Chapter 30
I WOULDN’T CALL IT A HELICOPTER. I T’S MORE OF A LARGE TOY. One that’s lightweight enough to be effortlessly wheeled around by our retired Navy pilot and a woman in four-inch heels.
I assumed we’d be taking a plane to René’s hometown, but our driver passed the airport and pulled off the road into this open field near the beach.
I peer back at James unloading the gear. “Can you ask if we can attach our small cameras to the outside? The views will be nice.” My voice is a little shaky.
“Yeah, sure.” James seems unfazed by the helicopter, though he said it will be his first time on one too. My eyes wander past him to the road. The truth is, I’m more anxious about spending time with René then I am about the mini chopper.
He’s meeting us here, and I’m just going to pretend everything is fine when he arrives. I don’t have a choice. Today could be the answer to all my problems.
My phone buzzes with a call, but when I see who it’s from, I send it to voicemail. I know exactly what my mom’s going to say, and it’s more than I can handle right now. How can I be expected to respond anyway? Congratulations on your secret life?
I put the phone away just as the yellow Mustang pulls up alongside our van. René steps out wearing dark sunglasses, a cable-knit polo, and what appear to be dressy ski pants. It’s a bizarre look, yet he’s somehow pulling it off. While he greets our pilot, I hop out of the van and check on James near the helicopter.
“Good morning!” René sings as he strides over to James and me. “You guys ready?”
“Totally!” I quickly turn to James. “Why don’t you mic him up while I figure out where I want him.”
“Where do you want me?” René teases.
I tense up. I can’t believe him. What I want to do is laugh maniacally and say something like, “Nowhere! I want you nowhere!” It would be so nice to retaliate. To demand some sort of an explanation or apology. Or royalties. But I have to focus on work.
The tiny pod-like interior of this scaled-down version of a helicopter has two narrow seats in the front and one small bench in the back. If I put James back there with René, he’d be too close for a good shot. If René rides in the front with the pilot, we’d mostly get the side of his face. There’s only one answer. James has to sit in the front, and I have to sit with René in the back. But the bench is so small, there’s no way we won’t be touching.
A few minutes later, René and I aren’t just close, we’re overlapping . I’m annoyed that our shoulders are pressed together and that his right hip is tucked behind mine. But even more so, that I’m worked up and my pulse is racing.
The blades start spinning and the pilot’s voice comes in crystal clear over our headsets. “It looks like rain.” He turns toward us, flashing what I bet he thinks is a reassuring smile. “But it’s fine, as long as there isn’t any lightning.”
As though sensing my nerves, René gently taps his knee against mine a few times. I hate to admit it, but this small, friendly gesture actually helps. It also has the effect of a shot of caffeine and my whole body feels more awake.
We’re off in a slight tilt that presses me harder against René. I try to pull myself away from him, but it’s impossible to move. The seat belts have us pinned back against the bench.
We level off and rise as though we’re inside a bubble floating over the ocean. James aims his camera at René as he looks out the window, and I feel myself breathe again.
“So, where are you taking us today?” I’m relieved I sound calmer than I feel over the headsets.
René runs a hand over his buzzed head and keeps it there for a moment. His face is so close, I’m forced to look at his dumb lips and that stupid, sexy scruff of a beard. “Couple of places. We’ll go to my house and a few other spots. I want to get back to the studio, so we don’t have too much time, but we’ll make the most of it.”
“When was the last time you were home?”
“Too long. I’ve been really busy.” He seems genuinely bummed.
Soon, we’re floating above the big island and following a river with lush green hills on either side. For a while, we follow a large road and then float over a bridge. The late morning light, still not quite above us, sends long shadows over the mountains.
About an hour later, the helicopter swings along a beach, turns inland, and starts to descend over an old racetrack. The no-frills track is on a narrow strip of land with the beach on one side and farms on the other. It’s a long runway with tight hairpin turns on either end.
René leans over me slightly and looks out my window for a better view. Now, the only thing I can see is the back of his neck. “I worked there for a year after high school. Nothing better than having a racetrack in your backyard.” His scent is overwhelming, and I can’t help following the tattoo that climbs up the back of his ear. “I wanted to be a race car driver.” René sits back against the bench.
“So, this was your first dream?” I ask, though it’s more of a statement.
“Uh, no.” He pretends to be insulted. “Music was my first dream. It’s always been music ever since I was really little. But there was a while where I actually considered that.”
“Because it offered better job security?” I ask playfully.
René fights back a grin. “Exactly. And just an overall safer work environment.” His eyes linger on mine. While I’ve become more comfortable with the helicopter, something in his gaze makes me uneasy. Then I have a flash of him onstage mocking me in that song, and my chest aches.
I pull away and look out my window as we hover over the parking lot and land.
James steps off the helicopter first and I’m about to pull myself out when René bumps me gently with his shoulder.
“Hey,” he says near my ear in a hurried tone, so I turn toward him. “How are you?”
“Wow, that is not what I thought you were going to say.”
“What did you think I was going to say?”
“Get out of the way. Move,” I list off. “Hurry up, I want to get out of my helicopter.” René grins and then his smile is replaced with a curious look, like he’s studying me. “I’m fine, thanks.”
“Good.” He sits back into the bench. “For a second there, I thought you were mad at me.”
I exhale abruptly because it really is shocking. Is he kidding me? Does he think I don’t know that song is about me?
I smile, doing everything in my power to avoid looking him in the eye, then I turn toward the door.
If I can get through today, I know I can get through the next few weeks. Today will be the toughest. It’s up close and personal. The rest of the time we’ll be back in the studio with other people around to buffer me from him. With every day that goes by, the sting of that song will get better. I’m sure of it.
James films René as he walks through a large garage, slips between two cars parked closely together and onto the track. He stops to admire a red Mustang with a large black stripe across the center. The place is empty other than a few personnel working on two identical white cars under a tent.
“Do you think they’d let you drive one?” I say, taking charge, my eyes glued to the small video monitor hanging around my neck. This will be easier. All I have to do is avoid eye contact.
René loves the idea and, after chatting with the mechanics, gets us access to any car on the lot. The sun blazes down on us and on this open track, but it feels good. It’s a relief to be here, actually getting access to René’s past. I love that it’s colorful and sexy and certainly fits his “El Rico” persona.
I stick near James to avoid any unnecessary proximity to René.
“Do you think we should place the small cameras on the dashboard? Or on the windows?”
“Whatever you want. I don’t have a preference.” James sighs, setting equipment down near the car.
“Oh, okay.” I peek inside the car. “Let’s go with the dashboard.” James seems testy. He barely reacted when I told him about the plan I pitched to Maureen. His response was something along the lines of, “Just tell me where to point the camera.”
I turn and René is in front of me, nudging his audio recorder into my hand. “Can you aim it low to the ground when I drive by?” I’m struck by how tender his tone is.
“Um, sure.”
I feel James watching us before putting his face behind the viewfinder again.
Holding on to the recorder, I tilt the video monitor toward me with the other hand and watch René settle into the car. He’s promised the crew he won’t be going fast enough to require the leather gear and full-face helmet.
I watch the dashboard camera on my monitor as René heads down the first straight. His wide, open-mouthed smile gets even bigger when he takes the first turn.
I squat, preparing for his next turn, and aim René’s recorder through the fence that separates us. I make triple sure I’ve hit record and hold it steady. I feel betrayed by my body. I want to be unaffected by René, but I feel like a stupid teenager who’s excited her crush has just trusted her to hold his backpack.
On the next corner, he veers off the pavement for a moment and skids on the gravel. At this, René lets out a shriek of joy as though it was more fun to mess up than to stay on the road in control of the car.
Afterward, while René poses for photos with the racetrack personnel in front of a souped-up white Mercedes, I consider my next move. Although this was visually impactful, the new idea I pitched to Maureen requires more. We need to capture intimate footage of René at home and with his family.
We’d start off with René showing us around his hometown, and then we’d see him in the studio working on a song. Each song could start with René sharing a different aspect of his story back home. It would be like flashbacks of his life. And then cut to the studio as he works on a different song. By the end of the album, we’d have a behind-the-scenes of the making of an album and a clear, well-rounded picture of the real René “El Rico” Rodriguez.
“It’s just a ten-minute walk to our next stop,” he says as he approaches us.
“Are you okay with that?” I ask James because he’ll have to carry the camera gear.
“Sure.”
“Oh yeah, I can take one of those,” René offers at the same time.
“I’m good.” He sounds fine, but I see irritation in his eyes.
Outside the racetrack, we walk through the small beachside town, past brightly colored homes on large plots of land. René takes his sunglasses off and tucks them into a pocket in his baggy pants. “This is Salinas.” He speaks to the camera unprompted like a host on a travel show. “Welcome to my hometown. I spent my summers in Culebra with my grandparents, but this is where I’m from. We have the best food, the best beaches.”
“Why not record the album here?” I ask.
“Too many distractions,” he responds politely, turning back so he can look me in the eye. Is it me, or is he being extremely easygoing? I didn’t even have to beg him to take his sunglasses off or narrate what was happening. Is it guilt? Does he feel bad for writing that song? Is that why we’re here? I wish I could come up with a way to mention it. My anger would subside if he would just admit the song is about me.
René notices something at the end of the block and quickens his pace. “This sucks,” he groans, walking up to a store that has gone out of business. He turns the knob and the door creaks open, so we follow him inside.
“This used to be a movie theater, Lalo’s.” René tilts his head as though remembering something. “I knew the owner passed away, but I assumed his kids would keep it going.”
I look around, confused. Nothing about this place resembles a movie theater. They could have sold jewelry in here. There’s a long row of display cases in the center of the room, empty shelves cover the walls from floor to ceiling, and there are more shelves across the large window that faces the street.
“On every one of those were his collectibles. Lalo collected everything. Superheroes, little toys, all the cars you can imagine, toy airplanes, and tin lunch boxes. I loved being in here, waiting in line for the movie. You always had something to look at. I don’t think I saw everything there was to see. Once when I was, like, seventeen, I discovered a little troll collection down there.” He points to the bottom shelf nearest us. “I was, like, how is this possible? I’ve been coming here since I was born. How have I not seen these scary-ass creepy trolls?”
I fight back a smile. René pushes in the double doors and leads us to a small theater. There are about twenty seats and a projection screen.
“The floor was always sticky. Always. I’m shocked it’s not sticky right now. But the projection was fine, and he actually had a great sound system. I fell in love with movie scores here.”
“I love them too.” It slips out, swept up with his nostalgia. “Maybe you’ll score one yourself someday.”
“You never know.” René ponders this as we step back outside.
“I didn’t know you liked scores,” James says to me as he stops to replace the camera battery. “That’s cool. Any favorites?”
“Well, obviously anything from Hans Zimmer or John Williams.”
“Danny Elfman?” René prods, turning around.
“Of course,” I say with a smile.
René smiles back, then looks down at the ground. “ Planet of the Apes. ”
“Yes, and you know what else is great? Don’t laugh. Twilight. ”
René laughs. “Sorry.” He forces himself to settle. “I haven’t actually heard it, so I’ll hold off on mocking it till then.”
He’s being nice but his words cause a little sting in my chest. They remind me he was fine mocking me onstage. Didn’t hold back on that.
We turn down a street with a small grocery store and a few other businesses, and René stops from time to time to record different sounds. A dog barking behind a gate, chickens cackling, a truck announcing the sale of plastic chairs stacked high on its flatbed, and lots and lots of birds.
“Idalia’s Taberna.” René reads a sign just up ahead. “That’s my mom’s place.”
While James films René being flanked by family and friends, I walk over to the bar, lean against the counter covered in shiny, ocean blue tiles, and take it all in. Some folks are having lunch at the small tables, while others are playing the video casino games that line the back wall. From the looks of the sleepy streets on the way over here, most of the town may, in fact, be here.
“This is my mom, Idalia.” René has walked over with his arm around a woman a few feet shorter than him. “Mom, this is Dani, from the label.” I can’t help but take note that he hasn’t introduced me as Daniela.
“ ?Bienvenida! ” René’s mom has the same dark, almond-shaped eyes as René’s.
“What can I get you guys?” René has stepped behind the bar.
“Beer, please,” says James.
“Okay, sure. A beer sounds good, thanks.” I watch as René grabs a cold mug out of a fridge and expertly slaps down the beer tap on the bar.
“So, the truth comes out,” I announce.
René glances up at me for an instant and then returns to the beer quickly filling up. “Whatever could you mean?” he asks with a flirty grin.
“Oh, I don’t know, the other day you acted like you’d never stepped foot behind a bar.”
“No, I didn’t.” He picks up a coaster and twirls it across the counter and it lands directly in front of James, who’s still filming René. Then he takes another one and flips it like a coin toss and it lands in front of me. “That was just you doubting my expertise.” He pushes back the tap’s handle and sets the beer on the bar for James. It’s the perfect beer pour. Foam bubbling over the top without overflowing.
My mouth drops open. “That is not how I remember it,” I tease. I shouldn’t be so friendly. I should keep things professional. I’ve been trying to maintain a safe distance from him all day, but now I can’t help it. I can’t miss the chance to tease him, to make him laugh.
“To be fair”—René turns toward me while pouring another beer—“I was a little lost that day. I mean, look around. You’re not going to find a single burned rosemary twig.”
“I think that’s a good thing.”
He nods and looks at me as he pours a third beer for himself.
“There’s live music here on the weekends.” René walks over to his mom, who’s sitting at a high-top table near the bar. He waves for James and me to join them, so we collect our beers and walk over. I take the seat farthest from René. “I started singing here when I was three. Before she owned it.” He nods affectionately toward his mom. “But she’d stand behind me, holding me on a barstool the whole time, because she was afraid I’d fall.”
“I had to! He would hold the microphone with both hands and get so excited, he’d shake around too much.” She doesn’t take her eyes off him.
“She ruined my whole vibe holding me like that.”
I’m grinning uncontrollably at their sweet interaction. “Do you have any pictures or video of that?” I ask, then look to René. “If it’s okay with you.”
“Sure.”
“I think I have one or two pictures.” She taps her hand on his forearm approvingly, then rests it there. I feel guilt bubble up for not taking Mom’s call earlier. Of course I want her to be happy. I just wasn’t ready to hear the excitement in her voice. I was afraid to hear her say the words and make it all official. And that no matter what I said, she’d hear the concern in my voice.
“Be right back.” René stands and starts to head toward the table of older gentlemen in the corner of the room.
“Can James go?” I call out, determined to film anything he’ll let us before our luck runs out.
“Yes, of course,” he assures me, as though it’s not even remotely a problem. Like I’m weird for even asking and he hasn’t been a completely different and difficult person up until now.
“He seems happy.” Rene’s mom watches him as he walks away. “More himself,” she adds. “The album must be going well.”
“Um, I guess it’s going okay.”
“Ah no? Maybe it’s something else?” She eyes me with curiosity. “I’d offer you lunch, but René told me he’s taking you to a place your father loved. He was from Puerto Rico?”
“Ah, yes, he was,” I respond, surprised to hear about René’s plan.
“?De dónde?”
“Culebra.”
“ Ah, mira. What a miracle.” She leans back to get a good look at me. “Excuse me.” She picks up a drink order at the bar and delivers it to a young couple seated at a table outside, then chats with them for a moment.
As I look around, my gaze drifts to a church across the street. It has a beautiful cupola covered in colorful stained glass. I love it here, I realize. This powerful feeling of belonging washes over me. One that I welcome happily. I find René and think, he shouldn’t belong here either, but he does. The tattoos, the way he dresses. And yet he’s so unapologetically himself, he belongs without trying.
“Renécito was baptized in that church.” Idalia returns and takes the seat closest to me. “He was over there boarding up all that glass to protect it from the last hurricane.”
“Really?” I don’t mean to, but I sound more shocked than impressed.
“Yes,” she says defensively.
I feel bad, but that hurricane was just last summer. After René’s big hit with Natalia. So I guess I imagined him… well, anywhere else in the world.
“That… sounds just like him!” I burst out. “Sorry about before. I was just having a hard time seeing him up there being… handy,” I improvise, trying to make amends. “Not the philanthropic part; that’s not the part that’s hard to believe at all.”
“He’s does a lot,” she continues, her tone softening. “He donates instruments to the schools in Salinas and scholarships. Always anonymously,” she adds, still somewhat offended I’ve pegged her son all wrong. “He doesn’t like attention.”
An hour later, I’m standing inside René’s childhood bedroom.
“The acoustics in this closet are incredible.” René talks to the camera, the way he has all morning. Narrating, sharing stories about growing up here, and introducing us to old family friends and neighbors. “I recorded so many songs in here.”
The walls in his room are painted light green and there’s a small wooden bookshelf to the right lined with books. Above the twin-size bed is a window with dozens of glass strips like the one we’re currently replacing in our kitchen back home. The smoky glass filters the light so there’s a warm spotlight coming into the room. It reaches me where I’m standing, so I shut the French door to his bedroom to let the light shine through it.
The door is like a scrapbook. Neatly framed inside each glass panel is a different image. For someone who hasn’t revealed much about themselves, René’s bedroom door is a treasure trove of information. A carefully hand-drawn Pokémon, magazine cutouts of bands like Daft Punk, Eurythmics, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers logo. Sprinkled throughout are photos of him with friends or his mom. I focus on a picture of a young René standing on the hood of a car, holding a baseball bat. He’s pretending to be tough, but not quite pulling it off. He looks the same, just shrunken down, without any muscles or tattoos. It’s a really endearing photograph.
I hear a knock and find René pressing his nose against one of the glass panels. And I get an idea.
“What if we take your picture here by the door and post it across your social media?” I brace myself for René’s reaction. “We could write something cryptic about the new album and how you’ll be letting people in for the first time. Something about how revealing it is.” About me, but that’s a problem for another time.
René scans the door, then looks back to me. I know what I’m asking for. This would obliterate the cryptic social media tactic of the past few years; images of his sunglasses thrown ever so casually on tables and car dashboards.
“I don’t know. I like to maintain some mystery.”
“What if I said you don’t come across as mysterious? More like stuck up and unapproachable.” He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t respond. “This is good. This is better,” I explain, pressing my hand against the door. “If you’re afraid it will make you weak to show some vulnerability, you’re wrong. It’s the opposite.”
“Let’s do it,” he says softly.
I feel a fire light up inside me. The excitement of getting something right. Using my cell, I snap away, inspired. It’s effortless, really. René looks so ridiculously sexy posing there. The door glowing behind him. His brown eyes sparkle with the warm light coming in through the window. He adjusts his stance so we can see more of the images on the door, and his cockiness takes on a different appearance. It’s pride, a healthy one. Proud of himself, proud of his culture and where he comes from.
We’ve been together all morning and I’ve been expecting him to push back, tell us a room is off limits, or there’s something he doesn’t want to share. All day, I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it never does.