Chapter 33
I T’S DARK IN THE STUDIO. T HE NEON LIGHTS ARE ON, BUT they’re dimmed way down. It’s not going to be enough light for James, who should be here any minute. I walk into the recording booth to ask René if it’s okay to turn on a few more lights, and I catch my reflection in the glass door.
I actually like my hair like this, loose and air dried. I don’t know why I bothered packing my straight iron. I haven’t used it once since I’ve been here. What’s the point? It’s no competition for the weather. The studio is the only air-conditioned room, so we’re outside practically all the time. Every day we inch closer to summer, it gets warmer and more humid.
I push in the door, but it’s stuck on something. I put my shoulder into it, but it still doesn’t budge. I think René’s blocking the door with his foot just to mess with me.
“Let me in.” I get close to the glass. “I need this.” I push on the door with both hands. “Please.”
The door finally gives, swinging in abruptly, and I’m sucked into the booth.
I’ve landed on René. His back is flat against the foam-padded wall and my face is in his neck. I feel the warmth of him instantly.
“Shit, sorry. You smell nice,” I say, then wish I could take it back. I adjust myself to look at him, just as he’s pressing his lips together, fighting back a smile. He moves in and it dawns on me. We’re about to kiss. I close my eyes and tilt my head back. “What is that? Gardenias?” I ask, unable to keep my mouth shut. I open my eyes, but he doesn’t respond. Of course he isn’t responding. Why would he admit to that? “Did you change colognes? This is nice, but I prefer the other one you wear.” What am I saying? Who cares what the man smells like? “I mean, not that it’s up to me what cologne you wear. Not that you care what I prefer. Actually, do you care what I prefer?” My cheeks flush and my heart is pounding.
He pretends to ponder this, puckering his lips. I nudge at his arm playfully and he grabs hold of my hand. In a blink, I’m the one against the foam wall and his lips are on my neck.
He runs his hands up my back and combs them through my hair, while he pulls me closer to him. I let out a moan.
I wake up with a jolt. It’s two in the morning and my room is completely still. The waves are coming in gently, and the strong scent of sweet gardenias fills my room. It’s intense. There must be a giant shrub just outside my cottage. “Idiot.”
I slip on jeans that were hanging on the standing mirror and can’t help but smile at my reflection. My hair looks an awful lot like it did in the dream. I slip on flip-flops and walk out onto the balcony. No signs of Camila and René. They must have gone to bed at some point in the past two hours. The lights in his cottage are all off.
I head outside and walk along the pool, toward the open-air living room. A few lamps are on and there’s a large, fresh bouquet of birds of paradise and palm leaves on the coffee table. I step behind the counter in the kitchen and open the fridge, searching for a cold bottle of water. I hear footsteps and freeze behind the open refrigerator door. Which is the world’s worst disguise, I realize.
“I just want to get it down.” René’s deep voice makes my insides twitch.
“I’m here for all of it. Let’s see where it takes you,” Santiago says, sounding farther away, like they’ve made it past the kitchen. Then I hear the smooth glide of the studio door closing.
I shut the fridge and walk over to the studio. When I make it to the door, I stand there for a moment, hand on the handle, and assess what I must look like. Potential bed head, no makeup, a T-shirt so worn, it was demoted to a pajama months ago.
They’re going to work on a song in the middle of the night, and something about what René has said makes me want to be there. I want to know all about the song that couldn’t wait till morning. I could take notes and be fully prepared to interview him about it tomorrow.
I pull the door and step inside. Like in the dream I just had, the neon lights are dim. Then to my right, in the recording booth, two heads turn.
Santiago smiles and René glances in my direction, but otherwise they don’t make a fuss, so I wave hello and let myself in. Santiago adjusts a microphone and steps out of the booth. René starts to play a sweet, slow melody on his guitar. He’s in a black tank, the wolf tattoo on his shoulder aimed directly at me.
Suddenly I have an idea. I slip off my sandals and I walk to the far corner of the room, looking ahead for the camera cases. I find the one I’m looking for, undo the clasps, and lift the foam in the center. I pick up the digital camera, the same one I have back home. Expertly, I slide in the battery and turn it on, the weight of it familiar in my hands. I click through the functions on the dial. With muscle memory, I find the photography function and turn it on silent mode.
I hold the camera above me and take a picture of the entire room, including Santiago at the console and René in the booth. Feeling confident, I walk up to the booth and, through the glass door, take a picture of René playing the guitar. Then I take another one, racking the lens manually, so only the wolf tattoo is in focus. I check the last image on the LCD screen and flip through filters until I’ve made it black and white. I love this camera. It gives you the perfect balance of grain and texture. It’s digital without being cold.
I remember taking pictures of Meri in our backyard. Capturing her midair on the trampoline, or as she ran through the sprinklers. I smile, realizing I may be part of the reason she loves to take selfies. Then René’s voice pulls me back into the room.
If I knew it would be our last kiss
I’d remember it better than this
But I can still taste the first one
All night, sunrise
It’s a beautiful song and there’s so much raw emotion. He whistles for a moment. He’s run out of words but keeps the melody going. He looks off, lost in his thoughts. I watch him curiously. He doesn’t seem to be searching for the words, more like listening for them. Ready for some invisible force to whisper them into his ear.
how do you go from all or nothing to nothing
and from nothing to something that means everything
He reaches the chorus and belts it out, his voice hitting higher and higher notes. I had no idea he could sing like this.
you’re the breeze I’m counting on
to take me to the finish line
The lyrics and his voice make the hair stand on my arms. As though in my dream, I reach for the door to the booth, but René beats me to it. He stretches his foot out, pushing it open. The door shuts behind me, and everything is magnified. I can hear the sound his lips make when they part and the breaths he takes before he sings again. His voice, the guitar, it all vibrates in the air and bounces off the padding on the walls. I can feel it on my skin.
My body sways with the music. The next time he sings the chorus, I snap continuously as I move, and slowly push him out of frame. I take pictures of the long muscle on his forearm, of his right hand stroking the strings, and of the other one sliding up and down the neck of the guitar.
He’s watching me now, a big smile on his face as he sings. He’s either happy with the song or happy with what I’m doing. Maybe both. Somewhere deep inside, I know there’s a way we can use these pictures, but I’m not really thinking. I feel weightless like I’m flying. Letting my instinct guide me.
be the breeze I’m counting on
take me to the finish line
The lyrics are so deeply romantic. Noticeably lacking in cheating, thongs, or sex on car hoods. When the song ends, a different part of my brain snaps back on. I switch the camera’s functions over to video and press record just in time to capture René as he steps outside to hug Santiago, who shouts something excitedly in Spanish about writing a song in one take. I remain in the small booth and continue to film their celebration. And breathe in the traces of musk and sandalwood René’s left behind.