Chapter 48
H ERE’S WHAT I ’VE LEARNED IN DANCE CLASS SO FAR. W HEN you dance en pareja , the first thing you need to do is connect with your partner. You do this by matching their pressure. Wherever you and your partner touch as you dance—hands, shoulders, waist, or back—you’re meant to push into ever so gently. This is true with salsa and bachata as well. You connect with just enough pressure, so you’re both giving. This way you can transmit and receive messages clearly. Everything the teacher said sounded like she was referring to real-life relationships. Unbreakable bond, open communication, trust.
I give René my hand and something clicks. In the lapse of time it takes for him to place his free hand on my lower back, and for us to start moving, I have a zillion quick-fire thoughts. His hair is wet. He must have had a shower at the arena after the concert. Camila must have told him where I lived.
My moves are instinctive. I’m booty shaking, chest snapping, and body snaking. But everything is close to him. Tight and slow. Romantic, rhythmic reggaeton. His hands are tight on my waist, and up my back, along the holes of my open-knit dress. The feel of his fingertips on my skin sets every part of me on fire. Turns every switch. Heightens all of my senses. Everything rises to the surface like a volcano with multiple heat sources.
I can’t stop smiling. Because he’s here, of course. But also because I’ve never danced like this before. This makes me emotional for some reason, but not in a way that stops me from smiling.
After a twirl, he ends up behind me and I lean back, curving my body so it fits into his. My free hands reach for the back of his neck. His hands find my hips and we sway to the music. I don’t know why René’s here, but I’m not letting myself hope. I am, however, letting him know, without a doubt, how he makes me feel. Whatever I didn’t get across with words earlier, I’m saying now.
I press back harder against him and drop my arms down by my sides. I don’t need them to stay connected to his body. The song ends with him behind me, wrapped in his arms, his cheek on mine.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
“You’re welcome.”
“So, can we talk?” he asks, pulling away.
It takes a few minutes to get him upstairs. First there are introductions and posing for selfies. All of which René agrees to happily.
“ Que lindo ,” he says, once we’re inside my apartment.
“Thanks.” Feeling a swell of pride, I give him a quick tour. He stops to admire a photograph I’ve hung in the kitchen. It’s a picture I took of a chicken on the beach who appears to be admiring the sunset in Culebra. I offer him a beer and find myself lingering in front of the open door of the fridge. I’m stalling. After that dance, I don’t know if I can handle hearing whatever terrible news he has for me. I may have been able to manage it before, but not now. Now, I need a minute.
Downstairs, the tone of the party has shifted. A mellower song by an Argentine singer I love is playing. As I open the beers, I notice the time on the clock above the stove: 11:55 p.m.
“Shouldn’t you be at a launch party? Or outside, avoiding it with someone?”
He smiles but his eyes are sober. “What do you think I’m doing here?”
“I have no idea.” I let out a nervous laugh and raise my glass. “To the success of your album.”
“To your new life,” he says at the same time.
We clink our glasses, and just as they touch, the lights go out. All of them. The kitchen, downstairs, the whole neighborhood. The music has also gone away, leaving only a steady flow of complaints coming from the courtyard below. Enough moonlight comes in through the kitchen window for me to see René’s got an eyebrow raised, impressed our glasses tapping may have caused it.
“Do you have any candles?”
“Yeah, I think so.” I check the drawers, and find a pack of tea lights. René uses the gas stove to carefully light each one. Together, we place them on small red plates and set them around the kitchen and the rest of the apartment. I try to maintain a safe distance, as though we weren’t just all over each other on the dance floor. I meet his gaze a few times, and the tender look in his eyes makes me unsteady. He seems so content to be here, performing each task with the utmost care. Still, I refuse to get swept away. I feel I’m in a hot air balloon, with the blaze blasting, threatening to take off, but still firmly tied to the ground. René’s here being all helpful and looking at me like he wants to light my candle, but I know there’s something big he needs to tell me, something he seemed rather ashamed of back at the arena.
“Are you there?” he calls from the kitchen.
“Yeah.” The floor creaks as I walk back into the kitchen. The room looks otherworldly now. Moonlight through my windowpanes casts a dark green light show on the floor, and the candlelight bouncing off the red plates pours a soft pink glow on everything. Including René. Who’s leaning against the kitchen counter, watching me. I can feel my resistance weakening. Even in the dimly lit room, his dark eyes have the power to warm up my whole body. I stop across from him and press my hip against the small wooden dining table to steady myself.
“What happened out there? I thought you couldn’t dance.” He seems poised to move toward me.
I huff, brushing off the compliment. I want so much to let myself float off in this moment, but my hot air balloon has got a few pesky ropes still binding it to the ground. “Look, I know you have something you want to say, and believe me, it’s okay. Just tell me what it is. I’ll be fine.”
“Right.” His face drops. “The thing is, Dani—”
The music comes back on outside, bringing the party to life again. But when René hears the song that’s playing, he lets out a disgruntled sigh.
I turn away and try the kitchen light switch a few times, but it doesn’t work. “They must have speakers with batteries or something,” I grumble as I turn back to face him.
“That”—René drops his chin and points out the window—
“is what I needed to talk to you about.”
I look out the window, confused. “What is?”
“That song.”
I step toward him, closer to the window, and tune in. There’s a lone acoustic guitar playing amid the sounds of waves crashing. I’ve never heard it before, but something about the melody sounds familiar. “Is this another one you’re including on the B-side?”
“Yes. Well, I want to.” He seems pained.
“I’m sorry about that. My neighbors told me they ripped off the album before we pulled it down, but they promised to—”
“No, no, I’m the one that’s sorry, Dani. I meant to ask for your permission, and for your mother’s, of course. But I kept going back and forth about including it. I thought you didn’t want to talk to me.” He speaks with urgency.
“What are you—” Then all of my muscles loosen. The sound of tapping. The distinct rhythm. Metal on wood. My dad rapping his ring on the side of his conga drum. Then, René’s raspy, sexy voice comes through the window.
I’ve been around the world, but home’s never felt this far away
I want to hear your voice and ask you why I couldn’t make you stay
I want to write you a love song, an old-style, make you dance in the kitchen love song
Because I want good things to happen for you, but it’s killing me I can’t be one
My vision’s gone blurry with tears, but I can feel René watching me, desperate for a reaction.
I know I’ve been hiding, but now I’m done
You’ve been hiding too, takes one to know one
Can we meet away from the shadows
Where I’ve come to write you a love song
When it’s time for the pre-chorus, it’s my father’s deep, comforting voice that merges the song into something more folkloric and traditional.
Meet me at the dock under the sea
Dancing bomba on the beach
The way you were meant to be
Wild and free
I’m doubly struck—to be hearing his voice at all, and by how crisp and clear it sounds. Like they’ve run the old cassette recording through some revolutionary refining tools.
“I thought I’d add one more collaboration to the album.” René sounds contrite.
“I love it.” The tears spill over and wet my cheeks. “I can’t believe you did this…” I trail off, yearning to listen to the chorus.
Look what you’ve done, you made El Rico write a love song
Say things like I’m lost without you, you’re the only one
But if the road ever leads me back to you
I’ll never leave, ’cause wherever you are is my country
Wherever we are is home
I reach for him just as he steps forward to wipe away my tears, and we end up wrapped in a tight embrace, swaying to the song.
It’s a deeply sweet, pull-at-your-heartstrings love song. My dad missing home, René missing me. At times, their voices are accompanied only by René’s acoustic guitar and my father’s conga.
“Look what you’ve done,” René whispers in my ear when the chorus repeats. “You made El Rico write a love song.” I can’t help but hold him closer. “It was hard to write. The toughest one for me ever.”
“Really?” I look up at him, basking in the heat of our bodies.
He nods. “Turns out admitting you miss someone is harder than writing about having foursomes with people you’ve never met.”
“Go figure,” I say as I laugh. “You know, Radiohead puts some of their best stuff on the B-sides.”
“Oh, do they?” he mocks, pretending to be jealous. The song ends and we’re left looking at each other. “I wanted…” He trails off. “This just isn’t how I wanted you to find out.”
“I’m glad it was like this.”
“And we did get to dance in the kitchen.”
“Yeah.” I note the coincidence and feel a tingle up and down my arms. I think back to all the happy accidents that had to happen to bring us here.
The person on my father’s dock becoming visible only when I printed the image large enough.
The fishing boat passing by just as that part of the song played when I was ready to hear it.
The guy whose position I took over, deciding it was time to open a yoga shop.
Camila walking by just as I was returning with groceries, and then telling René where I lived.
Do I suddenly believe in magic? I guess I don’t not believe. Maybe I’m one of those magic agnostics. Let’s just say I won’t be turning down an egg cleansing the next time someone offers.
“There’s something else I wanted to ask you.” He pulls his phone out of his back pocket. “But that’s another song,” he says, tapping quickly into his cell.
Having found what he was looking for, he places the phone on the kitchen counter and hits play.
The punk rock guitars throw me. I squint, trying to identify the song. Then the lyrics begin and René doesn’t lip sync or sing along. He barely moves.
The Ramones’ “I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend” is the type of song that leaves little room for misinterpretation.
A smile spreads across my face as I approach him. He pushes forward and kisses me just as Joey Ramone asks for an answer. “Yes,” I respond, my lips pressed to his. A rush of excitement shoots through me. “You know”—I pull away—“eventually you’ll have to actually say something. You can’t always let a song speak for you.”
He grins and slips his fingers through the loops in my dress, pulling me closer. Resolutely, he lifts me up and sets me on the table, positioning his body between my legs.
“We’ll see.” He lifts his chin cockily.
My fingers slide slowly down his arms. He takes my hands, our fingers intertwining, and kisses me again. Whatever was still holding me to the ground comes undone.