Chapter 24
Ishould be working right now, not lying on my apartment couch, laptop on my lap, scrolling the comments under my dance video with Easton. Still, I don’t exit the website for FTW’s reality show. Not only have they posted video segments from the show, but they also have a place below them for viewers to comment.
It’s the comments that have my attention. I skim, then ignore the back-and-forth between two idiotas debating whether I’m too fat or the right kind of thick.
Most of the comments are positive and supportive, but a few… My throat knots as I read.
@lucen11: It’s obvious he got her on the show.
@shanista: AGREED. That chemistry is no accident.
@anonymous4now: Yep. She’s a plant.
@anonymous4now: Reviving his image with the sweet, chubby girl so we forget his embezzling fiancée.
Do people really believe that? Co?o. Easton had no idea I was on the show until opening night, but that hasn’t stopped the rumors. People are even suggesting my loss during the first live was planned, so that we could dance together.
It’s so out there. How could anyone believe I’m a plant and that Easton used illegal moves during the dance so he’d lose on purpose? There are people calling me…
Anger pounds at my temple. I need to close my laptop, but I read another comment by @anonymous4now: She’s obviously sleeping with him. If I were on the show, I’d find a way to get her kicked off.
That is insanity. Even if I were sleeping with Easton—and I’m definitely not—why should it get me kicked off? He has no control over the show, judges, or voting
Then again, people don’t know that. They don’t know him.
I click on Anonymous4Now’s username and scroll that person’s comments going back to the first show. My heart starts to pound.
@anonymous4now: She’s so stale. Obvs he got her on the show.
@anonymous4now: Cheaters.
@anonymous4now: Do any of you believe she was really sick?
@anonymous4now: She won’t lose the LS. It’s all manipulated.
@anonymous4now: Told you.
@anonymous4now: Someone on that show needs to slam a crowbar to her knee.
Díos. On and on it goes, with each comment becoming more vitriolic. And all of that anger has no basis in reality. Why would I purposely pretend to be sick to lose on the first show? It makes no sense. It’s like this person wants people to hate me.
I startle as the firm knock on my apartment door echoes down the foyer. Ay. How long have I been sitting here? I have to get back to work. Moving my laptop to the side, I stretch my legs out, lift my arms up, and yawn-sigh, “Entrada.”
I’m expecting Haydée with my outfit for tonight’s family dinner with Easton. After reading those comments, I’d rather go to dinner in my plain shorts and comfy T-shirt.
Wearing tan cargo shorts and an off-brand lime polo, Mateo walks in and looks around. “Why is it so messy in here?”
He’s right. My usually tidy apartment has dirty dishes in the sink, scattered cups, and tile floors that desperately need to be swept.
“Because I’m working at the hotel, teaching my classes at the fitness center, filling in on Liza’s classes, and keeping up with the show schedule and changes in that schedule.” I scrunch my damp hair. “I don’t even have time to diffuse my hair for dinner tonight.”
I purposely avoid mentioning the scrolling. In fairness, these last ten minutes are the most I’ve spent online in days.
Mateo moves hotel printouts off the chair across from me and places them onto the coffee table, then sits in the cleared spot and clasps his hand together. “Necesitamos hablar.”
A thread of alarm works its way down my back. “What do you want to talk about?”
“I asked one of my old college friends—she works at a lab—to test your water bottle.” He exhales a troubled breath. “She found a foodborne pathogen, Bacillus cereus.”
My stomach rolls. “That’s disgusting.”
“No es un accidente.”
“You think someone purposefully poisoned my water?”
“And broke your shoe and messed with our cars.”
“But they could all be coincidences.”
“It’s made to look like a coincidence, Yolanda, so we can’t take it to the police. Someone is trying to get you to make a mistake so you lose.”
I frown, thinking of the vitriol online. “Have you been reading any of the comments online?”
He shakes his head. I swing around, placing my bare feet against the cool tile. “People are suggesting Easton got me on the show. There’s a lot of angry remarks, even ones that mention violence toward me.”
“You need to talk to Parker about it.”
“Of course I will, but, Mateo, she’s done a million of these shows. I’m sure she’s heard all the comments a person can hear. Besides, what could she do?”
“Then we need to do something.”
“Like what?”
“Pay attention to where your water bottle is?—
“I’m never drinking from that thing again.”
“—check your equipment and try to spend more time getting to know your competition.”
My competition? “I don’t have time to socialize. You want me to start worrying about my opponents along with all the other things going on in my life right now?”
“Worry, no. Be more aware. And, maybe, cool down your coaching sessions with Easton.”
“Cool down? Do you think I’m purposefully…”
There’s another knock. “Entrada,” I practically yell, rubbing sweaty hands against my suddenly shaky knees.
Haydée walks in holding up a garment bag. “Ay,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “It smells like old tostones and beans in here. You know you can get one of the staff to clean for you, right?”
Standing, I take the bag from her and hang it in the foyer closet. “I can clean up after myself.” When I’m not taking on multiple day jobs, including teaching classes at the gym, managing the resort, working on a reality show, and now worrying about my safety.
I unzip the bag with a zzz of metal teeth. The dress bursts forth like a sunrise—a bright, juicy morning red that melts into a sunset orange. It has a deep V, large, molded breast support, and a tight skirt that will barely reach mid-thigh. “Haydée, do you think I’m going to a nineties dance party?”
“I think, you need to stand out. You can’t wear yoga pants.” She shudders as if even saying the words yoga pants is as repulsive to her as putting them on her body.
“Pero…” I drop the dress. “This is a family dinner.”
She snaps her hands to her hips. “You should be grateful I went through all this trouble. It’s not like I don’t have a full-time job and a buyer waiting in the wings. Kim Cole called me again this morning. She’s insisting she meet with you.”
“Sounds like a good reason to want Yolanda off the show,” Mateo mumbles.
The room goes silent.
A confused frown draws down Haydée’s perfect brow. “Que?”
Called out, Mateo stands and faces our prima. “You had access to the shoes that broke, the tires that were slashed, and the water bottle that made Yolanda sick.”
“Mateo!” I can’t believe him right now. He has lost his mind. “Ignore him.”
It would be easier to tell a charging bull to ignore the red flag of a matador. I’ve seen Haydée angry before, seen her furious, but I’ve never seen the look she directs at Mateo. Open hurt.
She blinks back tears, screws up her face, and fires back, “Don’t blame me for your guilt, Mateo.”
“You think I broke the shoes?”
Waves of dark hair flounce as she shakes her head. Her eyes clear. “I think the shoes were used. I took them from work when I saw they were Yolonda’s size. I think I should’ve checked them better. That’s it. No mystery. I’m not talking about your paranoia. I’m talking about the fact that you sided with my papi when Yolanda first wanted to change the resort twelve years ago.”
A silence as thick as the city walls around Old San Juan stack into the space between us. Mateo’s face goes coral, a shade I’ve never seen on him.
I swivel my gaze from him to Haydée. “What’s she getting at?”
Haydée laughs, short and fast. It’s very nearly a scoff. “You don’t see it, do you? His guilt is why he came back after my papi’s heart attack.”
Mateo crowds into the foyer, reminding me how big he is. “Haydée, not another word.”
“No.” She stomps a petulant foot but backs up a step. “It’s time we talked about it. Yolanda is the only one of us who ever gave a shit about La Vida. You wanted to go to school, so you agreed to my parents’ demand that Yolanda and I work together. You thought Yolanda could take care of everything—keep me in line, oversee Mami and Papi’s health, and manage all the work at the hotel. But, after my papi’s heart attack, you felt bad about leaving her to deal with all of it.”
“What are you talking about, Haydée?”
“Come on,” she says, as if coaxing a stubborn child into seeing the truth about Santa. “It’s why he left a job he loved to take over maintenance at the hotel. It’s why he plays bomba at the resort and for you on the show. It’s why, after doing all that, he spends his spare time using the skills he’s passionate about to create fitness equipment. You have to see it, right?”
A tremulous ache springs into my chest. Haydée has been telling me for years she wants out of the business, but Mateo? I thought he’d missed the hotel. I thought his job was too high-pressure.
I turn to Mateo. “Is she right? Did you give up mechanical engineering because of guilt?”
Mateo’s eyes are wide and haunted. “Querida, it’s not like that.”
“That’s not an answer, Mateo. I need you to tell me that you’re where you want to be.”
Haydée shakes a disapproving finger at him. “He won’t tell you. It’s why you prefer his company to mine. He’s a better liar.”
“Knock it off, Haydée,” Mateo says. He rubs a frustrated hand through his hair, then tugs it angrily from his curls. “I’m not the one who had the grand idea of selling high-priced rooms to spring-breakers.”
“I was barely eighteen. There’s no way I should’ve been given control of the hotel. Mami and Papi wanted to give me a career they could see going somewhere, porque they didn’t have faith in me and my designs.”
“You didn’t have faith in yourself,” Mateo counters.
“Verdad.” She drops her hands from her hips, her posture becoming less hostile. “But I do now. That’s actually why I want to sell my half of the resort.”
My head is spinning. Mateo feels guilty for siding with my aunt and uncle that long-ago night? He gave up his career because of that guilt? Haydée has been trying to help me as well? “Are you saying you’re selling to help me? Not because you need even more money to spend?”
“Claro, sí, I spent. I thought throwing money at my problem would work, but it didn’t.” She exhales dramatically. “I’m selling because I can’t try to make your dream and my dream a success anymore.”
She holds her head high. “Designing fashion for you on the show is the first thing I’ve done in a decade that is benefitting me directly. People are reaching out and asking about my designs. Parker even mentioned having me work on other shows. I would no more sabotage you than I would myself. I owe you… everything.”
I can feel my mouth hanging open. And I can see Mateo mirroring my surprised look.
Haydée bites her lip. “Try on the dress. You’ll look great in it.”
With that, she turns and practically runs from the room.