by Aya De León
She put it on and modeled it for him.
“Delectable,” he said, and put on his suit for dinner.
* * *
In the restaurant, he ordered for both of them. Lobster for her and a vegan pasta for him.
Dulce had never had lobster before. The buttery meat melted in her mouth. By the time they got to dessert, she was nearly dizzy from the richness of the food, and the buzz of the sugar and wine.
He took his time with dinner, but she could tell that something changed in the elevator. There was an energy that some men got. A sort of smug confidence that they had paid. Cheap clients in New York apparently got the same kind of excitement as a guy like this who had spent over two thousand dollars, between the food, the wine, the shoes, and the clothes.
From the moment he opened the door, he accelerated.
She was startled when he tore off her clothes. A five-hundred-dollar designer dress, just ripped into two.
It didn’t frighten her as much as it distracted her. She found herself wondering: had it ripped at the seam? Could she repair it? But she rallied. She needed to be making all the right sounds of excitement.
“Yes!” she said. “Just take me. Don’t make me wait any longer!”
She had put in some lubricant in the restaurant, so she would seem wet for him.
The sex was fast. He only took a moment to survey the lingerie, then ripped that off, too. He didn’t use a condom, but she was used to that. She had gotten the birth control shot in Miami, so it wasn’t a big deal. He was quick, so she barely had time to fake an orgasm with him.
“That was amazing,” she said, with a breathless voice. “You said you were gonna spoil me rotten, but you never said you would spoil me like that in bed.”
He grinned. “Get used to it,” he said. “I’m gonna be here all week.”
* * *
The next seven days were more of the same. He bought her clothes, took her out to fancy meals, drove her around in the Mercedes, and they had sex in the hotel room. She learned to pick clothes that zipped and had easy access, so he could continue to play out the rip-off-the-clothes fantasy, but she could still build her wardrobe. He tossed out the first dress, but she retrieved it from the garbage to repair.
There was a small bookstore, and he bought her a copy of Delia Borbón’s celebrity biography From Red Light to Red Carpet. She asked for the new book by Nashonna the rapper, but they didn’t have it.
She had her hair and her nails done. She arranged her hair a little different every day. Changed up her makeup from nude to smoky to bold. Men liked variety, she had learned. In a short-term situation like this, she could change it up and keep his interest.
She got texts from Zavier, asking if she was all right.
She kept her responses vague: Everything ok. Family drama. You know how it is.
Mostly, she hung out in the hotel and read or caught up on her soap opera, A Woman’s Dark Past.
The treacherous blonde daughter, Izabel, has run off with the soccer star. And worst of all, he isn’t even from the Brazilian team.
Guilherme is devastated. “If only I had made her see,” he says to Xoana. “I will be good enough for her one day. But I guess she couldn’t wait.”
“Don’t say that, Guilherme,” Xoana says. “You’re good enough for any woman. Your experiments are brilliant. She’s the one who failed you. She failed to believe in you. She took your love for granted.”
The two boys run into the room. “Xoana! Xoana! Mama says it’s dinner time. You have to join us.”
Guilherme stands to go. “I shouldn’t be burdening you with my problems,” he says. “You have your hands full, with studying and these two.”
“It’s not a burden, Guilherme,” she says. “That’s what friends are for. If you want to talk, anytime, just reach out for me.”
“You’re so kind,” he says. “So . . . so kind and generous.”
He walks out, blinking, as if seeing her for the first time.
Dulce heard the beep of the keycard in the Santo Domingo hotel. Quickly, she switched off the TV and arranged herself on the bed as if she’d been waiting all day. Then the room door opened, and Phillip walked in. It was showtime.
During the day, Gerard had meetings. She wasn’t sure what he did, some kind of real estate development thing. In the evenings, he would sometimes go on and on about work politics: “. . . some whistleblower asshole complaining about. . . .” She put an expression of rapt attention on her face and tuned him out. She’d be thinking about what she might want on the restaurant menu, and how to get him to order it for her. She learned that he liked ingénue: “I’ve never had caviar before . . .”
She took a selfie in front of the Mercedes, in a designer outfit, with the ocean in the background.
“Got away to the capital for a few days with friends,” she posted on Instagram, and hashtagged it #IslandLife.
Zavier didn’t have her Instagram, so she wasn’t worried that he’d see it. She got another text from him, saying he hoped they’d find a way to connect again soon. Maybe see each other in New York? Maybe when he was back in the Caribbean?
Sounds cool she texted back. As noncommittal as she could be.
At the end of the week, Gerard was leaving for Puerto Rico. “Come with me,” he suggested. “I go from there back to the states in a few days, but I’ll buy you a round trip ticket.”
Dulce shrugged. Why not? She didn’t have anything at her aunt’s house that she needed.
“Convince me,” she said, pulling him by his tie towards the bed. That was the key, she’d learned. Act like she wanted it. Like he was satisfying her.
In reality, Dulce had never had an orgasm. The closest she had come was with the boyfriend in Miami. He went down on her a couple of times. She got excited as he kissed his way from her breasts to between her legs. Was he really going to . . . ? But when he actually got down there, he was so fast and rough. She faked an orgasm just so he would stop.
“You are insatiable,” Gerard said, afterwards.
“What does that mean?” she asked.
“Impossible to satisfy,” he said.
“Maybe I could be satisfied in Puerto Rico,” she said, grinning.
* * *
They landed at Luis Muñoz Marin airport in San Juan the next morning.
As they took a taxi from the airport, Dulce found Puerto Rico completely disorienting. It was like a mix of the Dominican Republic and the US. The landscape was Caribbean, but the infrastructure was American. American brands and corporations everywhere. Big highways that got jammed up and looked like New York City.
He rented a Jag this time. By now, she had her own suitcase. Her own designer purse. Her own matching wallet with no credit cards and just the $800 cash leftover from the boyfriend’s stash. The only other things in the purse were a cell phone, a passport and an open-ended return ticket to Santo Domingo.
They would be staying at the Vanderbilt Condado Hotel, and the name was somehow familiar for Dulce. When they got there, it was like walking into a jewelry box. The lobby had a glossy marble floor in tones of gold, with glass doors, large mirrors on the walls, and furniture in rich tones of ochre. A curving double staircase of black marble led up to a mezzanine. It was the kind of staircase they had on dating shows. Thirty women would stand posed—one on each step—wearing bikinis or evening gowns, each hoping for the man to choose her.
A woman in a modest uniform ran a dust mop across the floor, and it jogged Dulce’s memory. The Vanderbilt Condado. When Dulce’s mother had lived in Puerto Rico, she had worked on the cleaning crew. Suddenly, Dulce noticed all the Latinos working there, from the reception area to the bartenders, to the bellhops lugging suitcases in and out.
“I’m so sorry Mr. Gerard,” the hotel clerk said. “Your suite isn’t quite ready yet. We weren’t expecting you for a few hours.”
“We caught an earlier flight,” Phillip said. “Do you have anything else?”
“Just a regular room,” she said. “
Our suites are all booked.”
“A regular room won’t do,” he said.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’ll have housekeeping rush. It should only be another half an hour. Would you like to have a seat in the bar?”
“I have a better idea,” he said, and took Dulce’s hand.
“What about our luggage?” she asked.
“They’ll take it to the room,” he said. “Now it’s time to do some more spoiling.”
Across the street from the hotel was a Cartier jewelers. Dulce’s heart began to beat harder. Clothing was one thing, but was he really going to buy her some jewelry?
The display windows were full of diamonds and gold. Rings. Necklaces. Bracelets. Wives got diamond rings. Did side chicks get bracelets? To be honest, she would be happy just to have a purse with the Cartier logo.
When they arrived in the store, a young woman approached them right away. She welcomed them and asked how she could help.
“I was thinking of one of your gold chains,” he said. “Something simple.”
Was this really happening? A rich man was buying her jewelry. Gold jewelry. From Cartier.
“I’d like the braided chain in all yellow gold,” he said. “Eighteen inches.”
Somehow that killed it that he knew the size. He had done this before. Had bought this particular bauble for another woman. Probably another side chick. No real thought went into it. Just part of his game.
But when the salesclerk brought out the necklace, Dulce looked at the double chain of flat braided gold strands. The woman lifted Dulce’s hair and put the chain on her. He had been right. The length was perfect.
“Will you be needing a bag?” the clerk asked.
“No,” Phillip said, and signed the receipt. He turned to Dulce: “I hope the maid is done with the room. Sometimes they’re so slow.”
Dulce nodded and left the store with the chain around her neck.
* * *
When they returned to the hotel, a tall white man came up to Phillip and greeted him.
“Davis Evanston!” Phillip said. “What are you doing here in the capital? I thought you never left your little tax-free fiefdom.”
“I come in to town,” Evanston said. “I was here last month for the cryptocurrency summit.” Evanston was about Phillip’s age, but he had on a Harley Davidson leather motorcycle jacket that was ridiculous for the climate. “In fact,” Evanston went on. “I’m here with some of the guys from Puertopia. Come have a drink with us.”
Phillip nodded and fished in his wallet for some cash.
“Have them take the bags up,” he said to Dulce. “And tip the bellman for me.”
He handed her the twenty and the two men walked off, leaving her standing alone in the lobby.
“Wait a minute,” Phillip said to Evanston, his voice unnaturally loud as they headed to the bar. “Last time we met, weren’t you trying to score with a chick on a motorcycle? How did that go?”
“Well I would have scored,” Evanston said. “If I hadn’t had a tire blow out . . .” Soon the two men’s voices were swallowed by the bustling hotel lobby.
For a moment Dulce felt lost, unsure what to do. She looked around. Beside her was a statue of a sphinx, with the body of a great cat, and the head and torso of a Greek maiden. Dulce felt like that. As if she were put together out of spare parts and not fully human, yet somehow her breasts were always on display.
Everyone else was moving, except Dulce and the pair of sphinx statues.
She felt a tap on her shoulder. “Your room is ready,” the woman at reception was handing her a pair of key cards. “Your bags are on their way up now.”
Dulce thanked her and hurried to the elevator. She was hoping to catch the bellman, her fist clutching the crumpled twenty.
When she got to the room, a young man was just walking out of the suite with the gold luggage cart. He had light brown skin and a tight fade haircut.
She thanked him and handed him the twenty.
“Anytime, beautiful,” he said in Spanish. “What’s your name?”
“Dulce,” she said. She walked past him into the room as he held the door for her.
“It’s like a nutrition label,” he said, grinning at her.
She laughed.
“My name’s Christian,” he said. “But you can call me the Puerto Rican Sazon Papi. Let us know if you need anything.” He grinned at her, and closed the door behind him.
Dulce stepped into the suite. All their luggage was lined up inside the door. A suitcase and a garment bag for Phillip, and the new designer carry-on for Dulce.
The suite was large, with high ceilings, marble floors, and walls of wood and fabric. Afternoon sun streamed in through muslin curtains, illuminating the intricate wood inlay of a long sideboard with hexagonal designs.
For a moment, she felt excited by the luxurious décor. But then, she imagined her mother having to dust the tight crevices of the wood furnishings, having to mop the expanses of marble floor, having to take down the large curtains to wash. All while pregnant.
The story was that her mother worked up until the first contraction, her water breaking on the bus ride home. But mostly, the repetitive physical motion of cleaning would have lulled a baby. As if in recollection of those days, Dulce was suddenly exhausted, and fell asleep on top of the plush comforter, wrinkling her designer clothes, and flattening the curls in the back of her hair.
* * *
When she woke up, she felt dazed and irritated. She went flipping through the TV channels. Mostly American TV. But then she brightened when she realized that Puerto Rico was also showing A Woman’s Dark Past.
Xoana looks gorgeous in a wedding gown. She stands in a dress shop with her foster mother, La Alemana.
“Do you want to see any more dresses?” the sales clerk asks.
“No,” Xoana says. “This is the one.”
La Alemana wipes her eyes. “At least I get to see one of my girls get married. Oh, we’ll miss you so much, Xoana. The boys will miss you especially.”
“I’ll come visit,” Xoana says. “You’ll always be my family.”
Later that night, Xoana and Guilherme are at the rehearsal dinner. The wedding is day after tomorrow.
La Alemana’s husband is raising a glass. “I suppose for every father giving away a bride, it’s bittersweet. In some ways, I feel robbed, because Xoana only came into our lives as a teenager, a few short years ago, and I didn’t get to know her from the beginning. At the same time, she has been such a blessing to our family, that I should be grateful for the time we have had. And to Guilherme, I always knew you could do it. We Lutherans talk about ‘by faith alone,’ and you have worked faithfully, and believed faithfully. What a lovely wedding gift from God, your patent has been finalized, and it looks like we’ll not just be losing a daughter, but gaining a very successful son-in-law. To the happy couple!”
As people are toasting, the door opens and Izabel enters. There is a collective gasp.
La Alemana is the first to recover. “Izabel, darling, where have you been? Why didn’t you contact us?”
“We can talk about that later,” she says. “Right now, it’s Xoana’s moment. I heard about it and I had to come. I wouldn’t miss my sister’s wedding for the world.”
Dulce slept some more after the soap opera. When she woke, she heard Phillip entering the suite.
“A swim, I think,” he was saying.
Dulce nodded and got dressed.
On the beach, the surf was choppier than usual, and she was afraid to go out beyond her knees.
“I can’t swim,” she said.
“What?” he asked. “I’ll teach you.”
Dulce felt a twist in her stomach at the memory of her first date with Zavier. The last thing she wanted was to replay the scene with Phillip.
“Oh, I’m a terrible student,” she lied. “I can’t let you see that side of me.”
“Then we’ll get you some private lessons tomorrow when I go to wo
rk,” he said. “I’m determined to swim in the ocean with you before this trip ends.”
When they went back into the hotel, he arranged the lessons. At the gift shop, he also bought her a rectangular plastic thing on a cord, the shape and size of a small paperback book.
“What is it?” she asked.
“A water wallet,” he said. “To keep your valuables safe while you swim.”
It was a cloudy translucent plastic. The sides were soft, but the top was firmly structured with a sealed closure.
“You can keep your hotel key and your phone in there while you go in the ocean,” he explained.
“I don’t usually take my phone,” she said.
“I might need to get hold of you,” he said.
Dulce smiled and nodded. A reflex. Of course.
The swim instructor turned out to be an experienced and patient middle-aged European woman. She complimented Dulce on her floating, and taught her a few different strokes.
Dulce had to tuck the water wallet into her swimsuit, or it got in the way.
By the second day, she was a decent swimmer. But as she swam with Gerard, all she could think about was wanting to show her progress to Zavier.
* * *
After dinner, they had sex and Phillip fell asleep. Dulce lay awake, feeling the memory of the waves. She was dying to watch her Brazilian novela, but couldn’t risk waking Phillip. She had finished From Red Light to Red Carpet, and wished she had another book. Eventually, she went into the bathroom and looked at all her social media accounts.
@ZaviJourno had tagged her in a tweet:
@RealThug Woofer on my mind:
“Tryna front with my boys while we drinking top shelf
But I’m thinking bout this girl in spite of myself
Go to the strip club? Whatever. Sure.
But she’s the only one I got eyes for.
If lonely was the problem, she’d be the cure.” (1/1)
Dulce had told herself that she wouldn’t respond. Not to texts. Not anything. But the lyrics got to her. Before she could stop herself, she tweeted back:
