Chapter Twenty – Alex
You’ll come back home while I wait for you,
watch over my sleep, hold me close.
Be my joy, my guiding star, and cry with me when I need to…
Mel da Sua Boca - Copacabana Beat
Thalia: But are you happy?
I stare at the phone like it’s a snake, just waiting for it to strike at me. The four words, which I’ve read and reread countless times before sleeping, still block my throat this morning with the same intensity as last night.
I am happy. There’s no doubt about it.
I went on tour with the world’s most famous band for six months; I’m the one who shares one of their most famous songs; I gained more followers in six months than I ever imagined I would; the captions on my posts have to be in both Portuguese and English because, although the international market hasn’t opened up for Alexandra Saldanha, lover of Samba and MPB, it has noticed Alex, who sings with Vicious – and I don’t want to miss any of that.
And now I’m on vacation in one of the most incredible cities in the world, sharing a house with a guy who, despite the short time, I already love calling a friend, a title I don’t just hand out to anyone.
So… the answer to my cousin’s question seems to be a simple one: Yes, I’m happy.
But every time I typed those words, yesterday and today, my mind decided to rub the truth in my face, like some subliminal message: You’re happy in a way you never planned, achieving things you never imagined, at the cost of sacrificing your career.
And it hurts, because it’s unfair to me. This is part of my career too. But some dreams turn into black holes when they’re left unfulfilled.
Even though I’m afraid to admit that following this alternative path is making me happy, I swallow the lump in my throat and type a response to my friend:
Me: Sometimes I miss home. I wonder what it would’ve been like to be in Brazil doing my shows, accepting all the sponsored posts and becoming a subcelebrity who sings on the weekends until I get my “big break.”
Me: But sometimes, just sometimes, I smile, grateful to God for conspiring to put me exactly where I am right now.
Me: I just don’t know if I’m doing this out of genuine gratitude or because I’ve accepted failure and am grateful for having had something to hold on to.
I send the message and close my eyes, taking a deep breath. I was as honest as I could be.
The response comes immediately.
Thalia: But are you happy?
I smile at the screen, because Thalia wouldn’t respond any differently. And it’s this warmth that pushes me to accept the truth.
I type that I have no reason not to be happy, and I tell her how nice it’s been to take a break after a tour in Europe. Something immeasurable and that truly makes me happy, even though it’s not the greatest dream of my life.
As I write the words, however, tears of pain, homesickness, and loneliness trickle down my cheeks.
Because part of me knows that I’m just lost, I just need someone to hold my hand and remind me that nothing happens by accident.
An adult, someone experienced, to tell me about a similar moment, a similar crossroads.
But that person doesn’t exist. My mom, my partner in impossible dreams, is gone. And my dad simply doesn’t care enough.
***
I leave the room after my text exchange with Thalia turns into a call, and we talk about everything but work. Which boils down to my friend telling me about her crushes, teasing me for living with A.J., and making plans for when I get back.
All because I need comfort, and I’m terrible at asking for it.
For the first time in a long while, I’m home alone.
I know this because A.J. isn’t in the living room – where he always is – and the house is in complete silence.
Even though I’m surprised he didn’t send me a message to let me know where he was, I smile at the possibility of having the place to myself for a while.
I open the living room blinds and ask Alexa to play my playlist of Brazilian music, but in random mode – I like the false sense of being surprised by songs I’ve already selected. Caju by Liniker starts, and I ask Alexa to skip it because today’s going to be a good day, no matter what.
The next song is more upbeat and makes me dance while I rush to the kitchen to make some toast.
One of the few things I’m glad I learned how to make from cooking shows is this avocado toast – sounds gross, but it’s delicious when you actually eat it.
I leave the bread in the hot pan, mix avocado, lime, olive oil, and salt in a little bowl, and sing out loud to the chorus of one of my favorite songs. I take the bread out of the pan seconds later, still humming, and shimmy as I spread the green paste over it.
“Jesus,” I shout and almost drop my breakfast when I turn around and run into A.J., sweaty, leaning against the kitchen entrance. “You trying to kill me?”
“Please, pretend I’m not here and keep going,” he jokes, holding back a laugh, and I give him a dirty look. “I meant singing, of course. I’d never talk about you shaking it in my kitchen…”
“I could’ve dropped my breakfast, you know?”
“Sorry?”
“Don’t pretend you’re innocent, you could’ve called me.”
“I did! Twice , but…” He twirls his finger in the air, and the loud music explains why we’re shouting.
“Alexa, turn off!” I yell and it shuts up and I feel like punching this guy. “It’s freezing outside, where were you?”
“Gym in the building. I don’t stay this hot just doing photosynthesis,” he says as I pass by him. “No coffee for me?”
“It’s nine in the morning, A.J., you disappeared and didn’t let me know where you were, so I decided to enjoy the house without you and eat something…”
“You didn’t think of me?”
“Not one bit.”
“You hurt my feelings, you know?”
“Yep, I knew that. Now go take a shower,” I say just before he threatens to sit on our sofa-bed.
The house is his, but I end up lying there more times than I can count. God forbid I see him sitting there all sweaty.
“Something arrived for you.” He ignores me and hands the cylindrical package over to the coffee table. “Open it,” he says, looking like a kid who’s just done something mischievous but is excited for their parents to see that they’ve mastered a new skill.
I put my plate down on the side table and grab the package.
It’s not bigger than a ruler, and I have no idea what could be wrapped in it.
I unroll the paper, and Drew Barrymore’s face pops into view.
Then the deliciously handsome Hugh Grant, in the prime of his beauty, smiles at her, and I can’t help but smile too.
“The Music and Lyrics poster!” I blurt out.
“The first poster we’re going to hang together,” he grins mischievously.
“I loved that movie so much, A.J., now you’ve made me feel bad for not making you breakfast.”
He closes his eyes but can’t hold back the laugh, throwing his head back.
“You don’t exist, you know that?”
“By my calculations, there’s more than just one poster in there…” A.J. lets it slip, a confused look crossing his face as he sighs in irritation.
To make sure the person who wrapped is not going to lose their job, I try to peel off the tape as quickly as possible. He’s right – there’s another one. And as I see the red poster, I can’t hold my jaw in place.
“Samba is Hot!” I read the text from my tour shirt.
A.J. doesn’t say anything, just nods, exhaling through his lips like he wasn’t sure I was going to like it.
So I make sure to reassure him: “I loved it, A.J.” I throw my arms around him.
“Gross, A.J. Put me down,” I yell as he lifts me by the waist and holds me in the air.
“Are you disgusted by my sweat, Miss Petulant?”
“Put me down, Anthony,” I order, curious about how he smells so good when he’s all sweaty.
“I’m happy you liked the gift. I just wanted you to feel like this house is a little bit yours too. This was my best idea,” he says, holding me with one hand and moving my hair out of my face with the other.
As if I weigh the same as paper.
“I loved it, but you’re disgusting, you know that? You didn’t have to pick me up.”
“You were the one who grabbed me, and this is water, Alexandra. I took a shower at the gym, woman. Do you really think I’d pick you up while sweating like this?” A.J. finally puts me down.
“But you were going to take a shower…”
“I forgot my hair products, and I need to take care of them.”
“I was starting to think you were the first sweaty, good-smelling guy in the world.”
“Tomorrow I’ll come back all sweaty, and we can test it.” He laughs to the side and gives me a wink. “Now, let’s hang the posters.”
Sometimes, just sometimes, I wonder if these little jokes are doing more harm than good. But I usually bury those thoughts because I don’t want to make things weird between us.
A.J. takes the blank frames from the wall, and we stick the posters on them. But the artwork doesn’t really match the vibe, so we decide to move all the frames around until we find a good contrast and a nice color palette.
We move all of them, except for the Elvis one. Now we have song lyrics from an indie band called Sunset Curve , Elvis, Lady and the Tramp , Music and Lyrics , and my Samba is Hot on the wall.
“Now it’s perfect,” A.J. sighs, proud of his work.
“Yes. Go take your shower, and I’ll make coffee for us,” I warn, and he looks at me with a furrowed brow, glancing between me and the toast. “At this point, it’s already going limp, right?”
“Oh, yes. That’s right. That was part of my plan to have coffee.”
“I’m going to pick a good movie for tonight. I’ll think of one that I want to replace School of Rock with.”
“We’re not taking School of Rock off the wall,” he snaps, frowning.
“We are, yes. I hate that movie, and you said the house is a little bit mine now,” I point out, crossing my arms. “We can’t keep something I hate on the wall.”
A.J. looks at the poster of Jack Black and a bunch of kids piled together, then back at me. He looks at the poster again and takes a deep breath.
“Fine, but we won’t be watching a movie tonight. So I can keep my poster up for a bit longer.”
I almost ask, “What do you mean we won’t have a movie tonight?” But A.J. left early this morning without texting or sending a message, and he mentioned that I’m at home now. Maybe that means he’s needing some space, so I respect that and just nod.
“I have a call with the guys today. We’ll talk a bit and sort out the details for Thursday’s dinner and the upcoming shows…”
“Alright, A.J. You don’t need to update me on everything. I was actually planning on going out today.”
“Go out?” he asks with the same resignation I felt when he rejected our movie. “By yourself?”
“We’re back on stage on Saturday, and I haven’t seen New York’s nightlife yet, right?” I lie with such ease that I almost feel proud of my acting skills.
“It’s beautiful. It’ll be good for you… do something in the city without dragging me around like your purse dog.”
The silence hangs between us, bringing the feeling that we’re about to have our second breakup. The first was when we stopped living like two unsupervised teenagers. Now, we’re still going to share a house, but without needing to live like Siamese twins.
It seems like we’re both ready for this step, and since we’ll be hitting the road again in a few days, that’s a good thing.