one?”
“Yes,” I say wholeheartedly but quickly.
“Are you still taking pictures?” she asks, repeating my intention.
“Yeah.”
“So, I’ll make you a camera strap instead,” she declares, sure of herself.
“That would be so cool,” I respond even quicker, trying to speed things up. “You have so many talents of your own, you could do anything. Design handbags, rugs, any textile really. Your work is beautiful.” I speed through my speech, hoping I’m not offending her. “Believe me, I know what it’s like to get sucked into someone’s orbit. In my case, it was very much by choice. I was stuck, possibly hiding, in that orbit, because it was easier than striking out on my own.”
Camila adjusts her hair self-consciously and scrunches up her mouth. “I appreciate you saying that,” she says at last.
I nod, relieved. Though the clock is ticking and she’s still blocking me.
“And that’s why I’m here,” I add, worried I’m running out of time, “because I’m done hiding.”
My voice quivers a little. Camila doesn’t respond. “Do you think you could get me a few minutes alone with him?”
“I have a job to do, Dani. I can’t be sucked into your orbit.”
“Really?” I ask, aghast. “I have two words for you, projectile vomiting.”
Camila grimaces, remembering how sick she felt the night I took care of her. “Ugh. Okay, fine.”
The door opens to complete chaos. Half of the hallway is stuffed with people, the other with an endless row of road cases. I don’t see Gabriel, the new marketing coordinator anywhere. He really should be here trying to wrangle this situation. This hallway is a fire hazard.
Camila takes my hand and guides me through the crowd. We pass a news reporter speaking loudly in Spanish into her microphone as she records a news piece to the camera. There are men and women with wide catering carts trying to get down the hall. We reach a door with a large group of people lingering nearby. Reporters and a group of mostly young women dolled up in slinky outfits. One girl is holding an enormous teddy bear wearing sunglasses. Camila nods at the security guard, and he opens the door for us.
She stays out in the hall and I step inside, my pulse racing. The room is set up for an interview. There are two cameras, lights on stands, and a boom microphone all aimed at a black leather chair. I take a seat in the leather chair and try my phone again. I need to talk to Mo; I want to help. I need to know how they’re managing the leak. I see two missed calls from her, but no messages. I pull up my emails and find one she sent a few hours ago, with the subject heading all in caps. I click on it, but there isn’t enough of a signal for it to load. Must every backstage at every arena be an impregnable bunker?
My already racing pulse picks up. All I can do now is think about what I want to say to René. I’m dreading the door opening yet simultaneously feel anxiously giddy about seeing him again.
Sitting in this chair, these huge cameras facing me, I feel like I’m the one about to be interviewed. It’s my turn to open up and be completely real about my feelings. And I’m ready—I just have no idea where to start.
Ten minutes later, the door opens and Camila appears with René. He freezes when he sees me, like it’s clear she did not tell him I was here. He opens his mouth to say something but Camila beats him to it. “You’ve got five minutes.”
“I’m supposed to go first.” A reporter in a skintight dress tries to push the door.
“Well, you’re going second now,” Camila says with a smile and shuts the door, leaving René and me alone inside.
“I’m so sorry about the leak,” I say, rising. “How are you holding up?” He shakes his head. “It may end up helping you.” I tug at my beach cover-up to try to make it longer and more presentable, but it bounces right back. “Some artists do this on purpose.”
He rubs the back of his neck, his eyes on my outfit. “Yeah, that’s what Maureen said.”
“Can we sit?” I motion to the small chair positioned behind the camera.
He glances at it, then back at me. “I’m sorry—”
“No,” I interrupt him, determined. “It’s me that needs to apologize.”
He stands there, considering this, then begrudgingly drops into the smaller chair. I sit in the leather chair, and watch as he takes off his baseball hat, sets it on his knee, and rubs his head anxiously. The look in his eyes makes me wish I could skip ahead to the part where we’re all made up and I’m able to hold him and tell him everything’s going to be all right.
There’s so much I want to say. About my move to San Juan, for one. But that’s not why I came here. “I found my father’s dock,” I blurt out, suddenly excited to share this with him. “It actually is sunken beneath the water.”
He nods slowly, his face in a grimace. I thought he’d be happy for me, but this information only seems to make him more upset.
“Congratulations,” I spit out nervously. “You’ve sold out tonight. Just you. And about Billboard .” The single hasn’t budged from the top of the global charts the past two weeks. “Don’t let the leak take away all the good things that have happened.”
“Thanks,” he utters. “Listen, I—”
“Please, let me get this out.”
There’s a loud knock at the door and Camila pops back in. It hasn’t been five minutes. “Of course, Gabriel, I’ll let him know,” she says loud enough to be heard over the commotion in the hallway. There are two imposing security guards standing over her. “René, they need you to finish the rehearsal. But we have to clear out the hallway, so we’re going to do the contest winners’ photos first.” Then switching back to a volume meant for Gabriel, “Oh, you need another minute, René? You got it.” And then she’s gone again.
René leans forward, preparing to stand.
“I heard the song,” I say, determined.
He sits back. “I’m so sorry, I wanted to—”
“No, it’s okay. I mean it.”
His eyebrows rise, relieved. “Really?”
“Yes, truly. I still don’t think you had to diss my blazers. They’re a classic staple, nothing wrong with those,” I say with a smile. “But I really heard it this time. Well, most of it. It was playing on a boat that was passing by when I was on the dock.”
He bites his lower lip and there’s something in his eyes that makes me unsteady.
“I finally understood.” I’m impressed with myself, by how determined I feel to get through this. Even as René’s eyes go from stressed out to disappointed. “You didn’t want me to change, you just wanted to know all of me,” I push on, even if it isn’t what he wants to hear. “I just want you to know I’ve done a lot of crying over the past few weeks. Each time, it seems over something different. And, well”—I clear my throat, my drive waning—“I think they’ve cleared up my view of things, the tears. They’ve washed my windows, if you will.” I’m rambling. “And then I heard the song again and I couldn’t believe I’d been so blind. Or in this case, um, deaf.”
René’s frown deepens. “Dani, we do need to talk.” His voice is somber and he hasn’t had the faintest reaction to what I’ve just said. “But I need to go. The rehearsal was terrible and we had to cut it short for the call with the label about the leak.”
I scratch at my thigh nervously and feel my palm wet with sweat. “Right, of course. Just let me say one more thing.” He stills patiently. “That night by the statues, I… just want you to know I didn’t mean what I said. I heard you talking to Camila, through your microphone, and I was just upset.” I look at him again, feeling hopeless now. “I just never felt this much… for anyone. Or wanted this much for myself.”
“Dani,” he begs.
I tilt my chin up expectantly, but find a shameful look in his eyes. We need to talk. Something’s happened since we’ve been together. Has he met someone else? Of course, why wouldn’t he? It’s been over two months. That’s at least a decade in artist years.
“We’re super behind.” I can hear guilt in his voice.
“No, no. I get it. And you’ve got all this press to get through,” I say at last, grabbing my bag and standing. “I’m the last person that should be asking you to make them wait.” I’m out of breath somehow.
He stands hesitantly.
“Break a leg,” I manage, though my throat’s gone dry.
René nods, puts on his baseball hat, and walks out the door.
It’s almost midnight when I get home. I left the arena and walked for hours. Then I had dinner at a bar with a lively crowd watching a baseball game on a large screen. And by dinner, I mean two glasses of wine and a plate of fried plantains.
Baseball. A cruel, cruel game when you think about it. The pitcher makes it damn-near impossible for the batters to hit the ball. And if they manage to make contact, they’re chased down until they’re sent back home. When you’re playing at the pro level, it takes a miracle to reach first base. Why even bother?
We need to talk. No, it turns out we don’t, because I’ve already filled in the blanks for him. By the time I get home, I know exactly what he would say. We did have something. I’m glad you see it now, but I’ve moved on.
That’s why he was trying to stop me from making an even bigger fool of myself. I feel numb and whatever the emotional equivalent is of being run over. But as I get home, it’s impossible to avoid my neighbor’s party. It spills out of his apartment and onto the front lawn of our building.
“Try this,” Pablo says, pouring me a cocktail. He’s mixing drinks behind a round table near the front gate. Salsa music is blaring from a large speaker set up outside his front door, and people are dancing under his covered terrace. There are also folks hanging out on the lawn, sitting on the furniture normally set up under the terrace.
“What’s in it?” I ask, but then don’t bother to wait for a response. It’s delicious and strong. And exactly what I need.
“Mostly vodka and pisco,” he responds, his voice full of excitement. I can see he’s glad I’ve finally arrived. He and Beatriz told me repeatedly how happy they are I’m their new neighbor. They think it’s poetic I’ve moved from Miami to San Juan, when it’s typically the other way around. Beatriz especially loves that I work for a record label.
I must look a disheveled mess, but I don’t regret telling René how I felt. I’m proud of myself. I would have thought it’d make me feel weaker, but there’s a certain sense of peace that comes from knowing I’ve given it my all. I feel broken, but not in the way I’ve felt the past few months. Sloughing along, trying to sleep it off, and counting the days until I moved here. Now my heart is broken but I feel alive. I can stand here and see the beauty in all of it. In having new friends, coming home to a party, and the scent of the ocean reaching me every time the breeze picks up.
A tall guy with thick, curly hair walks up to Pablo carrying a small cooler overflowing with ice. “I still don’t think this is the best place for the bar. Never too late to move it.” Something about his accent and the way he stretches his vowels reminds me of René. It hurts, but at the same time, I want him to keep talking.
Pablo ignores him and focuses instead on preparing another drink.
“I just think it would be better by the apartment so we can get ice and stuff from the fridge.”
Pablo waves his cocktail shaker at him vigorously. “Dani, this is Miguel.” Pablo pours the drink and hands it to his friend.
Miguel gives me a friendly kiss on the cheek, then sips his drink. “This one turned out better than last time.”
Pablo takes a step back, pretending to be insulted. “It’s perfect every time.”
Miguel waves this off and walks away.
“How are you?” Pablo asks, turning his attention back to me.
“Terrible.” I barely know him, but I already feel so comfortable around both Pablo and Beatriz. “I tried to win a guy back tonight, but it didn’t work.”
“He’ll regret it.” He winks, then walks off to greet someone who’s arrived. His ability to say this to me with a straight face, without any knowledge of who I’m talking about, is so heartwarming, I’m momentarily soothed.
I’m surprised how easy it’s been to make friends. I’ve been here three weeks, and between Pablo and Beatriz, work, and dance class, I’ve already made more friends than I have in longer than I care to admit. Even with the constant reminders of René, I feel, without a doubt, I’m where I’m supposed to be.
A new song comes on and I recognize René’s moans immediately. It has a great, uplifting beat. “Do you know what song this is?” I ask Pablo, who winces as though I’m about to hit him.
“It’s from El Rico’s leaked album. Beatriz downloaded it. Please don’t report us to your job.”
I laugh. “The album will be out at midnight. If you promise to buy it in”—I look at my cell—“twenty-two minutes, then I guess it’s okay.”
“Yes, of course.”
“ Mas te vale ,” I warn with a smile.
The song revs up and I feel a dull pain in my chest at hearing René’s gorgeous, raspy voice. I know all the songs on the album and this is not one of them. This must be what Camila was talking about. She mentioned other tracks they meant to release later for a B-side. As I start to sway to the music, I wonder if he wrote it on the island or after he left.
My arms are up over my head and my shoulders are moving. That’s the funny thing about reggaeton. I absolutely love it now. I think if you’re not willing to budge or let it in, then it’s just noise grinding away, taunting you to move. But if you’re open, you can step inside its repetitive beats and find a trance that gives you permission to express your sensuality.
I make my way across the lawn to the terrace and set my things down in a corner. It’s a proper dance floor. They’ve cleared everything out except for the hanging plants and twinkle lights.
I shut my eyes, run my fingers through my hair, and let myself move. Feeling raw, I sense the music more than I hear it. When I open my eyes, Beatriz and Pablo and a few of their friends have surrounded me on the dance floor. While the sight is uplifting, there’s no denying my sadness.
My heart aches, but I don’t stop moving. Certain this will hurt for a while but also that my life will be better for having known René. If anyone ever asks, I will tell them it is , in fact, better to have loved and lost. The song ends and I’m out of breath. I wipe off the sweat and tears on my cheek.
You know when you’re out on the dance floor and everyone’s having a great time, but then another song comes on that makes everyone immediately wilder? That’s what happens when “Take it Off,” René’s duet with Natalia comes on. Not to me. As soon as I hear the coqui frog sounds at the beginning of the track, I stop moving. But it’s impossible not to savor the pure delirium the song causes in this group. When the dembow rhythm in a deep bass kicks in, I let go.
I decide to try out some of my new moves from dance class. Which aren’t many, since so far we’ve focused mainly on en pareja , or couples dancing. And right now, my new friends and I are dancing in a circle and everyone’s doing their own thing. I drop down low and come back up, feeling myself in this getup.
Pablo pulls back clumsily. The look on his face is hard to read. Scared? Confused? I mean, I get that I’m just starting out, but I’m not that bad a dancer, am I?
Beatriz is looking at me strangely, too. Miguel has practically stopped dancing. It takes me a moment to realize they’re not looking at me. They’re looking behind me. I turn around and my breath is sucked right out. René is on the dance floor. Lip-syncing to his own song. Looking as though he’s supposed to be here and has danced beneath this covered terrace a hundred times. He smiles and reaches for my hand.