Chapter 7
T HERE’S A YOUNG WOMAN WEARING A POOFY NEON PINK VEIL by the baggage carousel. She’s blindfolded and her ears are covered with bulky purple headphones. And just to be sure nobody gets it wrong, she’s also wearing a brIDE TO BE sash across her chest.
Her friends hover around, taking turns holding her arm so she doesn’t wander off or bump into anything. Once in a while, she sings along to what they’ve programmed to keep her from hearing any clues. When she does this, her friends chime in, too, and dance around. They’re wearing matching T-shirts with a picture of a guy’s face on it, presumably the groom.
I’m full-on staring. We all are. The captive audience waiting for our bags in San Juan.
One of the girls gawks at someone walking by. I follow her gaze and find James. Behind him, a late afternoon haze is coming through the airport windows.
“That would be my nightmare.” I gesture in the direction of the girls as he approaches me with a luggage cart.
“Oh yeah?” He rests one foot on the cart and tucks a hand into his pocket. James exudes the ruggedness and accountability of a guy in a J. Crew catalog.
“How come?”
“I don’t see the logic in it. It’s like, ‘You’re getting married, so let’s celebrate by taking you somewhere you didn’t choose.’”
“Fair enough.” He nods once.
“What if I don’t like where you’ve chosen? And how can I pack appropriately? What’s even in her suitcase?”
“Maybe they packed it for her,” he offers.
“That would be an even bigger nightmare.”
He chuckles and I can’t help but smile, relieved we’re in a good place. Meri’s wrong. It’s a good thing neither of us was heartbroken. This is the best kind of relationship. The kind where, if it ends, you slip right back into being friends like nothing ever happened.
Now that I’m here with him, I try to think of something I have missed. I liked spending some weekends at his place in South Beach. But it’s not like we ever actually went swimming because I felt the current at that part of the beach was too strong. Sex was a solid B+, but frankly, I don’t miss that either.
A suitcase pushes through the rubbery black curtain, and my shoulders shudder. I tell myself it’s just a healthy mix of nerves and excitement. Every step today has been a step closer to the island and there are only two steps left. Collect bags. Get on ferry.
Things will be fine with René. He owes me now, I reason. I helped him get the label to agree to recording his album in Puerto Rico. At the very least, we should be even.
James gets to work, grabbing heavy equipment cases and methodically organizing them onto the cart.
“That’s a lot of baggage,” I tease.
“I brought extra cameras and backup equipment. I figured there won’t be much on the island.”
“Good thinking.” James always plans ahead. It’s a relief to have someone I can trust on this job. Someone dependable and patient. James is also the best-dressed cameraman I’ve ever worked with. He has an impressive collection of smart, button-down dress shirts. You’d never know he was going to lug around heavy camera equipment all day.
I see my bag and let it keep going for a moment before I reach for it. Only one step left. The ferry.
“See you in”—I check my watch—“four hours.”
“You got it. Be safe.” He nods and heads off in the direction of his connecting flight, while I head for the exit.
I’d like to believe it’s René’s fault I’m not taking the quick island hopper flight to Culebra with James. But the truth is, I feel personally responsible that we’re starting this album over budget.
So I’m determined to cut costs wherever I can. With only two flights going to the island a day, they were actually a bit pricey, so I opted for the ferry.
The cab takes over an hour to get to the dock just outside of the city. But even with traffic, I arrive with plenty of time to make the five o’clock ferry. My suitcase slips out of my hand with a thud and I drag it toward the dock. I swear my bag feels heavier than it did in Miami.
A mixture of tourists and locals are already standing on the narrow gangway waiting to board the small ferry parked at the dock. Families with children in strollers, older couples, a group of guys lugging fishing gear.
I take a seat near the ticket counter because I’m feeling a bit carsick. Then again, I did spend the entire ride responding to work emails and texting Meri to check in on things back home.
A couple of backpackers walk up to the counter and inquire about ferry tickets. What kind of person just shows up to a ferry an hour outside of the city without a ticket? Without any assurance they’ll be able to get on? To my surprise, they secure tickets. Good for them, I can’t help but think. Ah, to be young. Though, to be fair, they don’t seem all that much younger than me.
At 4:30 p.m., the boarding announcement is made and I join the small flock. The sea is choppy, so the gangway and the boat rock back and forth. I should probably wait a few more minutes for the motion sickness from the cab ride to pass before acquiring a new one. I decide to check the vending machines I spotted near the ticket counter for crackers.
After a few splashes of cold water on my face and a can of ginger ale, I make my way back to the dock. My eyes scan the horizon. I can’t believe that in about an hour, there will be no more steps. I’ll be on my dad’s island. Focusing on work is the only way I know to get through this. I walk onto the bridge but there’s nothing at the end of it. The ferry is gone. I snap my head and find it, bobbing and dipping over the waves just past the next dock.
My watch says 4:41. Was that the 4:41 ferry? Or was that actually the 4:30 ferry and it was running late?
“Excuse me.” The ticket window attendant is in the middle of building a tower of rental boogie boards. “Where’s the five o’clock ferry?”
“That was it.”
“But”—my breath catches—“it’s not five o’clock.” She looks at me like I’ve just said something unrelated. “Why would it leave early?”
The attendant finds someone to talk to and then comes back to me. “It was at capacity, ma’am. Everyone was on it.”
It’s not my first “ma’am,” but they haven’t stopped stinging. “But everyone wasn’t on it. I wasn’t on it.”
The guy at the airport ticket counter is judging me harshly. His eyebrows shoot way up to the middle of his forehead when I tell him what I need. They remain there as he punches into the keyboard.
“For today?” He seems way too young to work here. Definitely too young to be judging me. “It’s not recommended buying a ticket for the same day—”
“I completely agree, believe me”—I glance at his name badge—“Joaquin.” I’m still catching my breath from sprinting through the airport, the mysteriously increasing weight of my suitcase threatening to yank my arm out of its socket. Having missed what turned out to be the last ferry of the day, I’m back at the airport.
“I was going to take the ferry but it was overbooked.” I dig out my license and place it on the counter for him. “But then it took off early and—” I stop myself midsentence.
I might have a sixth sense. One that alerts me to any stuck-up, womanizing reggaetoneros in the area. Because I swear I’m able to sense René before I see him. Or maybe it’s the way the group behind me went completely quiet, and I heard someone whisper, “That is him.”
“ ?Hola? ?Como estas? ” René walks up and cheerily greets the attendant at the next ticket counter. He drops his duffel bag on the floor and pulls out his wallet. I’m not sure if he’s seen me. Though I’m only about three feet away. “I just need to know where my gate is,” he says, handing her his ID.
I want to say something nice and professional. Something that kicks us off on the right foot. But my brain feels like slush. The cab ride back to the airport left me with a fresh batch of nausea, and the race through the airport in search of this hard-to-find, small nondescript counter of hopper flights to the islands has left me spent.
“Daniela”—Joaquin picks up my license and then sets it back down—“I’m not seeing any seats on the last flight.”
At this, René looks over at me. I can feel him standing there, watching me smugly.
“Can you please check again?” I do my absolute best not to sound like I’m exhausted or in trouble. René looks carelessly stylish as always. Large red sweatshirt, reflective mirrored shades, and a baseball hat.
“Let me check one more thing.” I think my attendant has recognized René, and it’s why he’s typing even more vigorously.
René takes his ID back from his attendant with an appreciative smile. “?Hola. Como estas?” He echoes what he just said moments ago. The woman’s eyes narrow, confused.
“I’m so sorry.” He brings a hand to his head. “It’s just, I have this problem. It’s actually my main problem. It appears I repeat myself. But you’d already know that if you’d heard my music.”
My whole body tenses. This is not how I wanted to kick things off. I shut my eyes. I didn’t expect René to forget everything I said, but I’d hoped that after Maureen approved his request to record the album in Puerto Rico, he’d agree that my ends justified the means. I’m about to try to acknowledge him and make light of the whole thing, when my attendant abruptly stops typing.
“Next available flight to Culebra isn’t until tomorrow night.”
“What?” I can’t even attempt to hide the desperation in my voice. I can’t miss René’s first day in the studio. I wanted to get there tonight so I could get settled. Get a lay of the land. “What about flights to the other island? Can’t I take a ferry from there?”
“Yes, maybe. Let me check.”
“Just come on my flight,” René gruffly blurts out, still looking at his attendant.
I turn toward him. “Oh, René! Hi.” I loosen my shoulders and flash my best attempt at a carefree smile.
He turns to address me. “ángel chartered a plane. There’s plenty of room.” His face is stern behind the mirrored shades, emoting nothing.
“That’s okay. This is fine, thanks. We got it all sorted out.” I cannot even fathom imposing or inconveniencing him like that.
“It’s Gate 7B.” René’s attendant hands him a printout of his ticket.
“Thank you. Thank y—oh, see that. I almost repeated myself again.” His tone is more agitated now. “But I held back, because I hate being stuck in a rut.”
I scoff loudly. “You know what I hate?” I tell my attendant. “People who push their luck when someone’s already going out of their way to help them. Like right now, as you are in the midst of trying to assist me, it would never even occur to me to add more and more requests or be purposefully difficult.” I’ve snapped. How dare René be upset with me? It’s just one too many things right now.
René lets out a laugh. I can’t tell if it’s a pissed-off laugh or if he actually finds what I’ve said amusing.
“Because that would be rude and greedy, wouldn’t it?” My attendant stops typing and looks up at me curiously. “I’m sorry, don’t mind me. Please don’t stop looking.” My voice is low and friendly.
René shakes his head and tosses his duffel bag over his shoulder. Is that all he’s bringing for a month? A single, measly, seemingly weightless duffel? He’s hovering, I think, begrudgingly waiting until my flight is resolved. There isn’t anyone in line at his ticket counter, so his attendant is waiting too.
“There’s one seat on the last flight to Vieques Island. There’s a late ferry from there to Culebra you should be able to make.”
“Oh, thank goodness. I’ll take it.” I exhale. “See,” I snap at René. “I’m perfectly fine. You can go.” I wave a hand at him for good measure.
“That will be one thousand two hundred and thirty-eight dollars.”
My heart sinks deep down into my chest cavity. “Oh.” Upon hearing me, René drops his bag. I can feel him watching me. I ignore him, and place my backpack on the counter, unzip it slowly, and dig for my credit card. What have I done? That’s four times the cost of James’s flight.
I hold the credit card in my hand and take a breath. Finally, I look up at René. One glance is all it takes. He’s able to read my mind. Or possibly the desperation in my eyes.
He grabs my license off the counter and hands it to his attendant. “Can you please add Daniela Maria here to my flight’s manifest?”
I’m hit with a wild combination of emotions. There’s gratitude and intense relief I won’t be accruing the enormous hit to our budget. Plus a dash of annoyance—and something else that I’d rather ignore.
René takes my hefty suitcase before I’ve had a chance to protest and we set off.
“Thank you.” I turn to him as we wait in line at airport security. I brace myself for a snarky comment or for him to rub it in my face.
“No problem,” he says simply, his face soft. I stare at him for a moment, unsure what to think.
As we walk past a kiosk selling handbags, René recognizes the attendant. I imagine from flying out of here so often. He gets close enough to tap the shoulder of the older woman behind the cash register. She turns just in time to see him, and waves eagerly at him. My heart warms for her. He’s just made her day. Her month.
Then we make it through the airport, are driven by a van to the tarmac, and walk up the steps to the small private charter jet… in silence.
There are four large leather seats. I take one in the first row and René does the same, sitting across the small aisle from me.
The sound of the engine isn’t encouraging. It’s weak and tinny, like it doesn’t actually have the strength to pick up this plane. But the nose tilts up and we’re in the air instantly and my body loosens up a tad.
Below us, San Juan’s Spanish fort cuts a jagged edge along the water. I can see waves crashing against the shore, and exactly where the water shifts and darkens to a deeper shade of blue. Islands covered in small green mountains come into view in the distance.
“There’s the big island and then there’s a hundred little ones. And Culebra is the most beautiful.” I hear my father’s voice. I see him hovering over a map on our kitchen table. I try to brush the memory away, but it resists and lingers a moment longer. “Here there are turtles, here the ocean drops thousands of feet and there are whales.” My father didn’t just love Culebra. He loved the water and the little islands surrounding it.
I still can’t believe I’m actually heading to the place I heard him obsess about my whole life. Of all of Puerto Rico’s inhabited islands, Culebra is the rawest. The others are more popular with tourists and have more restaurants and hotels. Culebra is a lot of untouched beaches, sea turtle sanctuaries, and wild horses. Or so my father’s song goes. Horses living free, rolling in the sand. A few hundred families have lived there for generations. Despite the limited resources, exposure to hurricanes, and the fact that kids have to be ferried to another island for grades 9 to 12.
René removes his sunglasses and pulls a pair of headphones out of his duffel bag.
I need to fix things. The only way I’m going to make it through a month on this island without my heart breaking from thinking about my father is by diving into work.
“Listen, um,” I start, and he shifts his body toward me, a blank look on his face, “I just want to say, I’m sorry if I… offended you the other day.”
He’s eerily calm. His dark, bedroom eyes expressionless. “Which day?” He blinks. “The day you didn’t know who I was and didn’t know any of my music?” He taps his bottom lip for a few drawn-out seconds. “Or the day you finally bothered to do your homework and looked me up?”
“I, I don’t—”
“Because”—he doesn’t sound upset, just casually matter-of-fact—“both days were pretty offensive.”
Air escapes my lungs. “I mean, you were being difficult.” I match his calm, neutral tone.
“Because I spoke my mind and asked for what I needed?”
“Well, yes—”
“Listen, I can see why it’s tricky.” He glances down at my outfit. Black linen blazer, blank tank, jeans. “Everyone makes judgments.” When his eyes find mine, my hands need something to do. I let them adjust the seat belt and tighten it around my waist.
“You see, that day at the arena,” he continues with a smirk, “I played two songs for you, neither of which you knew.” I want to correct him. Tell him I did recognize the second one. Sort of. “And guess what? Neither song was mine.” My mouth drops open. Shit. He did trick me. “So you don’t know me, fine. A tad worrisome, seeing as you work for my label, but fine. But not knowing the pioneers, the kings of reggaeton, songs that have been around since the early nineties. Now that’s offensive. For someone who claims to love music, not to mention someone with a parent from the place where this music blew up.” I flinch a little, unable to conceal the sting of his last sentence.
I swallow hard. What I want to do is ignore him. Or worse. I suck in my lower lip to hold back the curse words that are on the tip of my tongue. Keep calm and plow on. “When I first met you, I was just… nervous. This is my first solo assignment,” I admit, because I need to fix this. “I do love music.” I’m somehow keeping my cool but still on defense. “And not just as entertainment. In high school, I petitioned for a music appreciation class to prevent bullying.” René shifts in his seat and I can tell I’m not the only one still seething. “I presented all this research about how people who like a variety of music tend to be more open-minded and conscientious.”
“That makes sense.” He’s agreeing but still scowling.
“Right? They said they would implement it but they never did.”
“That’s too bad,” he commiserates, though in a tone that’s still sparring.
“I know.” I inhale deeply. “I just want you to know that I don’t just care about music, I care about people and how music changes their lives.” Though the jury’s still out on songs about butts. “So I’m going to work hard on this and on your entire campaign.”
After a few moments, he nods slightly and slips his headphones on. I have to force myself to look away, though my heart is racing and I’m still breathing fast.
For the rest of the flight, René listens to music, his legs stretched out in front of him, and I self-soothe with my mantras. Anything to prevent myself from replaying everything he said to me.
The plane starts to descend quickly and my grip tightens around the armrest. Soon we’re so close, I can see sailboats floating in the bay. I lean against the window, scanning the island for any semblance of a landing strip.
As though he’s read my mind, René leans across the aisle. “Don’t worry, it only looks like we’re going to hit the mountain. The runway’s just on the other side.”
“Thanks.” I’m wary but hopeful his attempt to comfort me is a good sign.
I let my head drop back into the seat. The sun is gone, but it’s left streaks of pink behind the clouds. I exhale deeply and slip my hands in my blazer pockets. The feel of the cassette tape in my right hand makes my chest tighten. When I told my mom where René was recording the album, her first reaction was silence. Like she had gone somewhere for a moment. When she returned, she said, “The old house is gone, but you can go to the places in the song. He’d love that.”
Today, before I left for the airport, she handed me the plastic audio cassette. The white label beige now. Daniela , in my dad’s neat cursive.
I didn’t have the heart to tell her I wasn’t going to do any such thing. “I won’t have time. I need to focus on work. Where would I even play this?”
“A lot of old cars have them. You could find one.” She squeezed me close and kissed me warmly on the head. “You worry too much.”
I wanted to point out that she worried too little and push the cassette back into her hands. Instead, I let it slip into my pocket. Better to be a delayed disappointment than an instant one.