Chapter 41
I TOOK MY TIME WASHING MY FACE. S CRUBBING IN PERFECT circles, as though I were in a commercial for a sudsy facial wash. I opened all the windows and the sliding glass door, but didn’t bother tucking in the mosquito netting. Now I’m lying here watching it hover above the bed like a tethered ghost.
Last time I checked, it was a quarter to midnight. I’m not going. There’s absolutely no way. I need to prepare for the interview in a few days and focus on getting this job done. On keeping my job. I still have to cover Meri’s tutoring bill, and the hefty final invoice for our new windows should be arriving any day now.
I can’t let all these feelings get in the way. Everything I’ve promised Maureen is hanging on this interview. Every idea they’ve loved requires René really opening up.
This morning he had me floating and high on life. Now I’m still feeling high, but no longer in a good way. More like on a tightrope.
My head is a mess of thoughts. The way René reacted to finding out about Camila seeing Santiago didn’t just sound like a concerned friend. There may be some feelings there he’s never explored. Then again, I’ve only known him a few weeks and I’ve seen Santiago hit on me, our ayurvedic chef, and a mango fruit vendor. If he’s been seeing Camila this whole time, there could be reason for concern.
I check my phone on the bedside table. It’s 12:04 a.m. I rise in a state of panic. What if he’s still there, waiting for me? I can’t just not show up. I slip on sandals and take long, quiet strides down the hallway.
When I reach the arch that leads to the sculpture garden, I clock what I’m wearing. “Shit.” I’ll be saying I want to keep things professional, but my silk pajama shorts will be sending a different message.
Maybe he isn’t even there. I try to force the idea, but the truth is, I’m basically sprinting because I know he is. This doesn’t offer me any kind of relief. Instead, it feels as though someone’s raised the tightrope, making it even farther to fall. He’ll be there but this is El Rico we’re talking about. There’s no scenario where this doesn’t end badly for me.
Possibly worse than it did for Camila. Like with her, he’d have this fling with me and then keep me around at the label, heartbroken but forced to flutter about working for him.
I turn the corner and find him sitting on the steps, facing the sculptures, his back to me.
Hearing my footsteps on the deck, he looks back. “I was beginning to think you were blowing me off.” His smile makes me feel physically incapable of holding a conversation.
I try to smile, but my face is numb. I reach him, then stand for a moment debating what to do. Can’t this be quick? Do I really have to sit down?
“You okay?” he asks, his head tilted up, watching me.
“Yeah, I just…” I take a seat next to him and trail off. The peace I feel just by being near him is completely at odds with the hostile thoughts squirming around my mind. It’s warm out and the waves are muted tonight. They’re coming in low and long, reaching up onto the shore, then retracting slowly back into the sea.
“How are you?” he asks patiently.
“I’m okay.” I take in the empty, smiling heads of the sculptures and then turn toward him so we’re facing each other. “Listen.” I have to shove the word out.
René’s head and chest draw back slightly. Just enough for me to notice. He knows what I’m about to say. Nothing good ever comes after “Listen.” “Listen” is the beginning of an end, a preparation for a letdown. He’s come here thinking there’d be more kissing. Possibly sex on this beach. None of which can begin with “Listen.”
“I’m sorry if I was distant today,” he interjects, “with Carlos here and—”
“Oh, I totally get it. And it’s for the best. Not to worry, we’re on the same page.”
“I’m not sure we–”
“Well, we’re practically on the same page. Same chapter!” I correct myself. “Anyway, what I want to say is, we need to…” I wish my voice wasn’t so shaky. “Keep things professional. It’s just better for work… and everything.”
René snaps his gaze toward the beach and we sit in silence for a moment. “Do you regret what happened?” His earnest tone tugs my heart.
“No. I don’t regret it.” These words come easy.
“So why not see where it goes?”
See where it goes? Why would I stick around and let these feelings grow, only to be let down and heartbroken at some later date? “I can’t do that. Besides, it was just one night, right?” I feel my cheeks burn.
“Did I do something to upset you? I’m trying to understand what happened.”
I have nothing to say. Nothing I can say anyway. I can’t admit I was eavesdropping and heard Camila crying. I can’t tell him I want to avoid ending up like her. Or that James saying I was more open, more myself with René has also somehow contributed to this shutdown.
“Tell me. Give me a chance to… I don’t know, try to fix it.” He lets out a nervous laugh.
I have to look away. I scan the darkness that is the horizon and rest my gaze on the lights of a large, barge-like boat in the distance. Of all the reasons pushing me to this, I decide to bring up the one I know I can defend.
“It’s obvious, just like in the song.” I brush off a few grains of sand sticking to my skin just below my ankle. “When you played it for Carlos, it was clear to me this was, we shouldn’t…” I stumble. René’s forehead has creased and it’s making me lose my patience. I can almost hear his thoughts racing, still working it all out. What isn’t he getting? I clear my throat. “When I heard that song today, I felt attacked all over again. And that’s just not how I want to feel.”
He exhales, exacerbated. “I can’t believe you still haven’t heard the song.”
“What? Yes I have. Tonight may have only been the second time, but it’s plenty.”
He doesn’t speak. His legs are crossed and stretched out in front of him, and one foot has begun tapping the other intermittently.
I let out a long sigh. Keep your eye on the prize. One step in front of the other gets you… How does that one end? Gets you somewhere eventually.
“René,” I begin calmly, “this is exactly why we can’t do this. We need to focus on next week.”
“Next week?” he repeats, clueless.
“Well, it’s your last week in the studio and”—I pause—“there’s the interview.”
This does it. His feet have stopped tapping. Bringing up the interview has ended it. I can see it in his eyes. I’ve switched on a harsh, cold white light and sucked the warmth out of the night air.
“Well, I’m just gonna,” I mutter as I stand. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” I wait a beat for him to say something, a burning sensation spreading in my chest.
“Cool, yeah.” René scratches his scruffy beard.
I walk away, fighting the urge to look back one more time. When I reach the arch, before I turn the corner, I give in.
He’s sitting in the same position, facing the sculptures. Except this time, he seems farther away and impossibly still.