Chapter 39
“I THOUGHT YOU SAID YOU WERE GETTING US A HEALTHY snack?” James has found me in the kitchen, his camera idling on the edge of his shoulder. Behind him, the sun is almost gone, and there’s a row of palm tree silhouettes.
Caught in the act, I try to smile sheepishly, but my mouth is too full. I’ve just taken a huge bite of an alcapurria , the rest of which I’m holding in my bare hand because I didn’t bother to get a plate. Or a napkin. It’s crispy and fresh and almost as good as the one I had with René at the food trucks. This one is filled with warm, spicy crab meat. “This is so good. You have to try one.”
“On our first date,” he says, his face stiff, “you told me fried foods were like dinosaurs. They became extinct, as far as you were concerned, when you discovered how quickly they clog your arteries.”
“Wow, um, good memory. And, I mean, that’s obviously still true. But everything in moderation, right? So, when in Rome!” All of this comes out a little too manic as I wave the fritter around. I can’t help it. Since René and I got back this morning, I’ve been floating.
“I had gotten you a box of donuts from that place on Lincoln Road. The one that always sells out, so you have to get there early. You wouldn’t even taste one,” he says dryly.
I’ve taken another big bite so all I can do is nod for a moment. “I know, and I’m sorry. I was really strict about trans fats back then.”
Under his watchful eye, I stuff the last of it in my mouth and try my best to hold back a reaction to the sweet and salty deliciousness. A few minutes ago, when I saw the platter of fresh alcapurrias cooling on the counter, my first thought was René must have told them. The chef hadn’t made them since we’ve been here, and I think there’s a real possibility these were a little gift for me.
James sets the camera next to me on the counter. “I’ll be right back.”
He’s been quieter than usual today. Just as René and I turned our ATVs onto the dirt road that leads up to the house, James was jogging alongside it. I waved hello, but I couldn’t tell if he waved back because we accidentally left him in a cloud of dust. I can’t imagine what I must have looked like to him, driving up after a night away on a huge, splattered-with-mud, all-terrain vehicle.
René texted Camila last night so I knew James would have received the message about the roads. He’d know we were going to have to spend the night on the beach. But still, it must have been off-putting to see me pull up like that with René. My hair loose with salt-water-crusted curls, rolled-up jeans, and a crumpled-up tank top.
“Hey, what’s up?” René said to James. Then he flashed me a sweet smile and walked inside the house.
“Are you okay?” James asked, eyes on René as he walked away.
“Yeah, I’m great. I just need to be hosed down.”
Selfishly, all I could think about in the moment was that he had robbed me of a proper goodbye with René. Thankfully, there’s a plan. One we’d made this morning, before we left the beach. We’re going to meet at midnight by the statues. I pull my cell out to check the time and feel a fluttering in my stomach. It’s 7:45 p.m.
James returns from the bathroom just as my phone buzzes with a text from Meri. I notice a bunch of missed calls from her I didn’t see since my ringer’s been off all day in the studio.
Daniela Maria, you CANNOT leave me a message like that and then not answer your phone.
After I had a very long shower, I tried to call Meri but it went straight to voicemail.
Meri, I was so wrong about René. You are not going to believe what happened last night. Call me back.
I thought I was being discreet, but Meri would be able to hear exactly what happened in my voice. I couldn’t help it. I felt chemically altered and giddy. Most of all, I was so excited to share it with her. In the last twenty-four hours I’d finally cracked a code and figured out how not to feel like her parent anymore. I had my sister back, and our relationship could be fun and light again.
We need to get back to the studio, so I send her a quick text promising to call her as soon as I can, and put the phone away. “Ready to head back?” I ask James.
“Yep.” He slings the camera back on his shoulder. “Though it looked like they were about to wrap things up.”
I pull the studio door open with gusto, my entire body excited to be near René again. Right away, I register the song they’re blasting inside. All day I’ve been floating high, but for the first time, I drop closer to the ground. My plane hits an air pocket. René’s near the console, arms out in front, dancing to “Take It Off.” The song about me and my blazers is playing so loudly, it’s deafening. All for the maximum appreciation of his VIP guest.
Seated on the leather couch, moving to the music, is the person who’s consumed René’s attention all day. Carlos Miguel. Puerto Rico’s prodigal son, actor, singer, and humanitarian. He was waiting for René when we arrived this morning.
Carlos Miguel started out on a TV show about a boy band. It was hugely successful, and when he outgrew that, he joined a real boy band, toured the world, won a Latin Grammy, and for the next ten years or so, had a succession of hits. I never met him before, but have heard good things. He gives off the air of a man who’s lived through a lot and now likes to reside in the present moment. A simple man, who arrived in a compact yet spectacular yacht he parked on our dock. He was all tight leather pants and unbuttoned poofy shirts when he was younger, but at fifty-something, he dresses like a retired pro skateboarder. Brown curls, stretched-out paisley tee, long shorts, and white Pumas.
They’ve spent the day together in the studio, and all day, James and I have had front-row behind-the-scenes access. Carlos and René obviously knew each other, but I wouldn’t say from their interactions they were close. Today’s felt like one long man-date between two talented artists taking turns displaying their mutual respect while listening to René’s new songs.
Though the morning started out with some confusion. Carlos was under the impression there was something for him to record for the album. René easily clarified the mistake, but it got awkward when Santiago pressed the issue and suggested track after track they could incorporate Carlos Miguel’s vocals into. The subject was eventually dropped, and Carlos stuck around, only too happy to simply listen to the album.
He spent the afternoon on the couch, listening and giving his feedback from time to time. It’s great to have footage of them hanging out. It’s easy to see it’s meant a lot to René to have Carlos here.
René and I haven’t spoken since this morning. I caught him looking at me a few times and it felt special to have this secret between us. All day I’ve fanaticized about, oh, I don’t know, pulling him into a closet for a super-speedy, albeit satisfying, make-out session.
Now, while James steps around the console for close-ups, I press my back against the cold glass of the recording booth. I haven’t heard this song since René performed it at the showcase and it hurts when I hear some of the lyrics. So much. Worse than it did that day on the beach, for some reason. René glances briefly my way, so I widen my eyes and force my head to bob to the beat.
By the time the song ends, I’m solidly back on the ground. Carlos loves it. He agrees it absolutely has to be the first single. I wait for a sign from René. A smile or a wink. Anything. Something to let me know he no longer feels the way he did when he wrote that song. But I don’t get one.
James and I walk down the hall and turn in the direction of the pool, just as Camila’s coming in the opposite direction.
“They’re out by the pool,” she drones, forcing a faint smile in our general direction. She’s flawless today. Her makeup looks like it’s been airbrushed on, and she’s wearing a beautiful, flowy, peach dress. Yet, there’s something off about her. All day, I’ve picked up a strange vibe. Like she’s secretly miserable. Her eyes are puffy and her voice is hoarse, as though she’s been crying. It occurs to me that everyone seems off. Santiago hasn’t been himself today either. I wonder if the same thing is upsetting Camila, Santiago, and James.
The living room’s removable wall is gone. The space opens dramatically out to the pool and is lit solely by a lamp that curls over the deep burgundy velvet couch.
Carlos is alone on the couch, cradling an acoustic guitar.
“I think it’s called Searching for Sixto , something like that. The documentary I was telling you about. You have to see it,” Carlos says to James as we approach, then adds to me, “René will be right back.”
“I’ll check it out, thanks,” James replies.
“Thanks!” I echo. “Can I ask you a few questions while we wait for René?”
“Absolutely.”
“What do you think about the album?” I stuff my wireless earphones back into my ear.
He waves a hand in the air, like the answer is obvious. “It’s incredible, it’s…” He shakes his head, searching for the right words. “It’s going to blow everyone away. People think they know El Rico, and that’s the magic of this album. It’s bigger than anyone’s preconceptions. I love it. I couldn’t be prouder.”
He’s right, of course. It was impossible not to get swept up in their shared excitement today as they listened to the album. And as René made strides on incorporating the bomba music from last night into one of the songs. It’s one of my favorites on the album, bringing the traditional, vivid feel of bomba to a modern dance party track. So I get it, and I’m happy for René. The most important person who could show up at this juncture did. Of course he’s been distracted. And of course he’d want him to hear all the songs.
We have a plan, I remind myself. In less than three hours we’re going to see each other again. “Let’s meet tonight at the mindless statues,” René said just before we got back on our ATVs to leave the beach.
I felt weightless when we were together. But after hearing “Take It Off” again, gravity’s pulling me down. And it feels stronger than before.
René reappears, flying over the steps waving a shiny, silver trumpet in his hand. He crosses the room with a bounce, and takes a seat on the couch next to Carlos.
“Where did you find that?” Carlos roars excitedly.
“It was a gift from Camila.”
Carlos rests the guitar on his lap and leans forward with interest. “ ?Sabes tocarla? ”
“Not at all,” René responds, making Carlos crack up. “What do you want to play?”
Carlos thinks for a moment and then begins to play the guitar. I recognize the tune, but then second-guess myself because there’s no way Carlos Miguel is about to sing Carole King’s “It’s Too Late.” He slows down the melody, and adds his sweet, overly emotional voice, making the song feel more hopeful. René lifts the trumpet to his lips and joins in. It’s messy and slightly off key, but somehow it fits. Carlos smiles in agreement as he continues singing.
I tap James on the shoulder and signal for him to switch up the angle. We step out of the living room and get as close as we can to the pool. I check the new shot on the monitor. From here, the dimly lit living room resembles a stage. It’s a really cool shot, but makes me feel so disconnected from René. Like I’m a satellite that’s simply passing by on its orbit.
Neil Diamond’s next. They never quite take any of it too seriously, but at the same time give all of themselves in every performance. They improvise for a while. Using an app on his phone, René creates a drum beat and makes it play on repeat. He then adds a bass guitar and a bell and somehow all that belongs too.
Between songs, they drink beers and Carlos shares some details of a tour he’s been planning. When René talks about his upcoming tour, my breathing gets short and jagged as it all sinks in. Who René is and what he’s about to become when this album is released. I truly don’t know what I was thinking. How could I let myself fall for him like this? I touch my lower lip, searching for the sensitive spot, but it’s all better.