Chapter 19
“Trust me, you need this,” Blanca says, ushering me to my feet.
I look to Simón for support but don’t find the kind I hope for.
Instead, he sports an unfaltering, smug smile.
He raises both eyebrows at me, a dare if I’ve ever seen one.
It’s not going to work. I have spent my entire adult life going against my mother’s wishes of seeing me up on a stage.
Is it because I’m terrified? Yes. But a pair of challenging brown eyes isn’t going to change that.
“Okay, I’ll go first,” he says, pushing to his feet as he grabs my drink and takes a sip. Then he marches toward the short stage before we have a chance to say anything. My eyes are glued to the glass. We practically kissed.
Blanca screams, “Selfie!” and leans closer to me, making me jump. I smile despite myself. I’d sooner die than let someone post a bad picture of me.
Simón takes the mic from the sound guy and takes his place onstage.
The spotlight shines down on him, illuminating his chiseled features and framing him in a halo of golden light.
His hair is dark and artfully messy under his baseball cap.
He smiles at the crowd. He’s wearing black jeans and a white T-shirt under his black leather jacket, the epitome of a rock star.
Watching him, I fidget with my hands and don’t register I’m biting my lower lip until it starts to hurt.
I let the fangirl inside of me take a peek through my eyes.
The second she’s out, my heart picks up, my shoulders relax.
Excitement runs through my veins, and I can’t help the giggle that bubbles out of me as I push to my feet.
This might never happen again and, damn it, I’m going to enjoy it.
Familiar notes float to us as Simón squares his shoulders. The soft yet infectious sound of cumbia takes over my senses and I’m swaying without meaning to. Blanca gasps as she realizes which song he’s about to sing. She beats me by half a second.
“No,” I mutter. There’s no way he’s singing “Como la Flor” by Selena.
But the eruption of cheers from every table at the bar confirms that he is, in fact, going to sing Selena for us.
He could have sung anything, he could have played the cool guy, could have played the rock star, could have shown off with a song more suited to his voice.
Hell, he could have picked something by Caballo de Troya and drawn attention to the band.
But no, he chose the most iconic karaoke song in Latin America.
He chose something everyone knows, no matter how old they are, something we can all sing along to.
Somewhere in the crowd, I can distinguish the high-pitched screech coming out of my mother’s mouth right this second.
“This is for you, Viviana!” Simón says, pointing at her.
More cheering. I laugh, feeding off the audience’s energy.
Simón knows how to command a room. Not two seconds pass before people are on their feet, phones at the ready, recording him or using them as flashlights as they dance.
Blanca is on her feet, throwing an arm over my shoulder and belting out the song along with everyone else.
The atmosphere is intoxicating. Some glorious combination of the song, the crowd, and him.
I’m grinning so hard my cheeks hurt, my heart is so full it could burst, and Blanca records the whole thing.
Too soon, the song is over. The energy in the room dies down little by little, the rustling of people walking around or sitting back down ringing in my ears.
Simón jumps off the stage, grinning larger than I’ve ever seen.
There’s a light to him I hadn’t seen before today, an aura of giddiness and passion, a kind of wildness.
The full force of who he is hits me like a ton of bricks.
He utterly transforms when he’s happy. I want him to go again. I want to see it again.
He stops in front of me and sighs, the smile still firm on his face. “Your turn.”
My smile falls. “Do you really expect me to follow that?” Not only because he has the voice of an angel and I…don’t, but because no one can top that. They should call the whole karaoke night off. “I’m not you, dude. I can’t do that.”
Simón’s smile softens, as well as his eyes. “All right. Do you mind?” he says, hands hovering over my short excuse of a ponytail.
I shake my head. He takes a step closer to me.
I stifle a gasp, grateful for the dim lights and the shadows of the surrounding people as they move around us to get to their tables or to the bar.
I don’t know what I would do if he called me out on the color surely creeping up my face.
And he would. I have no proof, but I also have no doubts.
Gently, he frees my hair from the ponytail, smoothing it as it grazes my shoulders.
The soft pressure of his hands on me, the warmth exuding from his skin, both soothes me and sends my heart into a gallop.
Simón takes off his baseball cap and places it over my head.
I stand still, looking up in shock. I adjust it, smoothing the tips of my hair immediately after.
With that, a corner of his smile twitches.
He’s standing so close, I’m pretty sure it could be considered a contract breach.
He smells like cigarette smoke—everything smells like cigarette smoke—Irish Spring, and cedarwood.
And now that smell is on my head. My stomach plummets at the intensity of this moment.
The crowd disappears. Blanca and her boyfriend too.
Somewhere in the bar, my mother cheers as the man behind the karaoke calls my name, but none of it matters.
Stepping back, he reaches for something in his wallet.
He takes my hand and places something flat and pointy on my palm.
I look down to find a white guitar pick with the Caballo de Troya logo on it.
My eyes dart back up to Simón. He scans my face, his gaze lingering on my lips half a second longer.
An image—almost like a memory—of his hands traveling up to my neck and pulling me toward him flashes in front of my eyes. So real I almost feel the weight of his lips, of his body on mine. So real it’s almost like that’s what we should be doing.
Wait, what am I doing?
I stagger back, startled by the vision.
“There,” he says, closing my fingers over my palm to trap the pick inside my fist. “You’re me now.” He gestures toward the stage with his head. “Vas.”
And the way he’s looking at me, eyebrows raised, with…faith…
I need to get away from him and if this is the only way, so be it. I grab my forgotten cosmopolitan and finish it in one gulp.
Voy.
Shaking my arms, I march toward the sound guy. He hands me the iPad and I scroll down the pages until I find it.
My index finger lands hard on the title. “That one.”
He hands me the mic. I walk onstage, shoulders back, chin up, the way Simón did.
The song begins. I try to count the beats with my shoe.
The room is holding its breath. It’s gonna suck.
It’s gonna suck so bad, but I’m up here, and I’m not ashamed to admit that pride is the only thing getting me through.
I mumble the first verse. Down in the crowd people look unimpressed, but when my eyes land on Simón, he’s grinning.
Grinning and nodding, encouraging me. The track builds the closer we get to the chorus.
I think about Alejandro moving to Barinas.
I think about Eugenia firing me. I think about Alejandro calling me because he was jealous.
And then I think about Valeria going back to fight for what she wanted, and how I was the one who helped her do that.
And I know I can yell the hell out of this and live to tell the story.
I turn Simón’s guitar pick around between my fingers, hoping his talent will rub off on me.
Knowing it won’t. Not caring either way.
The chorus hits and I scream into the mic, “SINCE YOU’VE BEEN GOOOONE! ”
The crowd erupts into cheers, jumping to their feet. It’s exhilarating. Simón, Blanca, and Gustavo all have their arms around one another’s shoulders and are jumping, singing along.
The lights flash in and out, casting a dreamlike haze over the bar.
I feel like I’m living in some kind of beautiful fantasy, and as I continue to belt out the lyrics, my heart soars with each word.
The excitement is tangible. The crowd is screaming along, clapping their hands and singing at the top of their lungs.
The energy is palpable. I can see everyone’s faces lit up with joy; it’s like they all know this moment will never come again.
For those few minutes, we’re all connected through the music.
My eyes close as my entire body is taken over by the music. Nothing really matters anymore except the rhythm of the beat and the lyrics spilling from my tongue. I sound horrible, but, for the first time in a long, long time, I don’t care about making a fool of myself.
When I open my eyes, my eyes land on Simón again and I think, No wonder he chose to do this for a living. I should tell him that. I decide that I will. But when the song ends and I return to my table, he’s gone.
Blanca smirks, shaking her head at her drink. “He went out to take a call.”
I sit, grabbing a tequeno from the center of the table. Thank God someone thought to order food. I bite into the doughy, cheesy, deep-fried goodness and slump against a chair, forcing myself not to look behind me toward the exit.
“I like him,” Blanca adds, and gone is the lighthearted Blanca I know and love. Her voice is stone-cold sober, serious, uttering words she never once used regarding Alejandro.
My eyes snap back up to meet hers. “Yeah, he’s nice.”
I know that’s not what she meant. And she knows I know. But the implications of such a statement said in such a tone are not something I can think about when I’m tipsy and high on adrenaline and still wearing a baseball cap that smells like him. That’s a problem for future Marianto.