Chapter 10
Ihold my breath as Easton’s gaze lands on me. The gut punch nearly knocks me flat. His look devours me, slipping across my cleavage, down my hips, and back up. The smoldering is so intense that, for a moment, I am back on the roof of La Vida Buena. Easton poised between my legs, moonlight glancing off his torso, his body shaking, his voice husky. “Are you sure?”
And then his eyes move coldly past me.
Wait. He doesn’t recognize me? Relief fiestas through my body.
But then a hollowness forms in my chest.
Dios. I need therapy. This is what I wanted. To win. Not re-engage the moody longings of my twenty-something self.
As I conduct this internal mania, the host introduces Fonzie to Easton. Of course Easton is funny and calm. Of course Fonzie is, too. When they interview me, I’ll probably freeze like a deer in the headlights. Or pee my pants. Cállate. Don’t even think that.
“Now, let’s get to know—” Miguel points off to the side.
Easton interrupts by asking Fonzie, “Have we met?” He’s glancing at Fonzie as if he’s trying to place him. “The fitness world is a small place.”
Fonzie shakes his head. “I don’t think so, but…” He pauses as if considering. “Wait. We both attended a fitness convention in Florida a few years ago. You gave a talk all about keeping a personal journal as a means to track fitness and its impact on mental health. I started mine because of that talk. I even asked a question during the Q A. Could you be remembering that?”
“Maybe that’s it.” Easton says. “That was a great convention.”
Fonzie agrees. There’s a moment of silence before Miguel regains his footing, jumps back in, and points off to the side. “Let’s get to know Fonzie a little better.”
Music plays as Fonzie’s personal story appears on the screen.
He’s from Texas, grew up on a cattle ranch, and had a life-threatening fall from a horse as a child. He survived, walked despite a doctor saying he’d never walk again, and can now do things like that step routine. Dios. Increíble.
The intros go by in a blur of my mounting anxiety with Easton asking each and every contestant if they’ve met before. Surprisingly, there are a few connections, which is good for me. But they’re all fitness related, which is bad for me.
Doc, real name Henry Rose, the oldest contestant at forty-three, tells Easton that they once met when Easton gave a talk at the university where Henry works as a team doctor. They turn as one to watch his story on the big screen.
Fear is choking me. He’s going to ask if we’ve met and I’m going to have to tell the world… what? That he took my virginity and disappeared? No. Ay. Díos.
After everyone else is done, Easton and Miguel move over to me. A camera operator kneels in front of me, getting a closeup. I smile like my mouth is stitched together while my heart tries to vibrate up my throat and into my desert dry mouth.
I gaze into Easton’s eyes. As blue as the water lapping the beaches in San Juan. As hot as the sun in August. My ears fill with a whoosh that isn’t the ocean. He even smells good. A clean, spicy scent.
Miguel introduces us, and Easton reaches out to shake my hand.
“Hello,” I mumble, as our palms touch. A blossom of heat unfolds like a flower, budding with pure joy in my chest. It’s like… It’s like my body missed him. I push down the reaction, mortified.
Easton drops my hand. “Now, you I do remember meeting before.”
Because he’s asked everyone else, I’m somewhat prepared. “Twelve years ago,” I say, feeling so many things—happy that he remembers me, horror that this is happening, fear that he might bring up details of our night, and relief that I don’t have to spend the entire show pretending not to know him. “We met at my family’s resort in San Juan. I’m surprised you remember.”
Easton smiles coolly, and my heart thuds. Please don’t mention being trapped on the roof. He says, “You’re hard to forget.”
“Is that so?” I’m shocked by the flirtation in my voice and yet unable to control it. “I barely remember you.”
Easton throws his head back and laughs. I nearly pass out, he’s that damn sexy. Pretty-boy blond hair and blue eyes aren’t typically my thing, but Easton pairs his good looks with a sense of daring, humor, and challenge that hits me exactly right.
“Well,” he says, eyes dancing, “it’s good to see you again, Yolanda. I’m sure you’ll remember this second meeting.”
“No doubt,” I say, smiling with a heat that I can’t seem to contain.
Eyebrows raised, Miguel says, “Fitness is a smaller world than I thought. That’s four of our contestants that you’ve met before, but since our audience hasn’t met her yet, they should know that Yolanda Vasquez was born and raised right here in Puerto Rico. She’s here today, trying to make money for her struggling hotel, La Vida Buena, and for her charity, Banco de Alimentos. Let’s watch.”
On screen, the never-ending reds and oranges of a San Juan sunset fall over La Vida Buena. A few weeks after I’d made it onto the show, a crew had come to interview me and my family.
The video pans over the outside. I’m praying people see the spotlessness, the fresh flowers, and not the in-need-of-restoration architecture, dated decor, and vintage chandeliers.
The images on the screen switch to a family dinner. Mateo is there, my tío and tía looking older and smaller on the big screen, and my cousin Haydée—looking absolutely perfect, as usual. The conversation that night was awkward and stilted thanks to the cameras. I dread hearing it, but they don’t play it or any of the things I said during my interview.
Instead, I hear Haydée’s voice. “My cousin has worked so hard for her dream of making La Vida Buena a fitness destination.”
I clench my jaw because she has fought me every step of the way. Thanks to her, I was unable to implement even a quarter of my ideas.
And why is the voiceover hers anyway?
Haydée continues, “She overcame an eating disorder to live a healthier lifestyle. She wanted so badly to make her own brand of fitness here in San Juan to help tourist and locals alike.”
Rage, white-hot and shocking in its intensity, fires through my blood. I’d never mentioned my eating disorder to anyone on this show. Yes, I’ve told that story to educate, but I can’t stomach using that struggle as entertainment. I feel so betrayed, I taste bile.
“This hotel has been in our family for generations,” Haydée continues. “Our abuelo and abuelita started it. My parents and Yolanda’s parents inherited it from them. My cousins and I inherited it from our parents.”
The screen flashes with a picture of my grandparents—who’d moved to Florida decades ago—my young parents beside them, my father’s brown eyes gleaming, my mom hogging for the camera, hanging on his shoulder, arm raised, —alongside a younger version of my tía and tío. They’re standing in front of a shining, beautiful La Vida Buena. It’s an old photo, filled with joy and possibility taken long before I was even born.
Haydée’s voiceover continues. “Things changed after Yolanda’s parents died. It was just Mami and Papi taking care of me, my two orphaned primos, and this place. We tried to help Yolanda make her dream work here, but we just didn’t have the money.”
What mierda. We had the money, but her vision always won out over mine.
Onscreen, Haydée turns to her left and the big screen fills with my nodding, eager face. Embarrassment grips my throat and squeezes. The way the video is sliced together, it looks like Haydée had said everything while seated right beside me. Not true. This is the first I’m hearing it.
In the video, I begin talking about my brother, my family, and how much I love them. I switch quickly to my charity, Banco de Alimentos, and the important work they do on the island.
I sound… boring. Is this why they used Haydée when everyone else’s voiceover was their own? I don’t know. My clenched hands begin to sweat as my fingernails bite into my palms. Keep it together.
The screen cuts out. Miguel’s manicured hand, with its gleaming wedding ring, reaches over and squeezes my shoulder. “What an amazing family. How does it feel to know you have them all behind you?”
It feels like I want to sink into the floor or throw a tantrum fit for a two-year-old. For a moment, I can’t speak. A tear of frustration spills from my eyes. Miguel squeezes my shoulder. “It’s okay.”
Grrr. It’s really not. I find my voice. “Gracias. Thanks, Miguel. It feels amazing. They’re the best, most supportive family in the world.”
I smile. Feeling and sounding so fake I want to punch myself in the face.
“Does your cousin always speak for you?” Easton asks.
I flinch. He asked casually, friendly even, but there’s challenge in that question. It reminds me of the way he questioned me that long-ago night when we spoke about our visions for the future. “Got any details to go with your vague?”
For a moment, I forget the cameras, forget that I’m supposed to be putting on my best, fake face, I simply answer, “Only when I don’t want her to.”
His frown conveys a deep concern. “Did you know she was going to bring up your eating disorder?”
I am dying. The camera feels bruising in its closeness. “No.” I want to let it rest there, but I’m not ashamed of my past. Squaring my shoulders, I tell the truth. “I didn’t bring up my health history because it’s a complicated part of my past that’s rooted in trauma. I didn’t want it turned into a soundbite, comprendes?”
“Are you asking me if I understand not wanting to have something deeply personal mischaracterized to create a good but inaccurate story?” He grins, obviously referring to his breakup and his ex-fiancée, who stole from his company. His smile is sex on the beach at sunset.
There’s laughter on set, but he stays focused on me. “Yeah, I get it, so I’d like to offer you a do-over.”
As if we’d merely picked up our conversation after a decade-long pause, hours, months, and years fall away as softly as petals from a flower.
“I can’t erase what happened tonight, but is there something more you’d like us to know about your experience? Something that’d make it less of a soundbite?”
I go with words I’ve used at high school health and wellness speeches in San Juan. “During my transition from tween to teen, I developed a bulimic eating disorder. Through therapy and treatment, I learned to deal with my emotions and past traumas, while also discarding the harsh societal standards injuring my self-worth.”
Easton nods as I speak, and I feel so supported by him. “Through my struggles, I discovered an intense respect for what my body could accomplish when given the right food and nutrition, which is why my charity is a food bank in Puerto Rico.”
His face softens. He waits for me to continue, and when it becomes obvious that I’m done, he says, “Thanks for telling us.” He reaches out a hand. It hovers there before he drops it. “We’ll try to do better on the show to respect your boundaries. I’m sorry this happened.”
He doesn’t bring up the fact that his producer made the decision to put that on live television, and I don’t push him about it or excuse it.
“Good luck, Yolanda,” he finishes with what sounds like real emotion before turning to the host.
Miguel’s eyes dart between me and Easton before he ends the show with a flare of that great smile. “Join us next week for our first live competition where each of the contestants will prepare a routine based on the FTW core principle of…” He pauses, knowing it’s not just the audience hearing this for the first time, it’s all of us… “Balance.”
A burst of relief courses through me. I’m so freaking glad the first week wasn’t strength. Balance, tengo esto. I’ve already got a routine.
“The first competition, like all of the competitions, will be audience vote, but we’ll also have experts breaking down the routines during the show, so that the audience knows exactly what they’re seeing. Since our first week is balance, our guest judges will be from Dance Your Bleep Off!”
The contestants start clapping. Kay Lee jumps up and down like an enthusiastic cheerleader at Homecoming. Remarkably, her pink Stetson stays firmly in place.
Easton claps politely, but when the show is done, I notice him slide me a hungry glance, and I’m sure, right down to my singed panties, that coming on this show was a huge mistake.