by Mia Sosa
“I didn’t think it was remotely possible that you’d decide to be abstinent and not tell me, so how the hell should I know what’s going on with you?”
Oh my. She’s leading with that and not the revelation that Anthony and I slept with each other? This is bad. Or maybe it’s good. Who the hell knows at this point? Yes, Tori and I share secrets, but we’ve never pushed each other on when or how much to divulge. It always happens organically. I didn’t tell her about discovering my birth control pills in Jason’s jacket pocket until I was good and ready, and that took a while because the ugly episode had sucker-punched me in the worst way. But this is different. One, Anthony blurted it out before I could tell her. And two, this secret involves her relative.
I sit up and stuff a pillow between my back and the headboard. “Is that all you want to talk about?”
“What else is there to talk about, huh? The weather? LA traffic? The latest episode of Insecure? Or are you referring to the fact that you and my cousin had sex a few months ago?”
“It was a one-time thing. For both of us. I thought I’d be in Philly and he’d be in LA. Forever. Your job offer came later.”
“That’s essentially what he told me.”
“See? It’s no biggie.”
“Ahhh, now I get it,” she says, stretching out each word. “That’s what all the back-and-forth last night was about. Unresolved tension.”
She’s wrong. Yesterday’s verbal duel was about Anthony’s manipulative take on relationships. Tori’s aware this is a pet peeve of mine. She more than anyone should know how I’d react to his ridiculous sexual manifesto. “Oh, c’mon, Tori, you were there. I mean, I know he’s your cousin, but you can’t deny that whole never-gonna-date-never-gonna-marry-never-gonna-be-monagamous-never-gonna-have-kids policy is a total scam.” Oof, it’s a fucking mouthful, too. “And by the way, I’m not abstaining from sex. I just said that last night because Anthony was pissing me off with his never-have-I-ever bullshit.”
Tori’s rarely at a loss for words, so the silence that follows surprises me. “Tori?”
“Thinking,” she says.
“Think faster.”
“Okay, okay. You’re such a pain in the ass. Here’s the deal. It’s not bullshit. Anthony doesn’t date, and I believe him when he says he doesn’t want to do any of those things.”
What I need to remember here is that Anthony can do no wrong in her eyes. He’s the brother she always wished to have. Tori might never admit this, but I suspect she loves him more than she loves her sister, Bianca. In her mind, his quest for perpetual bachelorhood must be sincere; otherwise he’s not the person she thinks he is. So her defense of him should be taken with a mountain of salt. “It’s understandable that you have such confidence in your cousin, but I’m not buying it. I mean, I’m not interested in dating anyone, either, but I’m not tattooing that fact over my entire body.”
“Tori, in all the years I’ve known him, I know of only one woman he dated. That was years ago.”
Oooh, I’m super interested to know if this woman’s the reason for his stance. “So is she the reason he’s anti-everything? What’s the story there?”
“Not my tale to tell, chica.”
Well, in that case, I’m working with what I do know, and I’ve seen this male composite before: single, attractive male with no desire to be pinned down. Snore. Is this movie over yet? “Trust me, your cousin knows his unavailability attracts people who see him as a challenge.”
Tori sighs heavily. “That may be, but I don’t think he’s trying to manipulate anyone. Just give him a break, okay? For me?”
I mimic her heavy sigh because that’s what we do. “Well, you’re no fun. Should I come clean to him, then?”
“What?” she asks, her voice rising an octave. “Why would you?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Tori, because it’s deceitful.”
“It was deceitful when the words came out of your mouth. Backtracking isn’t going to change that. Plus, how would you do it? Are you planning to announce that you’re open to having sex again? If, as you say, the hookup was a one-time thing, why would that even come up? Riddle me that, Batman.”
She’s right. It wouldn’t. Even I can admit a conversation like that would be awkward. He’d probably construe it as an invitation and decline it. “Okay, I see your point. I’ll fly my freak flag in secret.”
Tori giggles. And then I hear Carter’s voice in the background. Which makes me realize she’s not giggling at me; she’s cavorting with her new husband. My time’s up, apparently. “Go handle your man, Tori. I need to get dressed for the festival. Anthony’s picking me up at nine.”
“Have fun. Wait. But don’t have too much fun. I suggested the festival so you could convince Anthony you’re a perfect fit for the program. Be friendly—but keep it professional. Lay the groundwork for getting him to see you as a potential colleague.”
“Right, right. Got it. See you next week.”
Be friendly. Keep it professional. That should be easy enough.
Anthony taps my shoulder, forcing me to open my eyes.
“I’m not your chauffer, you know,” he says, placing his hand back on the wheel of his black Ford F-150. “And we’re almost at the park.”
I sit up and stretch my arms out in front of me. “Sorry. I went to sleep late, and I’m paying for it today.”
“Binge-watching your favorite shows?”
“Actually, I was unpacking and organizing . . . okay, yes, and binge-watching Black-ish because Tracee Ellis Ross is my imaginary friend. She’s going to be a bridesmaid at my wedding someday. So anyway, after all that work, I looked up and it was after midnight. If I never see a cardboard box again it will be too soon.”
“Well, I guarantee you’ll be fully awake in no time. This festival is loud enough to flow through your bloodstream like three shots of espresso.”
My eyes follow the veins in his hand and forearm as he taps the steering wheel to the beat of the salsa music playing on the radio. He’s so damn chipper sitting there in his cute baseball cap with the Puerto Rican flag stitched into the front panel, the curly ends of his hair peeking out the back. Within the confines of the cab of his truck, he’s bigger, more intense, more handsome, as if the space forces me to notice the details I wish I could ignore. “Is there a reason we had to come so early?”
“For sure,” he replies, nodding thoughtfully. “A primo location. See, there’s a main stage, and if we want to have a good chance of enjoying the performances, we need to grab a spot to park our chairs. After that, we can walk around, but staking our claim to a resting place is key. Puerto Ricans can be a territorial bunch.”
I snort. “Pun intended, right?”
He gives me a blank look, but the moment he gets it, his mouth widens until his smile reaches his eyes, adorable crinkles at the corners and all. “Good one.”
“Did you spend any part of your childhood there?”
“In PR?” he asks.
I nod.
“Nah. I wish I had, but I grew up in New York. Spanish Harlem, born and raised. And you’re a Philly native, right?”
“Yep. Northwest. Mount Airy, to be exact. That’s where my mom grew up. My dad’s family is from Atlanta.”
He turns and glances at me before he flips the turn signal. “This is a huge change for you, then. Living on a different coast.”
That’s an understatement, now that I think about it. Because that’s largely what I’ve been doing—not thinking about it. As though the enormity of the move will be easier to handle if I pretend I’ve simply relocated across town. “Yeah, I try not to focus on that part. Makes it easier to digest. And you have experience doing the same thing, don’t you?”
“I do,” he says, nodding.
“And I’ve been dying to ask you about that. How did you end up here?”
He doesn’t answer immediately, but when he does, his voice is smaller, less confident than it usually is. “To be honest, when I was living in New Yor
k, I felt like every person had their shit together except me. Granted, I was in my early twenties, so I shouldn’t have been so hard on myself. Still, that was my thinking at the time. Every day, I boarded a train and watched people headed to work, manila folders in their laps, newspapers in their hands, cell phones at their ears, or whatever, and I was the first-generation community college graduate with a messenger bag slung across my shoulder, balancing a bike on its back tire.”
Goodness, maybe his career was preordained. “You survived being a bike messenger in New York? No wonder you’re a stunt performer.”
“Exactly,” he says, a faraway smile suggesting the switch is as surprising to him as it is to me. “But I wasn’t thinking about stunt work then. In my head, LA was a place for people in limbo, a place where I could fit in, not because I planned to be an actor but because I wasn’t settled, and if there’s one thing LA is known for, it’s people who are chasing dreams—the busboys and waiters, the valets, the people trying to get into the business and working the side hustle. I didn’t have a dream yet, but I was hoping to find one. I had an inkling that this town might be a better fit, and it was.”
“But a bike messenger turned stunt person? How’d you even get into this? It’s not the kind of job you’d come across at a career fair.”
With his gaze still trained on the road, he cocks his head to the side, as though he’s recalling a pleasant memory. “Yeah, you’re right. It all started the day I made a delivery to the same warehouse where Kurt and I still train. When I got there, he was backing out of a parking space and didn’t see me. Luckily for me, I had all kinds of experience dodging careless drivers in New York. Let’s just say Kurt was impressed with my agility. My second delivery there, I ventured inside. He invited me to stay, and after a while I started coming after work just to watch what was going on. Eventually, Kurt let me try some of the equipment.”
“Did you take the course?”
“Yeah. Kurt didn’t charge me, though. By then, he knew a little about my story. Knew I was struggling, and I think he saw an opportunity to mentor me. So here we are seven years later. He’s my boss, but he’s my friend, too.”
Anthony drives through the park’s main entrance and maneuvers the car into one of the few remaining parking spaces in this section of the lot. The crowd’s already thick, so I know his plan to arrive early was a wise one.
“Got any tips for me?” I ask. “Anything I should know before we go in?”
He pulls the visor down and unclips his sunglasses, putting them on as he speaks. “If you want to fit in, call me a papi chulo at least a dozen times while we’re there.”
Ha. I’ve probably said papi chulo more times in my life than he has. “Nice try, but no.” Not that he isn’t an attractive man, but he doesn’t need me to further inflate his ego.
“Okay, okay, be prepared to yell ‘¡Wepa!’ throughout the concert.”
“Do I look like a novice to you? Of course I’ll be shouting ‘¡Wepa!’ at the top of my lungs.”
“And there will be reggaeton.”
I dance in my seat, my hands swaying above my head. “I’d be disappointed if there wasn’t reggaeton.”
“Then you’re all set,” he says, reaching for the door handle.
We grab the two camping chairs from the back of his truck and join the sea of adults and kids strolling from the parking lot to the festival grounds. The crowd is diverse, the familiar sounds of people speaking in Spanish reminding me of the many times Tori and I visited her parents’ restaurant in North Philly.
The air is pulsing with positive vibes and excitement, and the music coming from huge speakers in various spots on the lawn is fire. Absolute fire. I don’t know the name of the song, but I know it’s merengue, and I can’t help shimmying my shoulders as we make our way to the area in front of the stage. Anthony’s leading the way, blocking me from most of the jostling as people try to reach the same place.
I tug on the back of his T-shirt to get his attention. “I know this song. I’ve heard it a million times at Tori’s, but I don’t know the name.”
Anthony’s laughter travels through the air. “‘Suavamente,’ one of the greatest merengue songs of all time. If you’re curious, look up the video on YouTube. It’s the greatest wreck of played-out graphics you’ll ever see.”
“That bad?” I shout over the music.
“Yes, that bad.” He stops on a patch of grass and takes his chair out of the sleeve. “Here’s good.”
We make quick work of unfolding and positioning the chairs, and then a flurry of activity on the stage grabs our attention. It’s fascinating to watch. People removing instruments from their cases, backup singers adjusting microphones and crop tops, and stage hands taping wires to the floor. Around us, festival goers continue to dance to the merengue booming from the speakers. A minute or so later, an emcee takes the stage and welcomes the crowd. He speaks in both English and Spanish, switching between the two with ease as he tells everyone to enjoy themselves.
Anthony hops on the tips of his toes. “Man, this is unreal.”
“What’s going on?”
He shakes his head and points at the stage. “That’s El Gran Combo de Puerto Rico. They’re legendary.”
More than a dozen men, all in three-piece suits, wait for their cue to begin, and before they do, the crowd cheers wildly. When the emcee announces them, I cover my ears to drown out the shouts and shrieks that follow. And once they begin, Anthony and I are doing our best to dance near each other without getting trampled on by the people around us. We drift apart in the middle of the song, and before I know it, a dozen dancers and feet separate us.
His response is swift. I watch him weave around several people, and then he snakes out a hand, wrapping it around my waist, and pulling me to his side. His touch isn’t rough, but it isn’t gentle, either. It’s . . . sure, and I’ll confess to enjoying his hands on me, although on his end he’s probably just concerned about losing me in the crowd.
An elderly woman leans over and whispers in my ear. “Su novio es muy guapo.”
A teenaged girl dancing nearby yelps, a horrified expression on her face. “Grandma, you’re so embarrassing.” She stomps off; her grandmother grins as she watches her granddaughter leave.
Goodness. Anthony reels them in no matter the age. I’m not dignifying her comment with an answer, so I pretend not to understand. “Oh, I don’t speak Spanish very well. Como?”
She takes this as an opportunity to speak directly to Anthony. “I was telling her that her boyfriend is cute.” Then she winks at him as though the words coming out of her mouth weren’t clear enough. Get it, abuela.
Anthony’s cheeks redden. “Y ella es hermosa, ¿verdad?”
“Seguro,” the woman replies as she dances away.
I tug on his T-shirt sleeve. “What was that about?”
“She said your boyfriend was cute, and I told her my girlfriend was beautiful.” He shrugs. “It was easier than explaining that we’re only friends.”
I pin him with a dubious expression. “Solos somos amigos, that’s all you had to say.”
Again, he shrugs. “Like I said, it was easier to let her think I’m your boyfriend. And if you know Spanish so well, why not correct her yourself?”
“I was curious to see how you’d handle it, that’s all. And I must say I’m surprised. I thought you were allergic to the word ‘boyfriend.’ In fact, your eyes look a little red and puffy. Is that your immune system kicking in?”
“Did you ever consider that I’m allergic to know-it-all people who won’t let me live my life the way I want to?”
“Nope.”
He chuckles, shaking his head at me like nothing about my response surprises him. “Want to grab some food?”
It’s early, but I can always eat. “Yes, please.”
The throng is deep enough that we might lose each other if we aren’t too careful, so I latch onto his arm as we stroll over to the lawn where the booths are located. He’
s sturdy. That’s the best word to describe him. Like a big ol’ tree trunk.
The dishes aren’t made to order, no ma’am. They’re offering arroz con gandules, pernil, maduros, and a random bread roll on a paper plate. I. Am. Sold. “I’ll have one of those, please,” I say, pointing to one of five plates on the table.
“You don’t want to see what else is available?” Anthony asks, gesturing toward the rows of food tents we haven’t explored yet.
“Nope. I’m good here, thanks.”
He laughs. “Okay, then. Dos, por favor.”
“I’ll pay,” I tell him, pulling out a wad of cash from my tiny cross-body. “To thank you for bringing me.”
He doesn’t fuss about it, although I do note a moment’s hesitation in putting away his wallet.
“What about something to drink?” he asks.
The vendor lifts a large white cooler filled with soda cans.
“Coco Rico,” Anthony exclaims. “I’m definitely having that.”
The concept of coconut soda doesn’t compute in my brain. “I’ll take a Coke, please.”
The vendor’s nice enough to cover our plates with foil, and we walk back to our spot, drinks and plastic utensils in one hand and our plates of food in the other. We wolf our food down, content to eat in silence and people-watch. Then we toss our lunchware in a nearby trash bin and rejoin the people dancing on the parquet floor.
The air is warm, but not oppressive. Now that I’ve been moving my body in the sun for more than an hour, though, my skin is sticky with sweat. Anthony switches the front of his baseball cap to the back, a sheen of perspiration forming on his temples. As the band breaks down the stage set, the sounds of reggaeton fill the air. To my surprise, the rapper on this song is a woman.
“Told you,” Anthony says as he rocks his hips in tune with the song.
I’m unprepared for the feast on my eyes that is Anthony dancing to this fusion of hip-hop, Jamaican dance hall percussion, and the Spanish language. His large body handles the rhythms like they were made for it, the muscles in his well-defined arms flexing as he raises his arms above his head. Am I staring? Why yes, yes I am. And so are most of the women around me. He’s going to realize I’m gawking any minute now, and I’m going to be embarrassed beyond words. And of course, when it happens, I freeze, unable to tear my gaze from his. Without a word, he pulls me closer, not relinquishing my hand but instead raising it in the air as he moves into my personal space. “It’s just a dance, right? No stress? Casual?”
